Christmas Stories You Won't Hear on the News: Coal

We always hear about Santa and presents. Seldom do we hear about Santa and coal, other than as a threat. But what is the reality?

Once upon a time there was a boy in Tumbleweed, New Mexico who was so bad that Santa filled his house with coal. But that wasn't enough. Santa called in an air strike and millions of tons of coal were delivered to this tiny town in the desert.

Shortly after Santa left sparks from the fireplace set it on fire and the house burned down. Winds fanned the flames, and the mountains of coal covering thousands of acres burned as well. (Thankfully the rest of the town was out of town.) Due to some unknown element in this type of coal (which doesn't add to the carbon footprint) the ash was white as snow. The area is now known as White Sands National Monument. If you visit, just remember that mixed in with all the coal ash are the ashes of a house and a particularly naughty little boy.

 

Meanwhile, half way round the top half of the planet and much farther north, there's a very poor, very, very cold town. It's so poor and so cold that hundreds of years ago desperate townspeople, tired of burning their Christmas presents to stay warm, started plotting to be naughty just to get coal. When Santa's elves told him, Santa made a special deal with the people of this forlorn Siberian outpost. If they behave they get coal. If they misbehave they get toys that won't burn. They go through as much coal in a year as Tumbleweed went through in one night, but they're not a tourist attraction, and they're still here- asleep in warm beds.

We Three Strings: A Christmas Story in the Wild West

Three strings ride into town from the desert- hot, tired, and thirsty. They hitch their rides and mosey to the saloon doors. They stop, confronted by a sign: NO STRINGS.

The string named Slim growls. "I'm gettin' a drink!" He pushes past the doors, but a few seconds later comes flying out to land in the dusty street. An angry barkeep appears in the doorway. "Can't ya read? We don't serve yer type here!" He stomps back inside.

Another string, a twisted old man, shoves his Stetson back. "We'll see about that!" He saunters inside. A few seconds later a fight starts; tables bust, men and women yell, a chair hits the wall, glass breaks. The second string flies over the swinging doors to land, disheveled, in the street by his bruised, dazed friend. The barkeep appears in the doorway again, yells, "NO STRINGS!" points at the sign, glares at the third string and stomps back inside. A few feet in he stops and hollers over his shoulder. "We don't serve your kind! Go away."

The third string, a strong string, practically a small horsehair rope, glances at the sign, at his friends baking under the Arizona sun in the dirt, and into the saloon at the bar. He ponders a second, removes his hat, loops around himself a few times, and messes up his top end so threads stick out everywhere. He hangs his hat on a nearby nail and moseys inside.

A furious shriek from the bar greets him. "Hey! Don't your type ever learn? We don't want no strings here!"

"I'll have a beer."

Apoplectic, the barkeep throws a glass on the floor. "We! Don't! Serve! Strings!"

"Ain't a string. Now where's my beer?"

The barkeep just stares. "Not a string?!?!?"

"Nope. I'm a frayed knot."

An Interlude Amidst the Interviews

Let's continue where we left off in the previous blog. The interviews could only go uphill and for that round they did. I don't recall any other disasters, and we hired a great employee. Over the next few years I was still in charge of everything except the actual hiring decisions, into which I had input. But there were still some interesting times.

(All the new hire names are made up.)

One recent grad was a decade older than the rest. Don had taught French at a high school but between not knowing how to help students who didn't care and the abysmal pay, he decided to return to school and try something else. He got a degree in computer science and we hired him.

At this point in our growth it wasn't unusual to hire several people at once; Don was one of four who started together. I was working 80 to 100 hour weeks; the later I worked the less likely I was to get in early. After Don's first day I decided to play a prank on him and the other newbies. When they would log in, they would get a random silly message and get logged out. There was even a point to it- getting them to work as a team to find the problem and fix it.

But I ended up working until 4AM so I wasn't there when they got in. I got in about 2. I logged in. A message displayed. "You're fired." It logged me out. I tried again. Same thing. I laughed- albeit with a wee bit of trepidation. Tom walked nonchalantly into my office and leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed. "So, how are you today?"

