Total commitment.

Unlike the other guys, Phil never neglected leg day.

 

No brainer!

There resides among us a woman named Adrienne Sioux Koopersmith, and she is exceptionally notable. The legacy of any a prominent person has resulted in the creation of a holiday, but Koopersmith has gone beyond that by far; she is responsible for more than 1,900 of them. 

As explained by CNN in 2018, 

The undisputed champ of holiday creation is Adrienne Sioux Koopersmith, a Chicago woman who bills herself as "America's Premier Eventologist."

     Koopersmith started creating holidays -- or "holidates," as she likes to call them -- about 30 years ago, almost as a form of therapy after she got mugged in the lobby of her apartment building by a robber who smashed her in the face with brass knuckles, she said.

     "This was an event in and of itself that would change the entire course of my life," she told CNN.

     In order to deal with the trauma of the attack, she started writing and creating cartoons, which she merged with her love of holidays.

     She thumbed through a book that listed holidays and thought a lot of them were dull and stupid.

     "Why not do events that are fun and whimsical?" asked Koopersmith, determined to complement traditional holidays with days a little more fanciful.

She's still at it as I write this -- and that brings us to the holiday she created for today, February 27: No-Brainer Day. 

Koopersmith created the holiday in 1995, according to the site National Today, to encourage "people to stop overthinking things, criticizing themselves, and loosen up and unwind. Things are simple, and the multiple problems we face daily may have easy solutions if we stop stressing and take things easy. As it implies, ‘no-brainer’ means making choices that require very little thinking or work."

I think that's a pretty good idea, especially when the day falls on a Sunday, the day of rest. We do tend to complicate the hell out of things. A friend of mine says he can complicate a glass of water. That sounds hard to do, but toss in a dash of our cultural catastrophizing and it's a piece of cake, er, water:

• I want a glass of water
• Glass or plastic cup?
• Glass: breakable, dangerous
• Cup: Possible phthalates; poisoning?
• Large container or small or medium? 
• Regular or "company reserved"?
• Water: Tap or bottle?
• Tap: Contaminates in water supply 
• Bottle: Ecological garbage
• Cold or warm?
• Cold: Refreshing but requires electricity in summer
• Warm: Not as refreshing
• Add-ins? Kool-Aid? Tea? Tang? Lemon? Ice? Twist? Carbonation? Booze?  
• Coaster available?

It's a no-brainer! Get some water and drink it! Good grief, we're turning into Buridan's ass, dying of thirst from overthinking, except no donkey in real life would be that dumb. Being that dumb and possibly crazy requires the sophisticated human brain.

So today: No-Brainers all the way. I'll tell myself KISS: Keep it simple, suckah. There will be plenty of time Monday to screw everything up again, and I'm just the guy that can do it!

Seasonal song.

Long-time readers of this blog (who are all smart and good-looking) may recall that I have a penchant for amusing myself with making up songs when under duress. And surely one of those times is while standing in the frigid blasts of February on the ice, waiting for not one but two dogs to find a place to weewee. They're good boys, but I think there are two issues at play here:

1) When things are suddenly covered with ice or snow, their sense of what makes a good spot is compromised; and 

2) They're both built for cold and/or rainy weather by nature and they like being outside, and they're not above dawdling to stay there.

So I started singing them a little song. In my mind it goes like a jaunty little number from a musical, maybe mid-sixties, the kind of piece that hits the audience before they get restless, and maybe becomes a standalone hit if the rest of the production bombs. And it goes like this:

🐕🐶🐕🐶🐕🐶

Let's go

Let's go out in the snow

Let's go out and go pee

It's good for you and it's good for me

We'll go

And yes, we won't be slow

What a happy chap you will be

Once you're relieved of all that pee

[bridge]

Call it urinate or micturate  

But don't you dawdle or diddle

It's freezing cold and I'm feeling old  

So buckle down, boys, and piddle

And you

You might even go poo

You might even go prance

Over the yard with a song and dance

[bridge]

A winterscape that you must escape 

But you're a most lucky fellow

The gals go marking their names in dark ink  

But you write 'em in yellow

And then

You'll be finished and when

You and I go inside

I'll warm my hide by the fireside

Then how happy we'll be

'Cause you'll have gone and gone pee. 

🚽🚽🚽🚽🚽🚽

Hey, if this thing could have a good run in New York, why not?

The training is incredible.

 

"He's going into the back room and -- Oh, crap! Dude! Sheila's
in there and now she's got a gun on him! It's a double-cross!"

Have some dirt!

Don't ask me what search terms I used that ralphed up this 2017 story on the web, because I don't remember. But this headline is hard to forget:

Rise in Dirt-Eating Means Booming Business For Soil-Selling Stands in Zimbabwe

Yes indeed, this story from the Global Press Journal tells us all about Zimbabwe's successful dirt entrepreneurs, selling soil for human consumption to hungry customers. 

For as little as a few cents per packet, Ndlovu saves the women the trouble of collecting the soil themselves. And his stand boasts an enviable assortment. Some options are brown, some are reddish. There is rough and smooth, sour-tasting or rich. The white, creamy soil comes from anthills in Harare, the capital city and the namesake for that variety. Cheaper options are the colored soils that include the Bellevue flavor, which is named after one of the Bulawayo neighborhoods where it’s found. Just 10 cents buys a packet.

 

So... What's with all the dirt eating? Isn't it bad enough that our social and scientific betters want us all to eat bugs, as I noted a couple of weeks ago? Now dirt-eating is the thing to do?

Dig in!

As the story notes:

Dirt consumption is associated with a condition known as pica, doctors say, which causes people, to crave nonfood items. Often, the condition is associated with a nutritional deficiency.

