Saturday, May 29, 2010
Stormy Weather
Saw this sign today at the Detroit Zoo. It seems to me that by the time any Spanish- speaking folks get done reading the sign either it will be too late or the storm will be over.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
In Defense of Bees
A great slander is frequently committed in our great nation and I'm here to do my part in clearing the name of an unfairly maligned species.
Namely, whenever anyone is stung by an insect and said insect is yellow & black, it is almost invariably said that the victim was stung by "a bee".
Most of the time, this is the result of mistaken identity and the poor bee is innocent. I would wager that in most cases, the offending insect is a yellow jacket. (Pictured below.)
Although I'm not exactly a master of the apiary sciences, I feel I can speak with a degree of authority on this subject since my father raised honeybees for years. I was surrounded by beehives and their residents flew around me constantly. Honey bees are relatively docile (unless you threaten the queen, in which case all bets are off). In all those years, I was stung by bees precisely ZERO times. Yellow jackets, however, have probably stung me about a dozen times.
(See below for a picture of a honeybee for comparison.)
Please note the duller coloration and somewhat "fuzzy" look to the thorax.
So next time you get stung, please don't unfairly blame a bee. Chances are a bee is not to blame.
Namely, whenever anyone is stung by an insect and said insect is yellow & black, it is almost invariably said that the victim was stung by "a bee".
Most of the time, this is the result of mistaken identity and the poor bee is innocent. I would wager that in most cases, the offending insect is a yellow jacket. (Pictured below.)
Although I'm not exactly a master of the apiary sciences, I feel I can speak with a degree of authority on this subject since my father raised honeybees for years. I was surrounded by beehives and their residents flew around me constantly. Honey bees are relatively docile (unless you threaten the queen, in which case all bets are off). In all those years, I was stung by bees precisely ZERO times. Yellow jackets, however, have probably stung me about a dozen times.
(See below for a picture of a honeybee for comparison.)
Please note the duller coloration and somewhat "fuzzy" look to the thorax.
So next time you get stung, please don't unfairly blame a bee. Chances are a bee is not to blame.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Rand Paul's America
Flint, MI. The year 2018…
The local outlet of the seafood restaurant chain Red Flounder has announced a new dining option made possible by the repeal of Title II of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. That law, recently terminated after pressure was placed on Congress by President Rand Paul, had prevented discrimination based on race by privately-owned places of public accommodation, such as restaurants, hotels and theatres.
This new experimental dining arrangement will be called “White Wednesdays", during which only white patrons will be served in the restaurant on that day.
Restaurant manager Biff Fratboy explained the new program.
“We had done some market research and focus group studies which found some interesting opportunities for expanding our business. Ironically, our great success among the African-American community was preventing expansion among the white customer base,” Fratboy said. “We had comments that many potential white customers referred to our restaurant as ‘Black Flounder’ and were less likely to eat here because of that. We have instituted ‘White Wednesdays’ in an attempt to broaden our appeal to that consumer segment.”
Fratboy was careful to counter charges that the White Wednesday program, while now legal, could be perceived as racist.
“Red Flounder abhors racism in all its forms,” explained Fratboy. “The White Wednesday program isn’t racist; it is simply a means by which Red Flounder can better accommodate those customers who have expressed a preference for a more homogeneous dining experience. Red Flounder is merely exercising its liberty as a privately-owned company to better serve the needs of its customers in a capitalist economy. If our business declines on White Wednesdays, we will stop having them, since continuing it in that circumstance would hurt our bottom line. It’s the free market in action! Who could be against THAT? Socialists, perhaps?”
Fratboy explained that Red Flounder would continue to serve its non-white customers: “Red Flounder is committed to serving the seafood needs of our non-white customers. They are welcome to eat in our establishment from Thursday through Tuesday. In addition, we are spending $30,000 to install a special drive-through window which will serve all races on Wednesdays. That’s right! We’re spending $30,000 in order to specially serve our non-white customers! Does that sound like something a racist company would do?”