"I'm great. I can catch up on my sleep. I just got fired by a computer."

He grinned.

"You gave those guys a rough morning. Craig (the VP) was a bit upset. He calmed down, though."

"They couldn't figure out how to fix it?"

"Apparently none of them hung out with jokers at school. Frank got a message that the line printer was assigned to the overhead lights. He was really confused so he just started reading through the system manuals. Jane recognized what was happening but she hasn't used JCL before so she just came to me and I fixed her login. We came up with the idea for yours even before Craig knew what was going on."

"Well?"

"Here's where it got ugly. Craig went into the machine room for something and found Don and Dave with manuals and stacks of printouts, digging frantically through them and arguing. They didn't want to explain what was going on at first, but Craig raised his voice and that scared them more. Apparently Don's terminal said that someone's program had overwritten the OS and they needed to re-enter it in hex on the system console. So the two of them were desperately trying to find the operating system printout with hexadecimal codes."

I had to stifle a laugh. Craig stuck his head in. "It wasn't funny!"

Tom grinned even more. "Yes it was."

I couldn't help snickering.

Craig laughed. "OK, it was, but you really scared those boys. I think you owe them an apology."

I bought them lunch but they were so relieved they hadn't destroyed anything they weren't even upset.

After a year, Don quit and went back to teaching. He was doing a good job but he simply didn't care. "I'm going back for a masters in French and a masters in teaching. I'll find a way to help those kids." We missed him, but I've always encouraged people to pursue their passion. I was glad he found it anew.

Dave, on the other hand... That was an adventure.

Dave had excellent grades, did well on the test, and knew his stuff. Still, there were enough little red flags in our interactions that I had recommended against hiring him. The decision maker wouldn't listen. he thought I was being petty over something.

Being consultants and founders' backgrounds, we all had to wear coats and ties (or equivalent dress for the women). No jeans. Dave's first day he wore an immaculate three piece suit. He walked into the office of the executive VP (Tom S), introduced himself, and talked a bit. He noted that one of the reasons he had hoped to work at our company was that we looked professional. Tom told me about this later that day and asked, "You sure he's OK?" I related what had happened. He shrugged his shoulders; he didn't like to interfere in the systems group.

A week or two in, Dave showed up in blue jeans and a white button down. As I walked into my office he was brushing his teeth at his desk. An hour later he had his bare feet on his desk, trimming his toenails. When I asked what he was doing, he smiled innocently and said, "Foot hygiene!"

"Let's not do that in front of everyone, OK? What if a customer came in?"

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that."

Jane later thanked me. "Glad you thought of customers. He wasn't listening to us!"

No one would do anything about Dave. I was supposed to manage him but had no authority (this was an ongoing issue and one of the reasons I eventually left). A few months later he started drooling over the women from Shasta' regional office who walked by our windows a couple of times a day. He started watching for one in particular. When he would see her coming, he would hold up a sign. "How about lunch?" Or "Are you available?" I didn't find all this out until Nancy and Helene finally came to me after he went running down the hall when he saw her, opened the front door, leaned against the frame, and told the lady as she passed by, "I love you!"

I talked to him. He wouldn't listen. Craig wasn't in so I went to Tom S. He talked to Dave and made it clear the behavior would stop if Dave liked working for us. Dave grudgingly acceded. I found the lady later (I knew some of them a little bit just from being normal and friendly instead of psycho and friendly). I apologized, explained we had just found out, and told her that if it happened again, she should let us know and he'd be fired. Or if she preferred she could just call the police. She teared up and thanked me several times.

I'm sure the whole Shasta crew was happy when we moved to another location.

Things were weird in various ways for the next year or so with Dave. Eventually he was sent to a customer site on a project we were behind on. We were months late delivering the software but we kept a crew on site at our expense to get things working. After Dave had been on site a week, one of the customer's engineers told Fred (another of our engineers on site) that Dave had told them, "You realize that (our company) is screwing you over, right?" The customer knew we were losing money and working hard to resolve the problems. He figured we should know so he told Fred, who called me. I called Tom S and Craig (they were out of town). They flew Dave there, asked him about it, and he freely admitted it. He had no rational explanation. They fired him and sent him back to turn in his company items and get his stuff and go.