We certainly have heard legends about women, especially pregnant women, craving weird things. I've heard of women devouring jars of giardiniera, or anything from the Chinese restaurant, or even the famous pickles & ice cream. Pica can be a serious problem, especially when people eat nonorganic indigestible matter (plastics, metal, gasoline, Tide pods, etc.). Dirt seems pretty harmless by comparison, but of course dirt can also carry all sorts of harmful microorganisms as well as other nasty stuff. Healthline tells us, "Eating dirt can expose you to parasites, bacteria, and toxic heavy metals. Dirt that contains a lot of potassium could lead to high blood potassium, increasing your risk for cardiac arrhythmia or cardiac arrest." So I wouldn't recommend it. But indeed, the story notes, 

Some people who are anemic also eat dirt, as do some pregnant women worldwide. In fact, many pregnant women often crave dirt, possibly because of the potential protection dirt can provide against some toxins and parasites, according to research.

We also learn that the eating of dirt has a special name: geophagia. While no pregnant woman has ever told me that she fancies a nice bowl of soil, it is a surprisingly common craving: 

Many pregnant women crave dirt or clay. Experts haven’t yet discovered a clear reason why this happens.

One theory links pica cravings to iron deficiencies. Another theory suggests these cravings develop as an adaptive response to the way the immune system changes during pregnancy.

Changes in immune system function could slightly increase your risk of being affected by toxins and foodborne illness, such as listeria. But multiple animal studies have suggested clay consumption offers protection against a range of toxins.

Whatever the cause for dirt cravings during pregnancy, eating dirt can create health risks not only for you, but also the developing fetus.

Even if the dirt you eat is free of toxins and has been baked or prepared safely, it can still bind in your stomach to the nutrients you get from other sources, preventing your body from absorbing them properly. This can put your health at risk.

This could be why, as one of the dirt lovers in Zimbabwe told the GPJ, "It’s not my wish to eat it, but I just find myself wanting to eat it."

I get the feeling that Prince Ndlovu (not an actual prince), the dirt vendor, probably is not able to put his dirt through an autoclave to sanitize it, nor take other steps to get out any potential hazards. Still, his dirt is sold in small portions, so perhaps it is not likely to be harmful for that reason. And it comes with another benefit: 

“By the end of the week, I can make as much as $200, which is more than someone seated jobless at home would make,” Ndlovu says. “It’s definitely better than stealing.”

And I think we can all agree on that. Hats off to you, Mr. Ndlovu! Perhaps one day you will found a chain like Waldirt or McDirtle's or a high-class place like Outback Dirthouse (containing actual outback!) or Top Soil (Try our surf & turf!). It may be a dirty job, but your customers know what they're getting. 

Shaggy dogs story.

Do I own the hairiest dogs in town?

Yes.

Here's one of those lint-removing roller brushes, shown before and after running it over my sweatshirt. 

Before

After

We're on our third major vacuum now since we started with the hairy beasts, and that doesn't count the Dyson for hard floors and the ol' Oreck. The Oreck, which predated the Hoover acquisition, was a fine machine for normal carpet use, but couldn't keep up with two hairy dogs. It sits upstairs, where the dogs seldom go. 

The thing that I would like to see is a laundry additive that helps get pet hair off clothing. You'd think that would be a layup for the boffins who make this stuff, but apparently not. Bounce makes a dryer sheet that supposedly helps get the pet hair out, but that's no-fly territory around here. Not because it's manufactured by the evil Procter & Gamble, but that my wife is concerned about dryer sheets being a fire hazard. I do clean out the vent, but is it this fire thing a myth or not? Who knows? Anyway, The Boss Has Spoken.

One thing we have tried is this:

The FurZapper goes into the washing machine and the dryer and magically removes pet hair from clothing. How? The rubbery things do the dance with your clothing and rub the hair off it. In the washer the hair goes down the drain; in the dryer, into your lint filter. So, we tried them. 

The problem is, it's hard to say that they work. There's still hair on the clothes. But would there be more if we didn't use them? I can't really tell the difference between loads done with or without the FurZapper. There's always more puppy glitter than I would want to see.

Everything in life is a trade-off, I know, and you can't have big ol' cute fuzzy dogs without a lot of dog hair around. We do our best to keep on top of it, but it's a Sisyphean task. I keep threatening to weave a toupee out of it, but so far my wife has managed to stop me. I just think it's unfair that I have more hair on my shirt than on my head. 

Inappropriate children's books.

Parents today are shocked about what their kids are being taught in school. Indeed, fights over what goes on in public schools and universities may be the most vital political ground of our day. Who'd have thought?

Me! I would have thought! Publishing professional that I am, I have seen this stuff for years in the books made for tots. It's not that difficult or adult themes are being discussed that bothers me -- after all, we must learn about the world and how it works -- it's that it's forced on younger and younger kids. Is that proper?

Why, it's worse than we even dreamed! Just look at these books and you tell me!  

This may have been the start, wherein -- as many suspected -- a new edition of the classic, Frog and Toad Are Special Friends, gave more than just a few hints about the Love That Dared Not Speak Its Name between two similar but distinct species. It just confuses children!

Is it really necessary for toddlers to learn dirty dancing at the paws of the big red dog in Learn to Twerk with Clifford? I say not! Let them learn it where nature intended, from TV!

Now, this here, Dad Is Drunk Again, is a major fail, and I think it's obvious why. Not only is Dad Berenstain Bear loaded for a bear, but in his barely (ha!) conscious state he is letting the cubs run amok. Is it okay to give the wee ones such a brutal lesson in substance abuse? Look at that drunken slob! For shame! 

The much-derided Caillou is not going to win any new fans with Caillou Tagz, except maybe in Antifa, and this is definitely not the age for such grim and disrespectful subject matter. Inside the book the little Frenchy git learns to write such playful phrases as ACAB and BURN IT ALL. What a disgrace.

Here again we have an updated version of a well-known book, now published as The Gay Tree. Clearly the publishers want small children to associate selfless love with sexual orientation, and I find the message muddled, off-base, and hopelessly inappropriate for this age group. Do better, publishers!

