Hard times in a far-off galaxy.

For pool construction ... You Seek Yoda! 

Just call 888-555-YODA! Service fast, rates competitive, hmmm? In all galaxy, best there is!

You got me tied down with battleship gray.

A couple of weeks ago I read this item from Smith House Design, posted in 2019, via Instapundit. Smith House is a creative design agency, so a post about color trends is right up their street. And the trend in question is: Battleship.

What is Battleship?

These are the super-dull colors that you’ve seen on cars and trucks in the last couple of years. These are “impossibly dull” versions of blue, gray, and tan. 

 

I guess wherever the author lives they had more new cars than we have around here, because I didn't start notice this until the last six months. And now I see that the "impossibly dull" versions extend to other colors as well. 

It's everywhere. The author predicted that Battleship would remain popular for a while:

Young guys in lifted Toyota Tacomas and Jeeps love the tough look. But don’t expect to see battleship colors in many other places other than automobiles. These super-dull colors are the default choices for common, unexciting products like plastic storage containers, generic PCs, and those big office printers.
     It’s only cool when it is a surprise.

I suppose he's right, but we shall see. He knows a lot more about this stuff than I do. 

However, popular colors reflect the cultural mood. Elevated, dreamlike pastels are popular in periods of optimism; stark colors in periods of conflict. Earth tones seem harmless but reflect a sense of civilizational doom, "back to the farm." Vibrant, blazing colors reflect a sense of excitement and risk. And now we see battleship dullness in a period where people sense that things will be tough, so they want to be tough.

If I'm right, this color trend will extend to house colors, housewares, clothing, and other goods. But the writer may be right, that there is a self-limiting side to dullness because dull things already look dull, and who finds that appealing? 

Still, we can't escape the sense that the national mood is angry -- not a blazing anger, but a kind that is expecting and preparing for the worst, and does not intend to surrender when it comes. Why would they feel this way? Gee, I can't imagine. 

Razzle-dazzle.

This dude's got him some razzle-dazzle. 

By that I don't mean the first definition of razzle-dazzle from Merriam-Webster, that being "a state of confusion or hilarity," which dates back to 1885. I'm thinking of the second definition, "a complex maneuver (as in sports) designed to confuse an opponent," or the third, "a confusing or colorful often gaudy action or display." That's because this crickety fellow shares a tactic that was developed by the United Kingdom and the United States during World War I, which was called razzle-dazzle, or the dazzle system.

The April 1919 issue of Popular Science Monthly noted:

When the German U-boats began their depredations, it became desperately necessary to provide some protective coloration for transport, food-ships, and the hundreds of vessels that were carrying munitions to Europe. 

Battleship gray had been devised to help ships blend into the sky and sea, but as the article notes, it had "proved utterly useless". What the artists came up with instead was the dazzle system, a means of painting ships not to render them invisible, but to use odd patterns of stripes to make it difficult for a U-boat to tell which way a ship was facing and at what speed it was traveling. The class of the ship (battleship, cargo, etc.) would be more difficult for the enemy to pinpoint as well. 

More than 2,000 ships got the dazzle treatment, but I don't know if it's possible to say how effective it was. Since U-boats would not act and betray their position unless they were positive of a hit, there's no telling how many shots they didn't take because of the dazzle system. 

The illustrations from the Popular Science article certainly make it seem impressive:

However, there's at least one sailor's story that questions its effectiveness:  

It was quiet sometimes and sometimes you were… once or twice we lost a couple of merchant ships. I can remember I was on watch one afternoon and we were coming up the east coast and I said to the signalman, ‘Hey, I said, look at that ship over yonder.’ And I says, it was the first ship we saw with the dazzle paint on. And lo and behold, not a couple minutes after, we heard a bang and a flash and we look across and it was this ship that was dazzled – sunk.

I guess by the time the Big One, WWII, broke out, they decided just to go back to battleship gray because you couldn't dazzle the enemy with just visual tricks anymore. Airplanes would not be fooled by stripes, and unlike in the First Big One, airplanes were used heavily in sea combat. 

Anyway, that's a thought for today, brought up by the bug. I'll have more to write on battleship gray tomorrow. 

Life and bags.

Be happy happy happy, people! Keep smiling!

Or maybe not. This cheerful pattern was on some rolls of poop bags I bought for the dogs. The bags did little to cheer me, although I admit I'm always happier when the yard is safe to walk in. The dogs surely are happier to be able to release the gross matter these contain. 

Then there's the Vibrant Life bags. I believe Vibrant Life is a Walmart pet brand, although I've seen things sold by Amazon under that name. They offer pet waste bags as well, which leads to the odd choice to have the words VIBRANT LIFE printed on bags intended to contain the most repellant stuff on earth. 

Vibrant Life sounds like one of those brand names you find on products from Chinese companies. I could easily see anything sold under the name Vibrant Life if it came from a Chinese company: toilet paper holders, potholders, easy chairs, toothpicks, enema inserters, loose transistors, nasal swabs. Whatever it is, they hint, if you buy it your life will become exciting and interesting and people will flock to you. 

Well, to whoever named the Vibrant Life poop bags, I'm sorry to say my life didn't become noticeably better. However, I believe this tiny turtle's life may have. 

Herbert (let's call him Herbert) may have been on his way to the drainage pond near our property when he got stuck in the dry landscape. This has been the driest August I've ever seen, and he seemed to be snarled in some dead grass. And he's such a little dude, barely the size of an old Kennedy half dollar. Mindful of salmonella danger, I used a Vibrant Life bag to pick him up and bring him closer to the pond. I placed him feet-down amid some weeds where there was still some moisture. And I hope he found his way to where he wanted to go from there. 