Fratboy noted that the program, if successful, may be expanded.
“We might even pay tribute to the dream of Dr. Martin Luther King for a society based on racial unity by serving blacks only on the King Holiday,” said Fratboy.
“Provided King Day doesn’t fall on a Wednesday, of course.”
The local outlet of the seafood restaurant chain Red Flounder has announced a new dining option made possible by the repeal of Title II of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. That law, recently terminated after pressure was placed on Congress by President Rand Paul, had prevented discrimination based on race by privately-owned places of public accommodation, such as restaurants, hotels and theatres.
This new experimental dining arrangement will be called “White Wednesdays", during which only white patrons will be served in the restaurant on that day.
Restaurant manager Biff Fratboy explained the new program.
“We had done some market research and focus group studies which found some interesting opportunities for expanding our business. Ironically, our great success among the African-American community was preventing expansion among the white customer base,” Fratboy said. “We had comments that many potential white customers referred to our restaurant as ‘Black Flounder’ and were less likely to eat here because of that. We have instituted ‘White Wednesdays’ in an attempt to broaden our appeal to that consumer segment.”
Fratboy was careful to counter charges that the White Wednesday program, while now legal, could be perceived as racist.
“Red Flounder abhors racism in all its forms,” explained Fratboy. “The White Wednesday program isn’t racist; it is simply a means by which Red Flounder can better accommodate those customers who have expressed a preference for a more homogeneous dining experience. Red Flounder is merely exercising its liberty as a privately-owned company to better serve the needs of its customers in a capitalist economy. If our business declines on White Wednesdays, we will stop having them, since continuing it in that circumstance would hurt our bottom line. It’s the free market in action! Who could be against THAT? Socialists, perhaps?”
Fratboy explained that Red Flounder would continue to serve its non-white customers: “Red Flounder is committed to serving the seafood needs of our non-white customers. They are welcome to eat in our establishment from Thursday through Tuesday. In addition, we are spending $30,000 to install a special drive-through window which will serve all races on Wednesdays. That’s right! We’re spending $30,000 in order to specially serve our non-white customers! Does that sound like something a racist company would do?”
Fratboy noted that the program, if successful, may be expanded.
“We might even pay tribute to the dream of Dr. Martin Luther King for a society based on racial unity by serving blacks only on the King Holiday,” said Fratboy.
“Provided King Day doesn’t fall on a Wednesday, of course.”
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Reality Check
We were eating at Taco Bell this afternoon. The PA system started playing the song "Come Dancing" by The Kinks. For those of you who might not be too familiar with the song, it's a about an old ballroom dance hall and the music is done in a style reminiscent of that era.
"Is that an old song?" asked my 12-year-old daughter.
"No," replied my wife. "It was done to sound old, but it's actually from the 1980's."
"The 1980's!" said my daughter, incredulous. "But that IS old!"
*sigh*
"Is that an old song?" asked my 12-year-old daughter.
"No," replied my wife. "It was done to sound old, but it's actually from the 1980's."
"The 1980's!" said my daughter, incredulous. "But that IS old!"
*sigh*
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Zen... or Something Like It
For about five minutes early this evening, I experienced something wonderful. I had just finished grilling out for the first time this year. I was hot and sort of tired, so I put on the headphones of my MP3 player, turned on the fan and plopped myself down on the bed.
The day was warm and the skies blue and beautiful. The cool air from the fan gently caressed me. The song on the MP3 player (“Secret Friend” by Paul McCartney) fit the mood, as it was one of his less “serious” songs… it’s essentially Sir Paul having a bit of fun in the studio.
For a few minutes, I experienced what I imagine those who quest for Nirvana are seeking. My thoughts ceased. My experiences no longer were translated into words which I then thought about. The sensory experiences seemed to bypass the words and thoughts and plugged themselves directly into my consciousness. It was bliss.