Absolutely the worst of the lot, Ernie and Bert's Throuple with guest appearance by Grover is a moral and educational disaster. We do not and ought not to try to explain adult behaviors of this kind to youngsters, but in these woke times, nothing is off the table. Not even the three characters, on page 6! Just say no!

It's a terrible commentary on our times, and we need action to protect our children. What kind of culture are we building? What kind of confused and scared children are we raising? 

📘📗📕📙📚📖🕮📗📘📙📕📚📘

I feel I ought to point out that all of these are fake; this is just a satire, and please, no attorneys need contact me. It's a joke, folks. 

Or is it? Today's satire is tomorrow's news. You can barely keep ahead of it these days. 

Lies, damned lies, and TV shows.

I feel like I can't trust anything I saw on TV growing up. Yes, I am really bright that way, just tumbling to the fact. But it's worse than that, because not only were TV dramas lying about life then, but they continue to do so today. 

Some of this I knew. Like, I knew that being knocked out, which happened to TV detectives about every other week, is a serious medical situation. Concussions are dangerous. And then I got one, which reinforced what I had read. Everyone kept asking if I had blacked out, because that's even more serious. If I had been a TV hero, I would have shaken my head, rubbed the spot, asked if someone'd got the number of that crosstown bus, and got back in the game. Instead, I was so dizzy I could barely move for hours, and it took me weeks to stop spinning entirely. I still sometimes feel the effects, three years later. 

And I'd read many times that there is no such thing as the little silencer that screws onto the end of a pistol and turns the loud BANG!! into a little pew! In reality they reduce the noise and flash somewhat, but that's because gunshots are really loud, so any reduction is helpful. There is a famous essay by mystery writer John Dickson Carr, "The Grandest Game in the World," that goes into some of the myths that are perpetuated to this day, including this one.

Arthur B. Reeve, who began in an earlier era – as, indeed, did most of the lady waltzers – entered the 20s with his once immense popularity fading away. Nevertheless his tales of Craig Kennedy had been read by hundreds of thousands, praised by Theodore Roosevelt, and turned into early film serials which held us petrified.

     Craig Kennedy was Professor Kennedy of, presumably, Columbia University. Like Dr. Thorndyke, he was the scientific detective. His laboratory flashed with stranger sparks, and bubbled with more weird beakers and test tubes, than the laboratory of the late Dr. Frankenstein. For each occasion he had some new gadget, guaranteed sensational, to clap on somebody’s wrist or wire underneath the chair. Square-jawed Kennedy in his high collar, whom we remember so well from the illustrations in the Harper editions, has marched into limbo with all his gadgets loaded on him. Much of his scientific knowledge, I believe, has been discredited. Nobody reads about him now. And yet…

     He was first in the field of fiction with the lie detector, with murder by electrolysis, with radium poisoning, with death from liquid air. He taught writers the use of the Maxim silencer, and neither tears nor prayers nor curses can induce them to give it up. As a final achievement among many, in a story called “The Dream Detective” and later in a novel called The Soul Scar, it was he who introduced the profession to psychoanalysis.

The Maxim silencer was a real thing, but I suppose Reeves used it the way we see in TV detective shows, as something that enables a gun to be fired in a bathroom at a volume that would barely disturb someone taking a shower. 

Now I read that an all-time crime show classic, the fast forensic ballistics examination, cannot with accuracy pinpoint the gun that fired the fatal bullet. As posted on Books, Bikes, Boomsticks, "'ballistic fingerprinting', like many other forensic techniques, relies on pattern matching and is highly subjective, despite being presented to juries as 'science'." Proprietor Tam posts reports on the much-lower-than-depicted accuracy of ballistics matching, noting "Jurors have watched plenty of police procedurals on TV and think that projectile matching is some precise science when in fact going much beyond 'Well, the octagonal polygonal rifling tells me this .45 caliber bullet was likely fired from a Glock' is educated guesswork."

Even so-called realistic crime shows like Law & Order have never been shy about the forensics expert saying things like, "That's the gun that fired the shot, no question about it." In truth, even if the gun was found still hot at the same scene as the shooting, there might still be some question about it. 

"Ballistics proved that's the gun that killed him, Your Honor!"

I might almost suspect that the FBI likes people to believe that guns can be matched to bullets this way to make us think it's more difficult to get away with murder than we might hope.

Things like that lead to what is called the CSI effect, after the TV show CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and its spinoffs. It's a somewhat disputed idea that jurors will be reluctant to convict absent powerful forensic evidence, right down to the man in the lab coat on the stand showing matching fingerprints and bullet casings and DNA samples on a projector. Whether this is a real phenomenon, and I suppose it might be to some extent, the blame can be placed not only on shows like CSI, Quincy, Bones, and Criminal Minds, but even real-life shows like Forensics Files. Sometimes crimes are solved by scientifically derived evidence, but more often by plain old detective work, and idiots found red-handed with the goods, or who break under endless hours of yakking down at HQ.

Another famous essay in the crime fiction genre is Dashiel Hammett's "24 Rules for Detective Writers," which certainly gets its heft from Hammett's personal experience as a real detective. Rules that have to do with guns are as follows: 

1. There was an automatic revolver, the Webley-Fosbery, made in England some years ago. The ordinary automatic pistol, however, is not a revolver. A pistol, to be a revolver, must have something on it that revolves.

2. The Colt’s .45 automatic pistol has no chambers. The cartridges are put in a magazine.

3. A silencer may be attached to a revolver, but the effect will be altogether negligible. I have never seen a silencer used on an automatic pistol, but am told it would still make quite a bit of noise. “Silencer” is a rather optimistic name for this device which has generally fallen into disuse.

4. When a bullet from a Colt’s .45, or any firearm of approximately the same size and power, hits you, even if not in a fatal spot, it usually knocks you over. It is quite upsetting at any reasonable range.

5. A shot or stab wound is simply felt as a blow or push at first. It is some little time before any burning or other painful sensation begins.