I met him at the front door with his personal possessions in a box. He wasn't allowed anywhere but my office. He was very, very hurt. "I thought you were my friend! Why are you taking their side?"

I gave him the brief version, told him to turn in his company credit cards at the front desk, and go. A moment later Helene came in. "Miles, did Dave give you his cards?"

I ran outside. Dave was pulling away in his car. I jumped on my Honda Interceptor (the only time since I was 16 I rode a motorcycle with no protective gear), and took off in pursuit. Dave had a turbocharger and decided to use it. I still caught him a mile away at a stop sign with enough lead time to park the bike in the middle of the road and get off it just in case.

He smiled his most charming smile. "That was fun. What's up?"

"The credit cards, Dave."

He looked forlorn. "Don't you trust me?"

"It doesn't matter. Those are the rules. You have to turn them in."

He just looked at me.

"Or I have to call the police."

Dave looked devastated. He pulled them out of his shirt pocket (he'd had them ready!) "Don't be a stranger."

"Sorry, Dave. I just might be."

He didn't run me over. He left. I went back to work. Half the office was standing out front, waiting to see if I came back, and whether I was intact. They cheered. I handed Helene the cards. She didn't want to take them. "Do I have to touch these?"

I told Craig if he ever overrode me on a personality rejection again I would quit. He promised not to. Thankfully it never became an issue.

I'm not dissing anyone in management. They were just as new at this as I was; we were all making it up as we went along. We all made mistakes and we all got things right. While it was frustrating at times, it could have been much, much worse.

These stories are 100% true. There may be a minor detail or two wrong, but there is no embellishment. If anything, it was even weirder than described.

The Interview Process From Heck

Not long after I got my first, full time software job at JHK & Associates I was given the task of^[1] finding new employees. I'd never done anything like this. My bosses hadn't done much and didn't care for it so it fell to me. Ex nihilo, I had a week to:

1. come up with a list of job requirements;
2. have one of the admins get them in the appropriate papers (there was no internet);
3. completely revamp the application form;
4. develop a test to screen out posers and help rank people with a clue;
5. get the first applicants screened;
6. make a recommendation to hire.

And by the way, the software delivery schedule can't slip.

Somehow I did it. I probably violated the letter of a couple of federal laws in terms of questions on the application, but we had no evil intentions. Nobody every complained, and we never discriminated on any basis other than technical, leadership, and whether they might be psycho. We learned the last one the hard way, but that story will have to wait.

The test was the hardest part for me. We didn't want to scare people off. We would want this to work for a wide array of positions from entry level to senior. I was quite proud of the result; it served us well for the several years I stayed and they used it long after I left. I wish I still had it.

Some people, of course, don't test well. We always used the test as a starting point for discussion. We hired people who didn't do well on the test. We passed on people who aced it. But that was all over time. The way my first two interviewees reacted to the test, coupled with my lack of experience, made for a hairy couple of days.

These both happened to be women; we'll get to some weird guy interview stories, too. Their names are (AFAIK) fictitious; I certainly don't remember names this many years later. Just their faces.

Interviewee number one was a recent grad from the University of Georgia. They had a good computer program, but it was aimed more at business, focusing on COBOL and maybe BASIC. We were an engineering shop focusing on FORTRAN and assemble languages. As Mary sat down and handed me the test she looked dejected. "I don't think I did very well."

She'd done well on the software engineering questions but got nothing at all on the FORTRAN questions (we had emphasized FORTRAN in the ads). "No, not really. Have you had any FORTRAN at all?"

"No." She looked at the desk. "They told me when I majored in CS that COBOL was all anyone wanted!"

"I'm sorry. I know there are plenty of COBOL jobs around, but this isn't one."

"This was the only programming job in the paper this week! I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm sorry. Thank you for your time and honesty."

I shook her hand and she left, a tear sliding down one cheek. I started to write things up. A moment later I noticed her run past my window. Seconds later one of the admins was in my doorway with her hands on her hips. "Miles! What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. Why?"