I now think I know why people have trouble explaining Zen. It is born of direct experience. Words can’t really explain it because it can only “happen” when you put the words away. When it comes to Zen, words simply clog things up. Then, when you later try to explain it, you find yourself retroactively trying to – in a metaphorical sense - duct tape words onto the experience but the tape won’t stick. And this sloppy mess of words just makes you seem like a babbling idiot. Like, f’rinstance, this stuff I just wrote.
No, I haven’t seen “god”. I’m still the same hardcore atheist I’ve always been. And I wouldn’t describe it as a “spiritual” experience, either. To me, that mushy word implies finding something outside one’s experience. But what I felt was the direct opposite… an “enhanced” experience of reality. It was the precise opposite of what I expected Zen to be. Instead of “other-worldly” it was more “hyper-worldly”… as though the physical world was more “real” than usual.
I’m really digging myself into a hole, here, aren’t I?
Forget all the shit I wrote above. Let’s just say I plopped myself on the bed for about five minutes and it was really nice, okay? Okay.
The day was warm and the skies blue and beautiful. The cool air from the fan gently caressed me. The song on the MP3 player (“Secret Friend” by Paul McCartney) fit the mood, as it was one of his less “serious” songs… it’s essentially Sir Paul having a bit of fun in the studio.
For a few minutes, I experienced what I imagine those who quest for Nirvana are seeking. My thoughts ceased. My experiences no longer were translated into words which I then thought about. The sensory experiences seemed to bypass the words and thoughts and plugged themselves directly into my consciousness. It was bliss.
I now think I know why people have trouble explaining Zen. It is born of direct experience. Words can’t really explain it because it can only “happen” when you put the words away. When it comes to Zen, words simply clog things up. Then, when you later try to explain it, you find yourself retroactively trying to – in a metaphorical sense - duct tape words onto the experience but the tape won’t stick. And this sloppy mess of words just makes you seem like a babbling idiot. Like, f’rinstance, this stuff I just wrote.
No, I haven’t seen “god”. I’m still the same hardcore atheist I’ve always been. And I wouldn’t describe it as a “spiritual” experience, either. To me, that mushy word implies finding something outside one’s experience. But what I felt was the direct opposite… an “enhanced” experience of reality. It was the precise opposite of what I expected Zen to be. Instead of “other-worldly” it was more “hyper-worldly”… as though the physical world was more “real” than usual.
I’m really digging myself into a hole, here, aren’t I?
Forget all the shit I wrote above. Let’s just say I plopped myself on the bed for about five minutes and it was really nice, okay? Okay.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Reaping the Whirlwind
I was born on a muggy July morning in Flint, Michigan back in 1962. As the day of my birth drew to a close, the skies darkened and a thunderstorm approached. This storm was so severe the curtains blew into the room at a 90-degree angle to the windows. The nurses started talking about evacuating some of the patients, but before they could make a firm decision in that regard, the storm had blown through.
If my life were a work of fiction, this would have been a perfect bit of foreshadowing. It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that I would have a lifelong fascination with severe weather in general and with tornadoes in particular. Perhaps some of the excitement was picked up from the adults around me. The Beecher Tornado, the last single tornado to kill over 100 people in the United States, was still fresh in their memories. When there was a tornado watch or warning, I could sense the adults getting extra wary, which, for a young child, is sort of exhilarating.
I also remember the annual springtime ritual of seeing those tornado preparedness films in elementary school. I loved every somber, serious, cheesy second of them!
Despite my desire to see a tornado, I have been unsuccessful in that regard. I came close once on a canoe trip on the Rifle River in the early 1980’s. The sky got hellaciously dark and a powerful gust front whipped through snapping fully grown trees like dominoes. I didn’t see a tornado, though I later found out one was sighted mere miles from my location.
Another time, fittingly on my birthday, there was a severe storm outbreak in Michigan the likes of which occurs “once every 500 years” according to one news story. But did I see anything? Of course not!