10. It is impossible to see anything by the flash of an ordinary gun, though it is easy to imagine you have seen things.

22.When an automatic pistol is fired the empty cartridge shell flies out the right-hand side. The empty cartridge case remains in a revolver until ejected by hand.

So there are a lot of things that crime writers, especially ones on TV shows, ought to know that have been known for a long time. 

The one Hammett rule that I can vouch for, growing up in New York, is rule #18: "'Youse' is the plural of 'you.'" Youse can take that one to the bank.

Great pullets in history.

Little known fact: Hannibal of Carthage never went into battle without his faithful warrior chicken, Hortense the Ferocious, close at hand. 

How windy was it?

It was so windy yesterday...

How windy was it?

It was so windy, Gladys Knight's Pips blew away. (/carson)

Thursday had been unusually clement for New York in February, temperatures as high as sixty and all the snow and ice melted. It felt like spring, even though it didn't have that springy smell. Well, we had to be punished for that beautiful day, and between eight p.m. and noon on Friday the temperatures were aiming to drop forty degrees. In other places, that could have meant tornadoes, but here it was just wind, and lots of wind. It roared hard enough to knock over half the garbage cans on the block. It was a constant whistle all night long, like we were flying with George Reeves's Superman.

You're hearing it right now, aren't you?

Of course you know that meant dog insanity. Large economy size dog Tralfaz is scared of the wind, especially at night. But he doesn't cower under the bed, no no (not that he could fit); he must go out multiple times to confront his enemy. And pee. Baby dog Izzy isn't scared of the wind, but whenever Fazzy goes out, he must follow. It's the way of his people.

I stayed downstairs with them so at least my wife could sleep. And yes, I had to go out multiple times in freezing cold with blasting windchill. I expected to see huge limbs and roof shingles falling like autumn leaves out there. Anyway, the power stayed on, but it was a crummy night of sleep.

Well, I'm glad I work from home, but I had a big deadline Friday on the huge and boring law book I was proofing. Thank God for coffee, and lots of it. At this point the wind is over and we're just back to freezing again, temperature about 20 Fahrenheit as I write. 

 

But I don't care. It's Saturday! Naptime! See you Sunday. Maybe.

Not that kind of party.

 

Bob bob bob bob bob bob bob bob bob bob bob & bob.

mono

TeamUSA -- Following the success of the one-woman bobsled called the monobob in the 2022 Beijing Olympics, the International Olympic Committee is excited to introduce a new version of the bobsled for the 2026 Cortina d'Ampezzo Games: The dodecabob, or twelve-man bobsled.

"The dodecabob, she's-a fantastico!" says Italian Olympic Games Coordinator Ethnico Stereotipo. "You getta buncha da guys, they pusha de pusha, she go-a realla fast. Denna dey alla jump in, bing bang budda boom! One aftera anoddah, and whoosh! She go-a realla speedy, you bet!"

TeamUSA Winter Sports Coach Brace Neckman did admit that the new twelve-athlete event presents some interesting challenges. "First, you have to get twelve idiots to leap into the thing in half a second. In practice sessions I saw a German team leave seven dummies just standing there while the other six took off. That kind of stuff won't fly in competition. Second, because the host country isn't going to build another, straighter bobsled trail just for the dodecabob, the length of the thing requires a hinged middle to help it bend. That means two athletes have to steer, one in the back, like those big hook and ladder trucks. And third, you get twelve knuckleheads in there, that's over a ton of meat flying down the ice, not to mention the weight of the sled itself. So, so far we haven't managed to get one to the finish line upright or intact, or actually on the track, but we're getting closer."

The IOC reports that ROC, the Russian Olympic Team Not Affiliated With Cheating Russia, is excited about the new sport, and expects to bring home some metal in the sport in Italy. The Swiss have shown great interest as well, noting that there are a lot of leftover athletes after they decide on representation for other sports, and this will give them something to do. 

Others are a bit more skeptical. One coach from the Jamaican Olympic Wailers said off the record that no one on his squad "could smoke enough to make dot look good. Mon." 

But there's always keen anticipation around a new Olympic sport, and the dodecabob is no different. "Dis-a sport, she gonna be de biggest thinga since sliced spumoni!" says Stereotipo. "Just likea dat-a ballrooma dancing on-a roller skates inna da Paris 2024 Games, everyone will-a wanna tune inna!" 

Neckman agreed, saying, "It's a whole lot of bobs, but I'm sure the IOC knows what they're doing. Don't they always?" 

The coffee cup menace.

You'd think after yesterday's mea culpa I would be more forgiving of others' mistakes, but there's a reason for today's brief screed that goes beyond my own ego and anger. It's for the public safety. Honest! 

The issue at hand is disposable coffee cups. You can't find them. Or at least I can't. The Dart cups, which I believe are the best available, are nowhere to be found. Chinet, almost as good, has vanished from store shelves. Are they floating in the ocean off Long Beach? Have all the machines gone to making toilet paper to avoid another shortage? Where are they? Dixie's are almost entirely absent as well, but even on the rare occasions they may be seen, are still only 12-oz. cups, which is four ounces too few. 

However, I was able to score some 16-oz. store-brand disposable cups for a mere $4 for 12, which is way overpriced. 

There's only one tiny little problem with these:

The slightest pressure causes the top to pop off. Every cup in the pack is like this.

I might mention that I discovered this on Sunday as I got into the driver's seat of my car, which made for a less than ideal situation. 

As a public service, I saw my duty to review this product on the supermarket Web site. I didn't wish to be harsh or rude, but I figured these were probably made in China and someone in the supply chain ought to be warned that there was a lawsuit a-comin' if they didn't look into this. So I told them what I've basically said here, that the product was just fine until you used it as intended. I was lucky not to spill hot coffee on myself. 

Also, I hate those paper sleeves that supposedly protect your hand from the heat of the coffee. They slip off faster than the underwear on an Art Frahm painting. 