"She went past my desk sobbing like her heart was breaking, and ran out the door! I tried to talk to her but she wouldn't stop."

I explained what had happened. Nancy said, "I guess that's why most companies don't tell you anything on site; they call back."

Lesson #1: Never tell an interviewee they haven't got the job unless you are prepared to deal with the fallout!

The next evening we had a woman from another culture interviewing. The test was designed to take 10-15 minutes; she was in my office after five. "This is a stupid test." She flung it down.

Sara had answered less than half the questions. Even some of those were not complete answers.

"I have a masters in computer science. Do you have a masters in computer science?"

"No, but anyone with the knowledge we asked for in the ad should know this." Given that I had not finished my undergrad degree, and that I had friends who had not graduated who could do the test in their sleep, I knew this was true. Both my bosses had Masters degrees but they were quite happy with both my knowledge and the test.

Sara wasn't really interested in discussion; she wanted to browbeat me into giving her the job! After two or three minutes, Tom stepped in from next door. "Could you please hold it down? And, ma'am, if you don't like it, you don't have to stay."

She left in a huff, but first demanded we return every piece of paper to her. I finally gave her the resume back, but the application and test were ours, and she wasn't getting them. She left mumbling vague threats. Tom came back in my office. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah. I lost control of that one."

"You sure did."

"What would you have done?"

He laughed. "Probably been a lot ruder a lot faster if I'd been in your chair."

Lesson #2: Maintain control of the interview, and don't even bother with people with bad attitudes. For those, ignore lesson 1. Just send them on their way.

Helene, our other admin, came down after this one to make sure I was OK. She'd heard it forty feet down the hall, and apparently Sara glared daggers at everyone on her way out. She let them know she wasn't happy, she had her resume, and we should be sued because we were so stupid. I guess I still looked a bit stunned; Helene have me a hug.

To be continued...

 

NOTES
[1] I realize that modern business English would shorten "given the task of" to "tasked with". I still find this mildly annoying. Besides, my phrasing is historically accurate.

Emo vs Baseball

Growing up, I loved baseball. And I loved four teams in particular:

• The Saint Louis Cardinals
• The Detroit Tigers
• The Boston Red Sox
• The San Francisco Giants

Why these teams? I don't really remember. They simply were my favorites to watch, some combination of personalities, performance, shenanigans, and teamwork, I suspect.

Three of them were involved in the 1967 & 1968 world series. During the former, the boys in my small 7th grade class would retreat to our usual part of the playground during afternoon recess where someone would furtively pull out a transistor radio and we would all pretend to play pine cone mumbletypeg or some other game while we desperately listened and watched out for adults. While the radio was on best friends might be enemies as one's team triumphed over the other's, play by play. But then the radio was off as we headed back in, giddy, nervous, crazy to know what was happening, friends again against the cruel world valuing biology over baseball. And my favorite team of all won.

The next year everyone knew the Cards would win. Everyone except die hard Tigers fans, of course. And those Tigers fans turned out to be right. Had anyone else beat them I'd have been devastated. But at least it was the Red Sox, so all was well enough, if not well. This was my first year of junior high. We did not get recess or any form of break in junior high other than five minutes to get to the next class. I think they made sure the classes were as far from each other as possible to give us exercise in lieu of recess. one day I had a radio in my pocket with an earpiece in the ear farthest from the teacher, trying to pretend to concentrate on the lecture. But when another kid got caught and his radio confiscated til after the series, I put mine away at school and tune in on my bike heading home, half the game irretrievably gone. It was a cruel life.

1966 had been huge, too. I don't know that I ever loved the Dodgers as a team, but they had some great players in the 60s-- Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale, for instance. I recall games with these guys playing Roger Maris's team, the Yankees. Those were some cool games. Maris ended his career playing for my beloved Cards; I totally forgave him the years with the Damn Yankees for that. But I watched and listened to Dodgers games rooting for my heroes... even when rooting for the other team to win.