Then, a couple years ago, nature seemingly extended its middle finger my way when an EF-2 tornado damaged the house in which I grew up. But could it have happened in all the years I lived there? NOOOOO!
I would love to go on one of those storm chasing tours. Some have warned me they might actually be rather dull. I know, however, that I would thrive on it. The thought of driving for hours through places like Nebraska, rather than discouraging me, makes the entire scenario all the more tempting. For me, stopping for a pizza in, say, Tulsa while monitoring the latest convective outlook smacks of true Americana. I know I would revel in every minute of it. What some would find boring, I would find delightful. And to see an actual tornado would be an excellent payoff. (Actually, I would enjoy the experience even if I didn’t see a tornado, but let’s face it; I’d still like to have the image of a whirlwind tickle my corneas before I shed this mortal coil.)
I wouldn’t, though, want “my” tornado I see do any real damage. The thought of it destroying lives or property would be a downer, despite its magnificence. If it could maybe just toss around a few random tumbleweeds in an empty field, I’d be happy.
Maybe someday…
If my life were a work of fiction, this would have been a perfect bit of foreshadowing. It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that I would have a lifelong fascination with severe weather in general and with tornadoes in particular. Perhaps some of the excitement was picked up from the adults around me. The Beecher Tornado, the last single tornado to kill over 100 people in the United States, was still fresh in their memories. When there was a tornado watch or warning, I could sense the adults getting extra wary, which, for a young child, is sort of exhilarating.
I also remember the annual springtime ritual of seeing those tornado preparedness films in elementary school. I loved every somber, serious, cheesy second of them!
Despite my desire to see a tornado, I have been unsuccessful in that regard. I came close once on a canoe trip on the Rifle River in the early 1980’s. The sky got hellaciously dark and a powerful gust front whipped through snapping fully grown trees like dominoes. I didn’t see a tornado, though I later found out one was sighted mere miles from my location.
Another time, fittingly on my birthday, there was a severe storm outbreak in Michigan the likes of which occurs “once every 500 years” according to one news story. But did I see anything? Of course not!
Then, a couple years ago, nature seemingly extended its middle finger my way when an EF-2 tornado damaged the house in which I grew up. But could it have happened in all the years I lived there? NOOOOO!
I would love to go on one of those storm chasing tours. Some have warned me they might actually be rather dull. I know, however, that I would thrive on it. The thought of driving for hours through places like Nebraska, rather than discouraging me, makes the entire scenario all the more tempting. For me, stopping for a pizza in, say, Tulsa while monitoring the latest convective outlook smacks of true Americana. I know I would revel in every minute of it. What some would find boring, I would find delightful. And to see an actual tornado would be an excellent payoff. (Actually, I would enjoy the experience even if I didn’t see a tornado, but let’s face it; I’d still like to have the image of a whirlwind tickle my corneas before I shed this mortal coil.)
I wouldn’t, though, want “my” tornado I see do any real damage. The thought of it destroying lives or property would be a downer, despite its magnificence. If it could maybe just toss around a few random tumbleweeds in an empty field, I’d be happy.
Maybe someday…
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shameless, Unsolicited, Annoying (but Unapologetic) Parental Bragging
Congratulations to my son Ian for managing something his father couldn't have imagined doing in his wildest dreams: he was awarded a varsity letter from Davison High School. In this week's award ceremony, he not only got awards for his scholastic achievement and for consistently following the "Cardinal Code" (i.e., he was well-behaved and that sorta thing) but, most impressive to me, he got the coveted Maroon and Gold letter for his participation in the Davison High Quiz Bowl team.
Ian usually gets all "A"s, but I think this is one time he's happy to be awarded a "D"!
Knowing Ian, if he sees this he will be horribly embarrassed and will hope like hell his friends don't stumble onto my blog. Oh well, our generation started the freakin' internet so he can just deal with it!
Anyway, great job! Way to go, Ian! Yer aging punker dad is proud of you!
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