Maybe all this was Gaia's revenge on me for using something disposable instead of a reusable cup that goes through the dishwasher. If you go down that road of thought, though, there's nothing left to do but compost yourself, and I'm not ready for that yet. I might look it, but I'm not, honest!

Out on the carpet.

Ugh. Yesterday was a very Monday Monday. I agreed to do a big assignment without realizing that the deadline is this Friday, and it's the most boring book in the world and worked on it all weekend and most of the day Monday. All that on poor sleep Sunday night (another windy night, and large dog Tralfaz wanted multiple trips out in the bitter cold). But that wasn't the worst of it.

A client bawled me out for a poor job I did on another book. What hurt was that she was exceptionally nice about it, and that she was right. I had neglected the book. I'd overbooked, and it was the same week baby dog Izzy needed surgery and then keen attention during recovery. The thing was, her assignment wasn't difficult; it was painless. A pleasant enough mystery novel. Meanwhile I was doing a crazy cookbook for one client and a messed-up manuscript that looked like it had been dictated to Siri for another, and a flow of short fact-checking jobs from a third, and I took it all because I have to help come up with the $5,500 for the kid's surgery. But just as the best-behaved child gets the least attention, so too did the most pleasant editing job, and the errors that escaped me in my proofing were caught by others.

So I have taken up residence here. 

 

Which leads me to one of my favorite conundrums: Is it worse to be accused of something falsely or accurately? The first is frustrating, because it's unfair but it's hard to prove innocence; the second is embarrassing, and shame is painful. My first thought is that it's better to be accused falsely, because there's always the option of punching someone in the snoot. But really, for the sake of truth, it's better to be upbraided honestly. Wounded pride stings like hell, but the only way to get better is to be caught in the act of being worse. If I have to lose this client, those are just the breaks. 

Meanwhile, until my penance is over, Tralfaz will be in the bed while I'm in his house. Woof!

Bright & surly.

 

Oversleeping was not a problem anymore, not after Darryl got the RoboChimp 3000 Alarm Clock.

All my heart.

I know it's Super Bowl Sunday, boys, but don't let yourself take your eye off the ball. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and you have to be ready for that tomorrow morning. Yes, the new 17-game football season has thrown everything off. Don't lose your grip, lads! You can do this! 

The thing to do is run out and get something. It doesn't have to be big. The supermarket should have flowers and chocolate-dipped strawberries. Just pretend you have to go out to get some more chips for the watch party tonight. That way it doesn't look like you haven't given Valentine's Day -- and by extension, your significant other -- a single thought. 

While you're at it, do not forget to get a card. Doesn't much matter which, as long as it's not directed to your kid or your mom or something. Just grab something with a heart on it and go. 

Do that before you swing to the grocery area for Velveeta and Ro*Tel. 

Look in the seasonal aisle as well for chocolate. The chocolate on the strawberries doesn't count. You want something with chocolate. Be warned that if your supermarket is like the one closest to my house, it has already moved on from Valentine's Day to Easter, leaving nothing for tomorrow but a few sad candy hearts and some kiddie klassroom kard packets. You might be tempted to grab some Reese's eggs or the like, but DON'T FALL INTO THAT TRAP. Anything Eastery is a dead giveaway that you went shopping at the last minute. Better to get her favorite candy bar at the register than something that says Easter. If you don't know what her favorite candy bar is, get something Godiva. Nowadays it's easier to find Godiva than Heath Bars.

The seasonal aisle may have some little gift bags left. Get one to put your stuff in. Tissue paper, too. Yeah, it's a whole big production number. Suck it up. And remember, Kleenex is not a substitute for tissue paper, especially not the kind with the lotion in it.

Okay, you should be safe now. Sneak it in the house, get it all together, and hide it someplace that you won't forget for tomorrow morning. I know it's all a bother, but remember, anyone who doesn't believe that little things mean a lot has never had an ingrown toenail. 

The best part of waking up.

Some interesting news over the transom the other day: Nine out of ten people don't know what a "transom" is! 

No, that's not it. The news comes from Barchart, which notes that "Arabica Closes At A 10-1/4 Year High As Global Coffee Supplies Plunge". 

Arabica is valued as the best quality coffee bean (as opposed to lesser ones like Robusta, Excelsa, and Liberica, often grown in places like Vietnam), and it is certainly the most popular. The idea of a shortage driving up the price of coffee, and possibly resulting in worse beans getting into the mix, is fascinating. I look at it this way:

Despite the fact that I consider myself a morning person, I have a strong desire for morning coffee. My wife simply cannot function without it, and suffers withdrawal symptoms including headaches. This house will cease to function if this coffee shortage turns serious. 

So what has led to this threat? Labor shortage? Revolution? Coffee bean blight?

I've done some serious study of the commodities market, having seen Trading Places several times, and I think we know that there can be reasons other than these for wrecking a market. However, returning to the Barchart story, we see that 

Arabica coffee prices are seeing support from expectations of lower global supplies due to unfavorable weather and supply chain disruptions.  Drought and recent frost events have devastated Brazil's coffee crop this year and have curbed the growth potential for the country's coffee crop for the next two years.

The good news is that better weather in the forecast may be leading to better crops going forward. I certainly hope so, because otherwise we are hosed. The only U.S. state that has the climate to grow coffee is Hawaii, and while the coffee they grow there is awesome, they can't possibly feed the machine that is the U.S. economy. America may run on Dunkin', as the chain claims, but what does Dunkin' run on? Coffee. We didn't get to be the biggest economic engine in the history of the world on doggone tea, people!

For some of us the situation is even more desperate. People fighting against chronic fatigue syndrome, for example, or relying on medications like diphenhydramine in allergy season that can cause sleepiness. Or me, still taking duloxetine for spinal neuropathy. Flat-out fatigue cannot be totally mitigated with caffeine, but most of the time it will get us through in a pinch. And what about the binge-watchers, the one-more-episoders who never get enough sleep? What will become of them?

