Thursday, February 28, 2008
Miscellany: Poop Jokes, Hot Dog Pie, and Short Short Stories
I’m tired, okay? Not physically tired, which would help because I’m not sleeping as much as I probably ought to be. My mind is in foment and my body feels inappropriately charged up (for a guy who just spent 9.5 hours at his desk without once traveling farther than the men’s room). But I am tired OF things - tired of working, tired of cooking, tired of not being at home, tired of being tired, and (dare I admit it) tired of Shmuel. Yes my yiddishkeit friend, you are a wonderful person and a font of hope and all sorts of good things, but seeing you there at the top of my blog is starting to bring me down. You’re dead, dude, and you ascribe to a lifestyle I find, to say the least, distinguishable from my own. But tonight is double-island-madness night (Survivor AND Lost), and I expect there will be some cold beer in the fridge once I get home, and I think things are poised for improvement. Well, let’s see what I can do here to break the Shmuelistic pallor and shake things up a little.
I think I promised some poop jokes. Let’s start there, follow up with some math-related food-throwing, and finish with some small literary treats. That should clear the decks for whatever decides to enblogulate itself here next.
I have been, as I mentioned, diagnosed with a curious condition, “jumper’s knee.” I had my first PT session for it last night. It went a lot better than I had feared ever since my diagnosing orthopod had handed me a sheet of recommended therapies. It was a long, complicated series of three stages of exercises, but right in the middle of the first group of workouts I saw a pairing that struck dread into my heart. Turns out I was not asked to perform either of these maneuvers - the mini-squat or the stool crawl. And there was much rejoicing. By the housekeeping staff and my drycleaner.
NEW SUBJECT: as I mentioned, I went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium a few weekends ago and had a really great time. Among their exhibits are two - two! - species of otter, riverine and oceanic. Now I’m not going to badmouth these adorable waterrats, they attract a big crowd and eat shellfish on their backs and maintain charming moustaches, much as I do myself. But the aquarium being a learn-y kind of place, they insisted on spoiling the cuteness with facts and details. For instance, did you know that river otters mark their territory? O yes they do, by spraying a “scent” (stench, reek, noxious liquid) from a gland cunningly concealed between their anus and their urethrea. It is an area known by many names, two of which I know: choad and taint. In this case, it is clear that the second of these was utilized by biologists who were seeking a name for the product sprayed therefrom. What do you think they call the thing that otters spray from their taint? Sometimes even scientists make the obvious choice.
OKAY let’s move on, now that I’ve got you warmed up. Enough with the execretory functions, let’s talk about food. How about pie? And hot dogs! Or, no, how about pi and hot dogs? I know sometimes you find yourself in the same situation that I encounter - I need to calculate the value of pi, but all I have is a pack of frozen hot dogs or a handful of churros. Or perhaps a sack of smooth, cylindrical zucchinis (or “courgettes” for the Euro crowd). Used to be, I’d just eat my zukes and churros and mourn my ignorance, but NO MORE - here’s how to calculate pi by tossing tubelike food. You only have to toss it 100 or so times, but the more you do it, the close you get. As it is with so many things. You tell me how it works out for you. I don’t feel, at present, much like tossing my dogs.
OKAY OKAY, now let’s bring the mood back down… hilarity is hilarious and all, but this is a serious blog and I’m a serious guy. This was evidenced by my incomprehensible feature on LitPark, a site I do enjoy (it’s on my links list, do a little work for once in your life). Last week or so that site hosted a sort of contesty thing in which writers were asked to tell a story in 75 words. I told two, and since I rather like them and they’re in my notebook, I consider them fair game so hold tight, here they come:
He queued up for the pharmacist, the lino marked with footworn tape. Minutes lingered; the line crept. Initially, it sounded like his lungs, but everybody else had problems too. Then he rested his head on his walker’s crossbar and sobs racked his bulky frame. His mottled hands shook on the grips. A tap: “You okay? You can move up.” Bewildered, furious, he wheeled himself back out the door but had nowhere to go.
Same bus, every day. I get on and he’s already there. I have my usual seat; he’s in his, a few feet down: solid, undistinguished, quiet. He never reads, never listens to music. For years our routine has been the same: we ignore each other. Tonight he was looking particularly dapper. As I approached my seat our eyes met. He clenched out a grin, I curtly nodded. Now we’re bus buddies, I guess.
That’s nice, isn’t it? A little literary intermezzo. No idea what comes next but at least it won’t be following old Shmuel. Now go on with your bad self or selves.