That was a baby-powder scented bag, by the way, so Herbert is probably the only baby-scented baby turtle in existence right now.

Vibrant Life hasn't made my life Vibrant, but it protected me and may have helped Herbert survive another day. Good luck, Herbert, and happy turtling. 

Advice.

I have a coffee mug from the Unemployed Philosophers Guild that was a Secret Santa gift. It features the first lines of famous works of literature, and in tiny print on the mug's bottom it shows which book each line came from. I like the mug; it's a good size for a cup of coffee, and it's dishwasher safe. And I've read a good number of the books cited, too. 

As the handle is pointing to my right hand, the line that looms the largest is the opener from The Great Gatsby: "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since."

I didn't recall what Nick's father had told him, so I looked it up: "Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages you've had."

It's a great way to start the book and establish the crucial theme, and I'm sure Mr. Fitzgerald would be glad that I approve. The thing that I started to turn over in my own mind is this: Nick's father had a lot of words compared to my old man. My late father was not a chatter. Nor was he much for giving advice. He had been raised by non-chatty parents, and had to learn many things the hard way, and it was the only way he knew. Plus, he knew that most boys only heed advice after the fact anyhow.  

The only direct pieces of advice I can ever recall him giving me are:

• "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
• "You gotta work."
• "Never steal anything small."

And that's about it. 

On the other hand, he demonstrated by his life that you had to be responsible for your actions, you had to be willing to work, you had to treat others and their property with respect, and you had to be strong when things were looking bad. 

So, maybe I won't get the first line of a novel from the things he said, but I got a lot from what he did. As they say, more is caught than taught. 

A couple of stops for cheap gags....

 

Juke box money.

A friend of mine sent this the other day, which made me laugh.

It's impressive that a reference to a 33-year-old song can be so funny and for so many people. I don't know if in 1989 a joke centered on a song from 1956 would have worked as well, but "Love Shack" was a monster hit. It was the B-52's first top-40 hit in the United States, where it reached number 3, and was in the top 5 throughout the Anglosphere. 

"Heartbreak Hotel" was the top song of 1956, by the way, and was certainly well known in 1989, but it doesn't lend itself to this kind of gag. However, one thing it did in 1990 was provide half of "Heartbreaker (At the End of Lonely Street)" for Dread Zeppelin, a reggae band fronted by an Elvis impersonator that did Led Zeppelin covers -- or, in this case, a mashup of "Heartbreaker" and "Heartbreak Hotel." 

So there's that.

Thinking of the B-52's following that Twitter gag and my experience with the Cosmic Crisp apple a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of one of my brushes with greatness in the city. I was in Manhattan with one of my old pals; we met for lunch at a little Mexican place downtown. My friend has the uncanny ability to spot celebrities, which I seldom do -- just in my presence he has seen Jack Klugman and Marshall Crenshaw, and a few others that I can't recall at the moment. On this day as we set to lunch, he gave me one of those "don't-look-now-but" whispers, and sure enough Fred Schneider was in a corner, lunching alone. I only caught a glance, but that hangdog face, like the worst salesman in an Oldsmobile dealership, is instantly recognizable. Also, he looked shorter than I expected, as most celebrities are in real life. 

As much as I like to greet other Freds, especially those with money, we let him alone. The urge was very strong to go over and say something like, "Space junk--laser bombs--ozone holes! Better eat up that quesadilla!" in my best Schneider impersonation. But I respect others' privacy, as does my pal; if Fred had wanted company he wouldn't be eating alone, I figure. 

Anyway, I have nothing much to add except that I have been informed there is a cover band in the UK called Fred Zeppelin. No relation. 

We apologize for another moment with Igor.

This has been another moment with Igor.
 

Fredcoin: Perfect for school!

Greetings, cryptocurrency fans! Fred Key of Fredcoin here, reminding you that Fredcoin is the very best cryptocurrency to use when sending your offspring back to school. 

What? You didn't know that Fredcoin is better than cash for students?

Of course it is! Why, as an example, here are just some of the advantages of establishing a Fredcoin account for your college student as you send them back to that den of inebriation, STDs, and indoctrination that we call college: 

💰 You can set up the account so that no alcohol can be purchased with it. Conversely, if you're a Kennedy uncle, you can set it up so only alcohol can be purchased with it -- help the kid sow some wild oats before settling down into a doomed marriage. 

💰 You can set it up for use at the college bookstore, where Fredcoin automatically calculates the 1.5% return the kid will get when he cashes in the books at the end of the semester. 

💰 You can set it up with the college meal plan, authorizing only use on healthy foods, guaranteeing the kid will barely use the account at all. 

Only a handful of institutions of higher learning are accepting Fredcoin so far, but that's bound to change soon. Currently you can enroll your child in any of these fine schools using Fredcoin: 

🎓 Wossamotta University, Minnesota

🎓 Kay Kyser's Kollege of Musical Knowledge

🎓 University of Woolloomooloo

🎓 Starfleet Academy (at least I think that's what the application said)

So don't delay, friends! Convert those silly dollars into rock-solid cryptocurrency with Fredcoin today! 

Slumber cola.

I reviewed Starlight Coke back in April, and now it appears Coca-Cola is going to spring a bizarre, inscrutable soda on us at least once a season. Thus the Dreamworld Limited Edition that I picked up this week. 

