Douglas Adams-- like a Breath of Fresh Vacuum

There's something about Douglas Adams that struck a chord (a Gm chord, pre-bailout) within me from the very first words I read in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Rereading Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency now, I find I still resonate like a detuned guitar through an amp with the knobs on 11.

Why?

I can think of a couple of reasons.

First, he writes in a style I've always used. Not that I use it as well as him, much less to the tune of millions of dollars, but the same, general style-- especially the absurd metaphors. I caught a lot of flack in school for that, and from friends when we'd all try writing. I didn't care. Writing, to me, was like a bagel. Except that I always enjoy writing, but most bagels are merely so so.

``Later," insisted her father.
"This is already later. I've been timing it."
...
"Except the ferry never came when it said it would. Never, ever. I timed it."

Brilliant.

Next, it's pure escapism. It's completely surreal, has nothing to do with anything, and I seriously doubt Adams wanted us to find any deeper meaning in the books. Although some people do. Those people probably trust politicians, too.

How surreal is it? Well, at times it makes Alice in Wonderland look like a travelogue.

Then again, it's so surreal that it often reminds me of working with teenagers. So it's no wonder I love it. I'd as soon race an electric monk for the shotgun, a race I'd be sure to lose, probably to my physical integrity's detriment, as not have teenagers around.

So long, Doug, and thanks for all the fish. Especially that one beta. I think the cats still have nightmares.

The grass is always neater on the neighbor's lawn

One of the reasons I don't live in the standard suburbs

It's just a LAWN.

It's not a Texas high school football field (Texans take HS football more seriously than most people take college or pro football).

It's not a world series baseball diamond infield.

It's not a World Cup stadium.

It's not the Augusta National, home of the Masters.

It's just a LAWN.

You walk on it. You play on it. You roll around on it. If it's ours, you can drive and park on it (Rachael and Shaunda both think the spot by the front door is theirs).

So when I get out the old riding mower (it is after all more than an acre!) on the big wedge shaped lawn (like part of God's "Trivial Pursuit" board) with the house at an angle and oddly shaped flower beds and trees planted willy nilly, I don't even worry about perfectly parallel tire tracks or making a cross-hatch pattern. If the grass and weeds aren't so tall that mowing leaves huge clumps, we don't bother to rake. The leaves and semi-mulched grass make a good fertilizer; why should I rake them up, then go pay for more fertilizer?

I'll never win a "best lawn award" unless the Addams Family moves in on one side and the Munsters move in on the other side. And then, I'd probably just let it go longer between mowings.

You want to invest time, love and money in your lawn? Be my guest. It doesn't bother me one bit. Just don't expect me to, or get offended if I don't fit the image you want for the neighborhood.

It's a lawn. A collection of grasses and weeds. Something to walk, play, lie down, drive and park on.

Life's too short to waste much time on a steenking LAWN!!!

Sometimes a banana (pepper)...

Sometimes a banana (pepper) is just a banana (pepper).

The other day I wandered into the break room at lunch time. Rosa had just put out the meat for sandwiches, with what looked like tiny, orange bell peppers a little larger than cherry tomatoes in the midst of the meat slices.

"What's this?" I asked, picking one up.

"Banana pepper," said Rosa, as I popped it into my mouth, knowing full well it wasn't a banana pepper but having no idea what it was.

"Mmmm..." I said as I started down the hall, chewing. About the time I swallowed a tiny bit of it, my mouth caught on fire. I quit chewing, but the pain grew. I could feel each seed, each bit of pepper flesh, every molecule of it, burning away my tongue and skin as if I'd bitten into a high concentration of sulfuric acid. I could almost feel my teeth melting.

I spat the pepper into the trash, and groped desperately through my food stash. Chocolate or bread! Both! I ate a brownie; it had no effect at all. Running back to the break room, I some how managed not to knock anyone aside. My mouth felt blistered, and the heat was growing. Soon I would be breathing fire, annihilating my friends and co-workers!

I'd only swallowed maybe 2% of it, but my stomach was cramping like crazy.

I tore into some cheese, trying to plaster it all over my mouth. I started rapid fire hiccuping, and got the shakes. Hot stuff never does that to me. Until yesterday.

Finally I went to the fridge, and poured some half and half into a mug. As I held gulps of that in my mouth, the blaze began to diminish. A half coffee mug of half and half, over about 5 minutes, finally got it down to where it was merely annoying rather than devastating. The hiccups were gone, but the shakes continued for a few minutes.

I accused Rosa of trying to kill me. "I told you it was a habañero pepper!"

"Habañero? You said banana!"

"No, habañero."

Whether she said it wrong, or I heard it wrong, was irrelevant. I'd just tried to eat a whole habañero, one of the three hottest, naturally occurring foods on the planet.

Sometimes a banana (pepper) is just a banana (pepper).

But sometimes it's not.



Copyright 2007, Miles O'Neal, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.

My nemesis, the stingray

It's a matter of age... It's not so much that you get hurt easier easier and take longer to heal, but that your reflexes arent what they used to be so you're more likely to find out about the first two.

I didn't realize that Schwinn was making Stingrays again. Michael just got one, so when he came down this weekend we didn't end up jamming on guitars as usual. Instead, he, his brother William, and I headed to a park with the bike. I used to be pretty good at Stingray wheelies. Today I was having a hard time doing much more than getting that tiny front wheel off the ground more than a couple of inches, when suddenly, I did it! Only I didn't stop where I expected to. All the way over. And then two feet down, straight onto my tailbone.

Ouch!

Shoulda jammed.

We played king of the gravel piles (15 foot dunes, woohoo!) for a while, but my tailbone was really getting to me. This one's gonna smart for a few days...


So, this being the 21st century USofA, I feel the need to sue someone. Who should I sue?[1]

1. Michael - no point; he's a college student. Then again, maybe I'd get the Stingray!
   
2. Michael's family - long time friends. I'm sure they have an umbrella insurance policy but they'd never eat at Chuys with us again, and Ariella would probably strangle me with some of her jewelry.
   
3. Schwinn - now we're getting somewhere! No personal relationship, and they have deep pockets. They would probably quit producing Stingrays but maybe I could get all remaining stock as part of the settlement.
   
4. The city of Round Rock - another gold mine! Deep pockets and everyone roots against the government. Area taxes would go up 0.001% but since my income would go up a gajillion percent, who cares?
   

But... who wants to be tied up in court for 5 years? And to be serious for a moment, I think judges should be allowed to put people who file these kinds of suits in the public stocks for a few years and feed their lawyers to cannibals or rabid chipmunks. So instead of suing, I'll just buy a bicycle helmet.

For my butt.


[1] My English teachers and Dr. Seuss's estate, since I said "who" instead of "whom"?


Copyright 2008 Miles O'Neal, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.