Yes, we could resort to Red Bull or other gruesome beverages, which are made with synthetically produced caffeine. If it gets that bad, I guess I would. Of course, that would lead to the price of energy drinks skyrocketing, and then we'd be in another vicious, sleepy circle. 

Come on, Brazil! Get it together! We need you!

Country roads.

I was walking around a country road in Pennsylvania with large economy size dog Tralfaz when I noticed something that made me curious.

I couldn't figure out why the intersection up ahead was supposed to be dangerous. I'd been there before. It's a two-way stop with pretty good visibility in either direction. To your right is a downward slope, but it seems to me that only pea-soup fog, exceptionally bad ice, or the Dukes of Hazzard driving up the hill would make it dangerous.

I wondered if the sign was just a means of the local highway department using up its budget so it wouldn't see a cut the next year. The irreplaceable Mark Steyn has had some fun with America's stop-sign statism over the years: "I quickly appreciate being on a country lane and able to see the country, as opposed to admiring rural America’s unending procession of bend signs, pedestrian-approaching signs, stop signs, stop-sign-ahead signs, stop-sign-ahead-signs-ahead signs, pedestrian-approaching-a-stop-sign signs, designated-scenic-view-ahead signs, parking-restrictions-at-the-designated-scenic-view signs, etc."

And sure enough, we have one of those great "Stop Ahead" signs, because it's not enough to tell drivers to stop anymore. We have to be alerted to start stopping so we can stop completely at the stop sign. Before we stop stopping. And here is the stop sign itself.

hooray

The speed limit is set at a leisurely 35, as is typical for American town and rural roads that are not main thoroughfares. 

After looking hither and yon, there was only one thing I spotted in the intersection that would indicate any particular danger to the intersection.

Yeah, that could have something to do with it.

Illegal snacking.

I was getting to the bottom of a bag of healthy snacks. You can tell they're healthy because they feature the words "good" and "health" and "veggie" right on the front. 

These potato-based snacks also claim to have 30% less fat than regular potato chips, and yet they are still tasty. But are they actually healthy? I wonder. Well, they're tasty.

Here's the thing that shocked me most, seen on the back of the back as I crumpled it up:

"Not for Sale in California"? What the hell?

The Good Health brand is owned by Utz, purveyors of fine snacks, and the fine slogan "Make Utz Yours." Utz potato chips are my wife's fallback to Lay's; they also own Bachman pretzels and a number of other solid brands. Nothing wrong with them. Why the hate from California?

California has some weird rules and wants to dictate policy to the rest of the country by virtue of its size. If CA says no toluene in nail polish, the cosmetics companies must go along or lose access to the 39.5 million men and women in the state. And I do mean men, because there are probably more men in California wearing nail polish than there are women in Ohio. Other states may look to the federal government for that kind of action, but Cali likes to throw its weight around. 

But why would CA make Veggie Stix illegal?

It turns out that California is having a little hissy fit over acrylamide. "Consuming this product can expose you to chemicals including acrylamide, which are known to the state of California to cause cancer. Acrylamide is a chemical that can form in some foods during high-temperature cooking processes, such as frying, roasting, and baking," according to the warning of its Proposition 65. Either the state is preventing the sale of Veggie Stix, or the Utz people don't want to have to put the word CANCER on its food (which would be on bags sold nationwide), or Utz is just sick of hearing lots of YAK YAK YAK from California. And since the whole state is run by Karens, who would? But as JD Supra noted last year, regarding a suit by the state's Chamber of Commerce: 

Although acrylamide has been shown to cause cancer in mice and rats, there is debate on whether studies actually show that greater consumption of acrylamide in food increases the risk of cancer in humans.  The Chamber’s lawsuit therefore argues that compelling businesses to provide a warning that acrylamide is “known” to the State of California to cause cancer violates their First Amendment rights, because consuming food with acrylamide is not “known” to cause cancer in people.

As usual, California has gone it alone, hoping to be a beacon to light the way to the rest of the nation. And indeed, if the rest of the nation wants to have revolving-door DAs, thousands of drug addicts camped on the streets, crumbling roads and bridges, bullet trains no one wants, a dying or fleeing middle class, unrestricted illegal immigration, and a new feudal class, then yes, let's all follow California's example in all things. Meanwhile, Utz can sell its potato chips in California with all that extra fat, but God forbid you should have more than 140 micrograms per day of acrylamide. You'd be spitting cancerous cells if you ate 141 micrograms. 

(BTW: 140 micrograms = 0.14 milligram. There are 28,400,000 micrograms in one ounce. Obviously acrylamide is the most toxic substance in the history of chemistry.)

Not to pile on, but California is the same state that's famous for being unable to supply its own electricity and yet is banning the sale of portable gas-powered generators. It really must enjoy the feudal past, because it is planning to condemn its citizens to the Dark Ages. Or at least its poorer citizens; the wealthy will have large non-portable generators on their estates. 

I'm glad that California has nothing better to do with its time, but I think it ought to consider taking a long nap and perhaps rethinking its priorities. I don't know, it may be too far gone. Maybe we should just wall it off. 

Miscellanea.

Tuesday was a nightmare and today is no better, so I am forced to rely on that old favorite of desperate writers: Observations on the Passing Scene. Thomas Sowell used to do that in his column, and he's a lot smarter than I am, so there. 

1) Filed under Things I Didn't Want to Know, courtesy of the National Institutes of Health:

The human body contains trillions of microorganisms — outnumbering human cells by 10 to 1. Because of their small size, however, microorganisms make up only about 1 to 3 percent of the body's mass (in a 200-pound adult, that’s 2 to 6 pounds of bacteria), but play a vital role in human health.