What's it supposed to taste like, we wonder. Cherry Coke tastes like cherry, Vanilla Coke tastes like vanilla, and Starlight Coke tasted like exploding hydrogen. (Not really.) So what does Dreamworld Coke taste like? Making an important speech in your birthday suit? Falling? Handing your mom a cigar while Dr. Freud takes notes? 

According to Coke's site, "Coca-Cola Zero Sugar Dreamworld makes the most fascinating parts of our imagination real. This limited edition sparkling beverage from Coca-Cola Creations explores the realms of the surreal, the imaginary, and the otherworldly. Experience the familiar Coca-Cola Zero Sugar taste now with a surprising and unexpected flavor from a dream world." 

Okee doke! Here we go! And…

Tastes like Coke mixed with fruit. It's not too far off that Diet Coke Twisted Mango they were selling a few years ago, which I liked and no one else seemed to. Maybe with some guava and papaya as well. Maybe if you chewed some Mike & Ike Tropical Typhoon candies while drinking a Coke Zero you'd get the same flavor. It's not bad, but it doesn't say Dreamworld to me, unless your dream is a cheap Caribbean vacation in a country where they have to fence off the resort. 

I admire Coke for shooting the moon when it comes to naming these things. Starlight and Dreamworld both evoke a sort of floaty, ethereal, peaceful feeling, although the first is more glorious and the second more weird. 

If someone were to tailor a beverage to my personal dreamworld, it would have to taste like hotel continental breakfasts, business vending machines, and whatever could be gleaned from a train station stand, because my dreams are always about work, city streets, commuting, and hotels. I have no idea why. Once in a while in a dream I will decide I am going to drive somewhere distant, like northern Canada, and only after going along a highway for a while do I realize I will not be able to get home by bedtime as planned. Try stuffing all that into a bottle, Coke. 

Ouch!

I reported last week about my disappointing visit to the pain doctor last week, a ten-minute interview that led to no change in treatment despite the fact that I told the doctor I am desperately hoping to change my treatment.

Yesterday another sharp pain arrived: A letter from the insurance company. That tiny appointment, where no exam and no test was done (not even weight and blood pressure), cost $400, $187 of which I have to pay. 

This is insane. 

"Tell me, doctor, will he live?"
"As long as his money holds out, yes."

I understand that when you go to the doctor, you're not just paying for his time and expertise, but for all the expenses connected with running the practice. Same if you hire a plumber; his vehicle and tools are all part of what he has to charge. But $400 seems pretty excessive, more so since it was a very unsatisfactory visit. 

My wife suggests that I get in touch with the original doctor who saw me, the one who runs the practice, and explain that I am dissatisfied. I think it's a good idea, although I doubt I will get any joy from it. This is all part of the mess that is the state of modern medicine -- overworked practitioners; patients who abuse services paid for by others; free marijuana; astronomical costs for malpractice insurance; pressure from snake-oil salesmen to cover Reiki and supplements and dance therapy and Chinese traditional medicine and crystals and all manner of woo-woo stuff; practices consolidated into pill mills and poorly run clinics; insurance companies putting the squeeze on customers while colluding with government to get richer; patients who expect to be fixed after a lifetime of bad choices; and medical education that is sure to teach students carefully how to address patients by preferred pronouns but not to actually listen to their concerns. If I could stay away from it all and take my chances I would, but this stenosis is more than I can handle on my own. 

So, the bills must be paid. 

  Sheesh.

Shaking my head.

 

Squooshpaste.

I tend to be the cheapskate in the family, but when it comes to toothpaste, my wife has got me hands down. 

Seriously, about the time I am ready to throw out a used tube, she's settling in for another week out of it. 

This one's good for another month.

And this is not because she hardly uses the stuff, no no. I don't care how many times a day you brush, she has you beat. Her dental hygiene is exceptionally good. If she eats one peanut she's off to go brush. Seriously, I don't know anyone who takes better care of the pearlies than she does. She has done since childhood.

Yet somehow she manages to squeak about a week's worth of paste out of a flat tube. 

It's not like she's particular about getting the last out of everything. If she eats enough at dinner and there's nothing worth saving, right into the trash with it -- no Clean Plate Club with her. If her coffee gets cold, she throws it out and gets a fresh one; she doesn't knock it back like I do, or nuke it up. When the ketchup bottle runs low she doesn't waste her effort pounding the bottom or squishing it; she opens a new one. But the toothpaste tube is good to the last drop.

Well, after all the years I finally asked her, and found out why. She came from a bigger family than I did, and she was the baby. With the whole crew using the same tube of toothpaste, there was always a danger of running out, and her mom put the new tubes on a high shelf that she couldn't reach. So from an early age she learned there was always a little more in the tube if you put in the work. Waste not, want not!

There's always something new to discover about people if you ask the right questions, isn't there? 

Baby name or microbe?

Ming the Merciless, Ruler of Planet Mongo, Invites You to Play a Round of ...

Baby Name or Microbe!

Based your performance on his tests for Prescription Drug or Fictional Planet, you had better really ace this one ... or you shall become Patient Zero in the Evil Testing Ward! Get out your pencil and paper!

BABY NAME or MICROBE?

1. Yersinia

2. Adamaris

3. Wahchinksapa

4. Demodex

5. Walvia

6. Neisseria

7. Helianter

8. Galido

9.  Ibtesam

10. Xalvadora

11. Ascaris

12. Klavdiya

13. Prokaryote

14. Vibrio

15. Quirtsquip

16. Nipah

17. Archaea

18. Spirilla

19. Jyotika

20. Ulises

👶🍼🦠🔬👶🍼🦠🔬

MERCILESS ANSWERS

1. Yersinia: Microbe -- genus of bacteria including Yersinia pestis, the black plague

2. Adamaris: Baby name -- girl's name, means Noble of the Sea per babynames.com (where Ming got all these baby names)

3. Wahchinksapa: Baby name -- Sioux boy's name; means wise

4. Demodex: Microbe -- a microscopic human mite 

5. Walvia: Baby name -- Native American for medicine root

6. Neisseria: Microbe -- genus of bacteria that includes Neisseria meningitidis, which causes (duh) meningitis

7. Helianter: Microbe -- a subgenera of paramecia

8. Galido: Baby name -- Spanish boy's name of unknown origin

9. Ibtesam: Baby name -- Arabic name for girls, meaning smiling

10. Xalvadora: Baby name -- Spanish for Savior (female version)

11. Ascaris: Microbe -- genus of parasite

12. Klavdiya: Baby name -- Russian for lame (girls' name -- even Ming thinks that's cruel)

13. Prokaryote: Microbe -- single-celled organism with no nucleus

14. Vibrio: Microbe -- bacteria in the family Vibrionaceae

15. Quirtsquip: Baby name -- Comanche, meaning chewing elk

16. Nipah: Microbe -- a type of zoonotic virus (from bats), which can cause encephalitis  

17. Archaea: Microbe -- a type of prokaryote

18. Spirilla: Microbe -- bacteria with a spiral shape, found in stagnant water

19. Jyotika: Baby name -- girls' name, Indian for light or flame  

20. Ulises: Baby name -- alternate Latin form of Odysseus (Ulysses); means to hate


MING CALCULATES YOUR SNIVELING SCORE:

20 -- You're either a huge fan of babies or of diseases; either way, wash your hands!

15-19 -- Ming admires your knowledge and offers you a place in his fiendish organization. He offers you a job naming new minions from among the Cave Monsters and testing evil viruses on them.

10-14 -- Ming tells you to study more and has you given a swirlie in the space toilet.

6-9 -- Ming scoffs and tells you to go back to school. He also calls you a double dumbass, which could get him a stern e-mail from HR. Then he has you given a swirlie in the space toilet.

0-5 -- Ming sends you to work in the evil biological warfare lab. You shall have to survive at least five dread diseases to apply for parole, so you had better hope the scientists are doing a poor job. The last guy who got out had permanent barbershop stripes all over him, like a stick of Fruit Stripe Gum. Mwah ah ah! 

No men.

I heard about a young lady, a daughter of a friend of a friend, who graduated high school this year with a plan to practice living away at college. She and her pals got jobs in a beachfront town and rented a house; they would work and pay their own way and be responsible like grown-ups should be. 

But they made one fatal and entirely, completely, 100% avoidable mistake. They allowed some guys to rent with them. 

I'm kidding about the picture--this is from a show about hoarding--but not about the boys. One of the things that made this young lady quit her job and come home in July was that the boys were absolute pigs and refused to do a thing around the house. They just left their crap everywhere and never scrubbed a dish. If I know my gender, they probably left a lot of beer cans everywhere as well. And this was all foreseeable for anyone who has ever been 18 years old. 

I don't mean to blame the victim. Of course these slobs should have pulled their weight in the beach house. But it is to be expected that boys won't, certainly not in their first away-from-home digs. I have to guess that these boys and girls were not romantically entangled, or the girls could have used their wiles to get the boys to behave like they should. Not that the women should have to, of course; I'm just saying it would have worked. 

Unsupervised men are pigs. Not all, no. Just by and large. Especially when they first get out from under Mom's thumb. Hell, if these boys were actually paying their share of rent on time I'd be surprised. 

I remember visiting a friend at college in my own university days; he lived in a house with other undergrads, each worse than the next, subsisting on cheap beer and frozen potpies. While I was there two housemates got in a play-fight in the kitchen and body-slammed the table, which did it no good at all. These things don't generally happen in women's houses. 

Another friend I visited lived in a similar arrangement; a few doors down his girlfriend lived in a house with some women. It was like staying with Oscar and visiting Felix.

My point is, people will say that in these enlightened times we need not worry about mixing young men and women in co-ed housing, but I say: Be wise, women. For your own sanity, if nothing else, don't share a roof with these uncivilized heathens until they get some civilizing. The summer you save may be your own.

And now, another moment with Igor.

 This has been another moment with Igor.

Undoer of knots.

Today is the Assumption of Mary in the Catholic Church, the day that commemorates Mary being assumed bodily into heaven, and normally a Day of Obligation in the church -- at least in places in the United States that have a lot of Catholics, like New York. However, when it falls on a Saturday or on a Monday, as this year, the obligation is abrogated. It's still recommended that we go to church, as Father pointed out yesterday.

One of Mary's less-known titles is Our Lady, Undoer of Knots. This is one that gets people's attention, maybe fishermen the most. It's an odd title, and of course there's a story to go with it. 