We all know that bacteria is crucial to being able to live, but come on--two to six POUNDS? Meaning, you could take an equivalent amount of bacteria that's inside me, nothing but the bacteria, and fill a small bucket with it that would weigh more than the average rump roast? What would it look like? Would it be a big puddle of goo? Man, that seems revolting. Hope you weren't eating. 

2) How bad are people in the publishing industry about guy things like sports? Pretty bad. I freelance for one outfit that calls me their go-to sports editor because I am the only copy editor in their stable who watches sports with any kind of knowledge. And that's hardly true for the whole subject. What I know about hockey and basketball, two sports I've barely watched, I got from working on their books. I know a bit about baseball and football, but little compared to my friends who are truly fanatics. And yet I am the Sports Guy. So if you see dumb and incorrect information presented about sports in the media, remember that. 

3) The Chinese Death Olympics suck. They can't even do human interest pieces, like sending out NBC goofballs onto the streets of the town, because no one is allowed out. I am informed that most of the play-by-play and color commentary is being done from booths in the United States (not sure if that's true as NBC is not forthcoming about any of this). China's locked down the whole area because of its own horrible virus, possibly because having athletes die from it would be embarrassing and put the spotlight back on the nation's culpability. Meanwhile, the ramp for the big air ski jump appears to have been built next to a nuclear power plant. But no, the Sporting News assures us that it's quite the opposite! Those silos are now "sleek office spaces" and "museums and restaurants"! I'm sure that it's perfectly safe, just like the Wuhan Institute of Virology. This is all so stupid.

4) I'm working on a new novel, a romance adventure book (not the ripped-bodice type of romance, but there is a romance angle) that has required the most meticulous plot of anything I've ever written. There are a lot of characters and a lot of moving parts involved in a story that unfolds in a matter of a few days. It took me months to work out the story. Now that I'm writing it, I'm scared that if I make any changes to what I wrote in the outline -- say, I decide a scene is better with one of the supporting characters not present -- I'll throw everything off down the line. It requires a lot more focus than I normally have on anything. Maybe it will promote brain health. I doubt it. Not with that bucket full of bacteria I have sloshing around inside me. 

5) February 9 and I haven't fallen on the ice yet, thank God. Okay, I fell yesterday, walking Izzy in an ice-covered park, but it was facing uphill and it more like leaning forward with extreme prejudice. My pride was the only thing hurt, and I had to dust snow off my pants. May God keep you fall-free, wherever you are. 

Kooky copper clad cooking.

Remember when I used to post wacky recipes from promotional pamphlets I'd inherited, like the Coca-Cola or Creamette pasta cookbooks? No? Well, you can find links to all of them at the last one I profiled here, when I thought I'd reached the end of the cookbook line. 

Well, I found another one.

This one was filed with product manuals rather than on the cookbook shelf, and what a surprise! It has recipes!

Yes, the Revere Ware Copper Clad Collection pan book came into the family many years ago along with the pan itself. The booklet has care information for your genuine copper bottomed pan, but also contains 20 recipes. The booklet is not dated, but going by the condition of the pages, the typefaces used, and the presence of a zip code, I'd guess this came out in the late 70's.

As you might guess, the recipes are almost all egg-related. Here's one that caught my eye, but is unlikely to ever get hold of my stomach:

Yeah, nah, I don't think so. Not a big chicken liver guy. 

I'm glad to say we still have the pan:

Ta da!

Definitely a good quality pan. Perfect depth for many uses, mainly omelets of course, and has put up with abuse from me and others through the years. You could do a nice job whacking someone in the face with it in a pinch, too; lightweight but strong.  

We don't use it for eggs that much, because when we make a batch of scrambled eggs we will do half a dozen at a time, and that's too much for this pan. What it is also totally awesome for, though, is toasting spices quickly to bring forth their flavor. Works beautifully and makes the kitchen smell awesome.  

Alas, the history of Revere Ware is not nearly as shiny as the pan itself. It was a branch of the Revere Copper Company, founded by American legend Paul Revere in 1801. Wiki says, "Initially Revere Ware was the culmination of various innovative techniques developed during the 1930s, the most popular being construction of stainless steel with rivetlessly attached bakelite handles, copper-clad bases and rounded interiors for ease of cleaning." But the company fell to hard times, like everyone, in the seventies, and started getting aluminum from foreign sources; by 1982 the company was bankrupt, and then bought by Corning, which sailed it along like the Titanic, and by 2018 Revere Ware was gone.

In case you were wondering, yes, here is the copper bottom:

The trademark, once stamped on all these pans, is almost entirely scratched off from use and can barely be seen. 

Since Revere Ware is no more, I'm thinking of adopting "Copper Bottom" as my nickname. Like FDR's pal Hugh "Iron Pants" Johnson, Fred "Copper Bottom" Key could be a man to be reckoned with. It goes with the Key name, and might help me peddle Fredcoin! And hey, Revere Ware's not around anymore to sue. 

The Cone of Shame.

I mentioned that baby dog Izzy had arthroscopic surgery last week. Also, since he was going under the ether (or whatever they use), we asked if they could neuter him as well. It was my wife's idea. A friend says, "Gee, she's pretty quick with the knife, isn't she?" Of course, I denied it.

But no, Izzy was at the proper age now, and I think if you're not going to breed the dog, leaving the ol' sackeroo intact does him no favors. It's like giving a teenager the keys to a Lambo and not allowing him to ever see the car. It also helps female dogs feel less threatened, allows us to legally attend the dog park in town, avoids some common types of cancer, and prevents me from being presented with a box full of puppies that look halfway like Izzy by an angry neighbor. 

One thing it has not done is cool his crazy attitude. The kid is still a nut.

Anyway, it's a curious thing, but Izzy has been pretty good in the post-op, despite having surgery on three parts of his body (two elbows and the manly center). He was wearing a cone when we picked him up, but my wife took it off him on the way home and we haven't had to put it back on since. However, we were ready if we had to. We have this.