According to the Holy Rosary site, 

To show us the mission granted to the Virgin Mary by Her Son, artist Johann Melchior Georg Schmittdner painted Mary Undoer of Knots with great grace. Since 1700, His painting has been venerated in the Church of St. Peter in Perlack, Augsburg, Germany. It was originally inspired by a meditation of Saint Irenaeus (Bishop of Lyon and martyred in 202) based on the parallel made by Saint Paul between Adam and Christ. Saint Irenaeus, in turn, made a comparison between Eve and Mary, saying: “Eve, by her disobedience, tied the knot of disgrace for the human race; whereas Mary, by her obedience, undid it”.

The devotion to Mary is to untie the knots that hold us down, chain us to sin, threaten our families, make us confused and feel hopeless. I know a couple of women who, while not super-Catholic, are devoted to Mary as Undoer of Knots, and say they have found great peace through her.  

Sometimes you see a dedication to Mary under this title, as in this stained glass, but it's not typical. 

While Mary's concern is to undo spiritual knots (not cut or slash, but remove with care), I can imagine that fishermen, sailors, and Boy Scouts might have recourse to her, sure. I have a rosary that often seems to get knotted up in its little box, but sure enough the knot comes right out with a little tug. 

Getting ready for Monday.

My wife keeps one or two scratch-off lottery tickets in her workspace, the kind that pay off money in installments for life to the jackpot winner. She's not a gambler at heart; what she is is someone who finds creative ways to blow off steam. When she gets frustrated or tired at work, she has a ticket handy as an escape hatch, either to look at it and dream of retirement or to scratch it off and hope for the big dough. Just having it there gives her a smile. 

As a friend of mine learned in statistics class, it's worth buying one lottery ticket but no more, because the difference between 0 in 1,000,000 and 1 in 1,000,000 is infinite, but not between 1 and 2 in 1,000,000.

It's a way to deal with Mondays. 

Another, older friend once told me that he called the attack of nerves on Sunday night Ed Sullivanitis, because when he was a kid his parents never missed The Ed Sullivan Show, which ruled Sunday nights through the fifties and sixties. When the show was on, he knew his weekend was dead and it was back to school in the morning.

Yet another friend tells me that the closing theme of Car 54, Where Are You? can still make him break into a cold sweat sixty years later, because when that show was going off it was nine o'clock on Sunday night in his house, and that meant bedtime and school on Monday.

The hatred of Mondays is not only deep, but starts early, and is pervasive. 

I don't mind Mondays as much since I work from home now. I spent decades schlepping into Manhattan from places outside Manhattan, and that alone was enough to make me dread the start of the week. The Census Bureau says that the average time to commute into work in the United States is 27.6 minutes; from the time I got my first job in publishing to the time I started work at home, my one-way commute was between one and two hours. I got a lot of reading done in those days, but it made for early mornings. Not to mention delayed trains, broken-down ferries, heavy traffic, and everything bad about subways.

These days my weekends are so busy that I almost prefer the workweek. All I have to worry about is work. Plus, I often have to work on weekends anyway, which is forced in among the other weekend commitments. So since I'm working anyway, it might as well be Monday. 

Bring it on! We fear no Ed Sullivan in this house! Well, I don't, and my wife has her lottery ticket. 

Ban all the things!

I got a little taste of what it would be like to be Rip Van Winkle, Buck Rogers, or some other person who wakes up to find things have changed in strange and unexpected ways. 

It happened at a group down at the church, which had been meeting again in person following the Chinese Death Virus Lockdowns. The meetings had resumed for some time, but someone (not me) said, "Hey, instead of everyone bringing his own coffee, why don't we make coffee again like we used to?" It was decided to do a trial balloon by getting a Box o' Joe from Dunkin' (nee Dunkin' Donuts) and some bagels. 

I had nothing to do with any of this except that I had a big wholesale-club carton of Styrofoam coffee cups at home, a remnant of the pre-COVID era, so I figured I'd bring some to the meeting in case we needed some extras. 

That's how I found out I was a strange visitor from the past.

"You must have had these hidden in your basement or something," a friend of mine said.

"Well... yeah, why?"

"Because they're illegal now."

Yes, although New York State has been busy chasing its grotesque governors around, inviting illegal aliens to move in, and watching its wealthy people and businesses flee, it still had time to ban Styrofoam last year. They slipped it in last year when we were all celebrating Christmas, and now I know why I can't find the really good 16-oz. Dart travel cups anymore. Like the plastic bag ban of a few years earlier, this is another way to make life less convenient, less hygienic, more expensive, and more annoying, all in the name of the environment. And now we're using paper and cardboard, which means cutting down more trees. 

I'm a rebel and I'll never
ever be any good

You can't recycle Styrofoam, it's true, but guess what? All our other legally mandated recycling goes in the landfill as well, because nobody wants our garbage. 

But if you've been a reader of this blog, you knew that. 

As an experiment I put some Styrofoam cups in my Amazon basket, because of course you can buy polystyrene cups on Amazon, and got no red flags saying they cannot ship to New York. I'm going to try to smuggle in some of those Dart cups. I think this could be the next great smuggling opportunity in this state, after cigarettes and plastic bags. 

I'll also keep an eye out for the next big ban. The more they make illegal, the more we all become criminals anyway. 

Heath-22.

I went to the doctor's office yesterday to discuss the results of my MRI. My appointment was at 11, and true to form, I had to nap for an hour after getting up so I could make the trip because the drug I take to prevent neuropathic pain from spinal stenosis makes me drowsy. 

It's a forty-minute drive from here, but the guy is one gnarly pain specialist and very good.

As it turned out, I didn't see him, but another doctor in the office. Neither of them look at all like this guy.

So, the test results: Severe stenosis. Nothing had changed in almost three years. I don't know why it would, but it was worth a look. Soooo.... what now?

As I discussed it with the doctor, we seemed to be going round and round in circles, and I didn't know why. I couldn't seem to get us past the idea that my pain was currently manageable but my life was not. She mentioned that there were other options up to and including surgery, but if my pain was manageable then we needn't do them at this time. So, I left. The whole appointment took ten minutes. 

I realized as I went home that I am caught in a classic catch-22 here. Because my pain is manageable on the drug (duloxetine), the doctor is not inclined (and no doubt my insurance company is very disinclined) to make any changes. If I go off the drug, my pain may become unmanageable, and then we may have to opt for something else. I do not want unmanageable pain; the memory of being helpless in agony on the floor will stay with me for life. But if I do not get off the drug, there's no way to know if my pain is unmanageable now. So we must stick with the drug that is making my life unmanageable. 

I came home, did some work, had some lunch, and slept for two hours. 

Now I don't know what to do. This is all a little depressing. Ironically, duloxetine is supposed to be an antidepressant that just happens to help with nerve pain, but it has done nothing for depressed mood for me. Maybe because being sleepy so much of the time is discouraging. 

Oh, well. At least when I can function, I can function, if you know what I mean. And if you do, please explain it to me.

Game of throne.

New toilet for the master bathroom arrived yesterday. If you heard something, that was the parade I threw in its honor. We're flushed with joy.

As is typical for the homeowner, what started as a small issue turned into a pricey fix that took weeks to resolve. There were a lot of ifs along the way that would have prevented this from getting out of hand and thus out of pocket:

🚽 If I had installed this toilet properly two decades ago, it might not have started to leak.

🚽 If I had bothered to change the gasket when I was changing out the screws that held the tank to the bowl, that might have stopped the leak for real. 

🚽 If I had just bought a cheap can at Home Depot instead of asking my wife which throne she desired, I might have been able to bring it home myself and not have to pay delivery. 

🚽 If she had picked something that wasn't big and heavy and had super-flush technology (we'll get to that), we would have saved a hundred bucks. 

🚽 If I had not exposed myself as an incompetent plumber, I could have installed it myself. 

🚽 If she had not noticed the damp spot on the ceiling below the toilet, all this could have been ignored until we moved or died. 

But, if ifs were horses, beggars would ride. 

It's all resolved now, however. The new throne has arrived and was installed by two very polite young chaps. The new one is elongated and chair-height, which is nice, and has Kohler's Revolution 360 super-flushing technology. The queen of England in her Windsor-era WC could only wish for a throne this delightful. 

I'd like to go up and play with the new installation some more, but I've already flushed it a few times. I would hate to be called a four-flusher. 

Way-out food.

I know you've been wondering: What's Fred been eating? And I'm happy to say I've been subsisting on a totally far-out diet, man! 

Summer's here, and you know what that means:

Of course I'm referring to yogurt, or in this case the latest Yoplait varieties. I've tried their cross-promotions with Starburst, Skittles, Gushers, and Girl Scout Cookies, so Kool-Aid is hardly a stretch. And look, the logo is even busting through a wall like the Kool-Aid Man!

As is typical for Kool-Aid, the color is not something seen in nature. 

And the stuff tastes like Kool-Aid, too. What you think of that depends on how much you like Kool-Aid, or fear the Kool-Aid Man coming through your house. 

On a healthier note, here's another new varietal of apple that I like. Presenting the Cosmic Crisp!  

Like the SugarBee, which I reviewed in May, the Cosmic Crisp was cultivated from the Honeycrisp in Washington State. It's a cross between a Honeycrisp and an Empire, actually. It's a good, sweet eating apple, but is also recommended for cooking. The site says it's "ideal for snacking, cooking, baking, and entertaining." I mean, it's not that entertaining just sitting there, but your mileage may vary.

Very delicious, but whenever I eat one I hear Fred Schneider and the B-52's singing: 

Eat that thing all night long, eat it man you can't go wrong

Don't let it rest on the president's desk, rock the house

Cosmic, cosmic
Eat that thing, eat that thing, oh yeah

Which is a little disturbing. 

If you wanted to make a whole cosmic breakfast for yourself, eat the apple, forget the yogurt, and have a bowl of this: 

That might be a little too cosmic, though, without the aid of hallucinogens. 

Hither and thither.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Nah, I'll just show some pictures of where I've been lately and what they're all about. 

You all know how much I love my mulch. But this gentleman really went game. He got a pile of red mulch so big that in one of your flatter states like Florida or North Dakota it would have been considered a mountain range. Then he mulched everything, even this tree stump. 

So, what's the advantage of mulching a tree stump? Er... Well, his young kids like to play baseball, so maybe this is a warning track!   

From the window of a local Chase branch. Doesn't this look a little Christmassy to you? I guess they're stars but they look like snowflakes, most having eight points. Not sure what the idea is here. 

This is sad. After something like 30 years, the garden center/florist/café in town is closing. Actually, this is after the closing; they sold everything half off. The owners are very decent people but were getting too old for the work. They kept afloat for almost 20 years after a Home Depot and later a Lowe's moved into the area. They had a personal touch and a great location, and their plants were always in better condition than the ones at the big box stores. Still, with the competition I doubt anyone would have bought their business. 

I heard the people who did buy the property are planning to build a hotel, which is odd. This isn't the kind of town that screams "We need a Holiday Inn Express!" or the like. We shall see. 