The Comfy Cone by All Four Paws is a soft cone that can be used in place of the E-collar known colloquially as the Cone of Shame. It seems like a remarkable invention. Soft but secure, it still prevents the dog from going after most parts of his body, but it folds when he lies down and can be pulled back when he eats. We ordered it after baby dog Nipper had a skin infection back in '18, because he was absolutely miserable with the plastic collar. 

The funny thing was, by the time the Comfy Cone arrived, it had healed up enough so he didn't need it. 

I suggested we test the thing, but we didn't want to alarm the dogs unnecessarily. So I put it on myself. And yes, it was comfortable. I couldn't see anything, because my eyes are on the front of my head and I walk upright. Never mind that; I could lie down in it and it was fine, and that was more that Nipper could do in the plastic collar. His night with the cone was just awful, and he never slept a wink. But we have had the Comfy Cone on hand for the next emergency.

Since then we lost Nipper to cancer, but he had no treatments that required a cone. Older dog Tralfaz never needed a cone following neutering, and when he had a lumpectomy last year, the vet took a lump from his front shoulder, which he couldn't reach by any means, and thus didn't need the cone. And now Izzy is healing fine and hasn't needed it.

Which means that the only creature to date who has actually worn this cone is me. 

Although it was for altruistic reasons, I actually do feel a little ashamed about it. 

Opening schmeremonies.

If it were up to me, I would ignore the Winter Olympics this year. I certainly support Team USA, and I don't blame the athletes for going to the Games when the policy of the United States did not request that they boycott. But considering what a plague the host country has been and also has unleashed upon the world, I kind of feel like I wanted to sit this one out. 

Of course the Chinese Death Virus, a.k.a. COVID-19, which China accidentally set free and made sure spread throughout the world by allowing international flights out of Wuhan, is reason number one why the Olympics should have been left to die this year. About as bad as the spread of the virus was the spread of totalitarianism that came with it, prompting would-be banana republic dictators to seize emergency powers without end. As Jim Geraghty wrote, even before the pandemic, “We’re Not Exporting Our Values to China — We’re Importing Theirs.” 

Then there's the Uyghur slave labor situation. Is Chamath Palihapitiya right, that no one cares about the Uyghurs? No, of course not; anyone would be moved by the horrifying stories about these persecuted people. My sympathies were dampened for a while because the first Uyghurs I ever heard of were fifteen who had been captured by American forces and sent to Guantanamo in the early part of the War on Terror. However, China persecutes a lot of people, including Christian and Falun Gong practitioners and pretty much anyone who isn't Han, so it's easy to want to see common cause made for all those on the pointy end of the CCP spear. 

Of course, the saber-rattling against Taiwan and the crushing of Hong Kong haven't made the Chinese look nicer on the world stage. Nor has the new space race, including weaponized satellites and anti-satellite satellites, and the new nuclear race, including hypersonic missiles, made anyone get the warm fuzzies over the nation, either. Is this all meant to scare the world into compliance, ensure nationalist enthusiasm at home, or both? Or something more? 

And China's theft of intellectual property, which costs American companies alone something like $50 billion annually, not to mention the accompanying security risks, has never been and will never be seriously addressed by the CCP. They like it just fine.

The rampant corruption of American institutions, including colleges and universities and the government itself, by China is pretty well known but very seldom addressed. Even a Congressman who was (allegedly but almost certainly) banging a Chinese honeypot spy has been allowed to remain on the House Committee on Homeland Security and the Subcommittee on Intelligence and Counterterrorism. When would this have been allowed in any sane era?

Which brings us to: Our worst problem may not be our enemies, but that we have the lousiest, dumbest, most laughable elite in the history of the nation, as is probably true throughout the West in the history of the world. Say what you will about the Spanish Inquisition, but remember that it came on the heels of overthrowing foreign conquerors. Spain went from a poor half-client state to a world power in a matter of decades. They were serious about fighting for themselves. Today in the West we have the Randy defense -- lie helplessly on the ground like a slug.

At least it is not likely that Xi or even Putin will start something serious during the Games, so there's that.

Anyway, what I saw of the opening ceremonies looked okay. It's always the same kind of thing. March of Nations was done to a sort of classical music's greatest hits --William Tell Overture, Pomp and Circumstance, Skater's Waltz, Bolero... I expected actor John Williams to appear and introduce the Polovtsian Dance Number 2 by Borodin.

But anyway, I did not have control of the remote, so the Opening Ceremonies were on. I was playing with the dogs, and killing pigs in Angry Birds Journey, which I will probably be doing as the Olympic Games continue. Too bad Nielsen can't register Watched But Indifferent at my household.

Heartless February.

Everything around here shut down Friday. Actually, the forecast was so apocalyptic that the shutdowns were announced on Thursday. Schools, town hall, vet office, library, everything.  

What caused this was no giant blizzard, but just a tiny amount of ice -- less than an inch thick -- that coated all the surfaces of the town. The power company assured us that they were on the job in case the ice brought down any lines, or any trees that then brought down lines. 

I don't think there were any major outages, but there certainly was ice. It didn't stop our faithful trashmen, though, probably because they are contractors and not government employees. 

By the time I collected my can, a heavy sheet of ice had formed on the lid. This is what fell off when I opened it (Izzy's ear on the lower right). 

In spots there didn't seem to be much freezing... until I used the scraper on it. 

It was much safer to walk on the lawn. Or it would have been, except for the ice crusting over the trampled snow, seen here with a billion footprints from myself and the dogs, all frozen solid. 

I wore my cleats, of course. Three years ago I got a concussion, and two years ago I was in the hospital for my back, both related to falls. Last year we lost Nipper, world's happiest dog, to cancer. While only two of these three events were related to bad weather, all of them happened in February. So I'm saying a novena for protection every day this month, as well as one to avoid fear. I don't want to be so scared that I freeze up and then fall over like a sack of frozen turkeys.

Wherever you live out there, be careful. February has no mercy. Its only heart is the chocolate one you get on the 14th.