Personal note: This store was the inspiration for Houghton Holly’s Garden Center in my MacFinster novels, although the hard-charging fictional owner, Holly Starke, is nothing like the nice people who owned this place. 

Finally, here's an interesting piece a neighbor put out on the lawn. It's a Farmall Model H tractor. The Model H was manufactured between 1939 and 1953, but I don't know the year of this one. I don't even know if it's in working condition, although it looks great. I'll let you know if I see it chugging down the street or around the yard. 

What is a weed?

What is a weed? Is weed just a mean term for a plant we don't happen to like? 

Merriam-Webster defines a weed this way:

a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth

especially : one that tends to overgrow or choke out more desirable plants

Similarly, the Encyclopedia Britannica says: 

general term for any plant growing where it is not wanted. Ever since humans first attempted the cultivation of plants, they have had to fight the invasion by weeds into areas chosen for crops. Some unwanted plants later were found to have virtues not originally suspected and so were removed from the category of weeds and taken under cultivation. Other cultivated plants, when transplanted to new climates, escaped cultivation and became weeds or invasive species. The category of weeds thus is ever changing, and the term is a relative one.

So yeah, they're plants we don't happen to find useful, as food, ornament, construction supply, etc. Worse, they tend to "choke out more desirable plants." 

Is it insulting to call a plant a weed, then, just because we don't like it? No. Plants have no minds and no feelings and so you can call them whatever you want. 

Some people will defend weeds. They may point to particular ones that are actually useful (dandelions, for one, are edible), or are important for wildlife (especially as pollinators). That argument, however, isn't saying that weeds are good; it's saying that things we think of as weeds are actually not, because they have an important purpose. 

Other people just like weeds because they are what nature would do if we weren't interfering. In the comic strip Miss Peach, scrawny weird kid Arthur was known for growing a weed garden. The character seemed to find identification with the unwanted plants. Perhaps Arthur thought that, like a weed, he was useless and ugly, but darn it, he was also persistent! Ironically, cartoonist Mell Lazarus said Arthur was his most popular character.

But are any people really like weeds? Should we not agree with Ars Nova, who sang "Fields of People / There's no such thing as a weed"?  

Yes and no; yes, because all humans have an intrinsic value and natural rights; no, we shouldn't, because it's an inexact analogy. A decent person can turn bad and become a vile slob; a sinner can reform. But whatever stinkweed does, it's never going to be a strawberry rhubarb pie.

The main thing about weeds is that they grow like, well, weeds. It's a symbol of this fallen world that the plants that help us to survive and thrive have to be brought along with effort, while the useless ones proliferate like crazy. No one ever found a field that just automatically produced delicious potatoes or amazing rows of corn.

Sure, sometimes you can find wild blueberries or bunches of coconut trees or other wonderful things, but those are the natural exception rather than the rule. One estimate says that only around 10 million humans could survive if we were all hunter-gatherers. That's roughly the population of Michigan, for the entire planet. And fewer would survive if they were vegetarians. 

Modern agriculture (and aquaculture and animal husbandry etc.) gets the credit for the survival of the other 6,990,000 of us. 

Seeing how vital plants are for us, heck yes, there are weeds. We ought to make sure there's nothing particularly useful about them before we murder them, but then it's fair game. Bring on the corn flakes! Say no to stinkweed flakes!

Back in the tube.

Long-suffering readers may recall that back in February 2020 I had a spinal issue that put me in the hospital for a couple of nights. At that time the Chinese Death Virus was just a rumor for the most part, but a month later we were all wearing masks and gloves and desperate for toilet paper. 

What with COVID and all, I didn't go to see the pain specialist in person again until last month, for a follow-up. I wanted to know if he thought it would be safe for me to get off the medication I was on for nerve pain, the antidepressant Cymbalta (duloxetine), which seemed to be useless for my mood but great on nerve pain. Also great on making me have to nap. I don't think I've made it through more than five days without a nap since he put me on it. But, if you recall the harrowing details of my hospital trip, you can understand why I've been scared to stop taking it. 

He suggested I get an MRI and see what my lower back looked like now. 

So Saturday morning, I was back in the tube. 

This time it was at a local radiological clinic rather than a hospital, and the staff was great. I wondered if I would feel once again like I was being buried alive, but I guess I'm getting to be an old hand at this. I got no music, no peephole to the outside world, but I just closed my eyes and lay still as the tech moved me into the machine, and stayed like that for the next twenty minutes. Of course my ear started to itch as soon as I was inside. With nothing else to do, I started praying, and my first prayer was Lord, please stop this ear from itching. And it did, soon enough. 

Some people find the noises scary in the MRI, but I almost found them soothing. The vibrations felt nice on my back. I almost fell asleep. Then again, I'm currently a napaholic, and I've also had a long history of falling asleep in the dentist's chair during procedures. 

I thanked the tech when it was over and went about my day. I'll be seeing the doc on Thursday for the results, and I hope maybe he can give me a jab with the steroid needle and take me off the pills. I love to sleep as much as anyone, but this daily one-to-two-nap schedule is cramping my lifestyle. 

It's not an active lifestyle -- closer to inert -- but it could be much better. Wish me luck!

Is it that obvious?

 

A test of Mettle.

It's been very pleasant to see the Beloved Mets riding in first place in the National League East. They've mostly had trouble with West Coast NL teams so far, but aside from that have been true powerhouses this season. Of course, taking the two-game set from the Yankees for city bragging rights was most excellent. 

In the midst of this I was reminded of something I had forgotten, if in fact I ever knew it. 

Everybody knows that Mr. Met, abetted by the lovely and talented Mrs. Met, is the mascot of the New York Metropolitans and has been since the team's inaugural year of 1962 -- except for a period in the late seventies when he was put in cold storage. 

It's more proof that everything sucked in the seventies. 

Cast your mind back to 1976. Disco, polyester, The Big Bus, Ford and Carter. The Yankees were heading for the World Series. The Mets had treaded away Tom Seaver, the Franchise, for nothing much, and Tom was leading the Reds to the World Series and a four-game sweep of the Yankees. The previous two years the Yankees had been playing at Shea Stadium, and all Yankees fans could do was whine about how bad Shea was, while the House that Ruth Built was literally falling apart. 

Mets fans forget that '76 was not a terrible year for the Mets, who finished with a winning record but in third place. But for half of 1977, and for the next four seasons as well, Joe Torre was the manager of the Mets, and the Mets lost games by the dozen. None of that Torre brilliance on display twenty years later with the Yankees was seen with the Mets. 

Stepping into this hot, dreary era of stagflation and shame was a mule named Arthur, now rechristened Mettle the Mule, as the new mascot. 

He looks happy.

Mettle's new name came from fan Dolores Mapps, reflecting the name Mets (duh) and the fighting spirit of the ballclub. Little of this spirit was visible, as the team would lose more than 90 games a season. 

Mettle was kept in a pen near the bullpen, and was probably better behaved than the relief pitchers. Loren Mathews, the promotions manager for the team, told the Chicago Tribune in 1992, "Actually, there was serious talk in spring training [in 1979] by the de Roulets [the team owners] to have the relievers come in from the bullpen on the mule. I told them there was no way I could in good conscience tell Bob Apodaca that from now on he’d be coming into a game with the tying runs on base, bottom of the ninth inning, riding in from the outfield on a mule."

This was still the era where relievers were brought out in bullpen carts, some of which were weird, so the idea of a pitcher coming into a game on a mule, or maybe a mule-powered chariot, was not all that way out. Stupid, but not especially so. 

It's no fault of Mettle's that the team was so bad, but after the last-place 1979 season, new ownership came in and Mettle was put out to pasture. No one seems to know what became of him afterward, but we thank him for his service. Anyone can be a supporter of a winning team, but it takes a little badassery (har!) to be there for the team when they suck. 

Hard sell.

Yesterday morning tiny little 82-pound baby dog Izzy had to go to the vet for his first annual checkup. In future, his shots will be staggered, but on this one he got them all at once: Lyme, bordetella, rabies, and so on. He passed his physical and was very well behaved (why can't my doctor give ME cheese during an exam?). But he was completely wiped out afterward. So, in fact, was I. 

We were conked out in the living room when Izzy suddenly got an interior call on the Bladder Hot Line, and I woke to him whining. With no thought to my own bladder, I whisked him outside, where, like any dog with a strong urge to micturate, he started wandering around by the sidewalk, looking for the perfect spot. And that's when two things happened that led to my Irritation of the Day. 

First, a young guy pulled up to me riding a hoverboard. He had a lanyard and a clipboard, so I knew this wasn't going to be good. 

Worse, he had barely started into his pitch (Today only! Deep discount! Trucks in the neighborhood!) for lawn pest control when a pal from around the corner stopped his car on the way and said hi to both of us, him having used pest-control service. Now the salesman knew I live in this house, not just walking the dog past it, and he has a customer he can point to as a success story. 

The pitch continues, and continues, and continues. I keep saying no as nicely as I can. 

Why? After all, readers of this blog know I hate every critter this guy shows on his kill list, from wasps to spiders to ticks to mice. But I will not be driven into a snap decision when one is not necessary, and I despise the hard sell. 

Can't stand it, always have. Once when I was a kid, my parents made the mistake of going for a tour of a time-share outfit in Florida. For our willingness to look around and listen to the pitch, the salesman promised a gift certificate and some novelty prize. Well, my parents had a bad feeling about the whole deal (the same one many time-share customers would come to have) and their answer was no. That salesman went from funny young man to blank-eyed casino owner the moment we got in his office. You could not tell him no in any form or language that would lead the conversation to end. We would still be there to this day, us kids grown-up and the remains our dead parents, with the guy waiting for us to agree -- but finally my parents just got up and we left. If I had been younger I would have screamed "I pooped my pants!" to help them get out sooner. 

As much as I admire energy, get-up-and-go, and hard-charging ambition, I will not be told that I have to make a decision now, not unless someone is literally going to die. And when a salesperson asks "What is there to think about?" I shut down entirely. 

I swore I would call him if he'd give me his number, and I would have, but he wouldn't let go. I used my wife as my excuse for not agreeing to anything, and said she wasn't home, and no I could not call her right now, and finally got away. 

During this whole exchange, poor exhausted Izzy had flopped on the sidewalk, and neither of us had peed, and we were both losing our joie de vivre quickly.  

I should have yelled "I pooped my pants!" and run.

You know I've had it when I would rather have the four- and six- and eight-legged pests than that two-legged pest. 

UPDATE: The town has sent out this notice: 

We have received several reports from residents regarding recent door-to-door solicitation from a pest control company.  Please be aware that the Town has not issued any Peddler's Permits for this solicitation, as required by Town code.  Those who have been issued a Peddler's Permit by the Town should always be able to present this permit when asked.  Please exercise caution and do not invite strangers into your home.