In the 60s, "damn" was not something decent people could say in public unless quoting Scriptures or as part of the proper name, "Damn Yankees". In the South, once could also say, "damn yankees" to refer to anyone from "up yonder" but my family didn't allow that. "Damn Yankees", however, was allowed almost anywhere. I don't recall ever hearing a pastor say it from a pulpit, but as a kid I was usually busy getting in trouble for drawing (holy) ghosts in my Bible or something.

The last game I remember really watching and caring about was September 29, 1973. I had met Lisa Pazol right after starting Georgia Tech; her family invited me to an Atlanta Braves game with them. I was probably the only person in our entire section rooting for the Houston Astros. I'd never really cared that much about them before, but I was desperately homesick for Texas. When Perez scored in the bottom of the fifth I knew it was over. Depressed, I said I needed to use the bathroom, but I really just wanted to go walk. And thus I missed the only hit I cared about the entire game- Hank Aaron's 713th home run, bringing him one short of tying the Babe. As soon as I hear the crowd go nuts, drowning out the PA speakers ten feet from my head, I knew. I nearly cried, I made it up the stairs into the stands just in time to see Baker's follow-up homer. It was years before I would forgive the Braves. Or the Astros, who had far more reason to be distraught that day than I.

Yeah, I was emo before it was a thing.

Global Confusion (with apologies to The Temptations)

Some wonderful friends recently moved to southern Alaska (hint: still farther north than almost anywhere). This week the weather there has been warmer than in much of the continental US. They also had no snow, whereas something like 50% of the continental US did. A Facebook discussion combined with the sorry state of research management, political finagling, and poor and confusing reporting, inspired this. If you haven't heard the Temptations song "Ball of Confusion", go youtube it now. I'll wait.

Back? OK, read on with my version for today.

 

People running out, people running in
Why? Because of the clothes on their skin
Sweat, freeze, fry but you can't decide
Don't know who's lyin or tellin me the truth
Vote for me and I'll set you free
Babble on, brother, babble on

Well, the only people talking real solutions ain't in power
And it seems nobody's interested in the truth but the flowers
Natural causes, carbon footprints, solar flares, automation
Correlation, determination, demonstration, disintegration
Aggravation, humiliation, obligation to my nation

Global confusion
Oh yeah, that's what the weather is today
Woo, hey, hey

The sale of votes is at an all time high
Leaders walking round with their heads in the sky
The cities blacked out in the summer time
And oh, the beat goes on

Evolution, revolution, price control, sell your soul
Shooting rockets to the moon, World economies grow too soon
Politicians say carbon taxes will solve everything
And the band played on

So, round and around and around we go
Where the world's headed, said nobody knows
Oh, great Googamooga
Can't you hear me talking to you?

Just a global confusion
Oh yeah, that's what the weather is today
Woo, hey, hey

Fear in the air, tension everywhere
Ocean level rising fast, racing to consume the gas
And it's not even safe to live on an Indian reservation
And the band played on

Eve of destruction, fracking deduction, pollution inspectors, solar collectors
Wind turbines in demand, population out of hand, Maldives, tornadoes
Hippies moving to the hills, people all over the world are shouting
'Climate change!?' and the band played on

Great Googamooga
Can't you hear me talking to you?

It's a global confusion
That's what the weather is today, hey, hey
Let me hear ya, let me hear ya, let me hear ya

Sayin' global confusion
That's what the weather is today, hey, hey
Let me hear ya, let me hear ya
Let me hear ya, let me hear ya, let me hear ya
Sayin' global confusion

Christmas Gifts for the Insanely Rich Guy Who Has Everything

Once upon a time I worked for one of the absolute top tier retail chains, the sort of chain that wouldn't let a sitting president or their spouse shop because they might actually have worked for a living at some point. I'm not going to name it, but in 1975 I believe the only place fancier was one known for having something in its Christmas Catalog for the Man Who Has Everything. Let's call that one Notoriously Monied.

So what might they sell for the Man Who Has Everything? All manner of things, as it turns out. Here are a few samples.

1. a seriously exclusive, custom car (1979);
2. a solid gold lighter (1985);
3. a rare pet (2001).

"Big deal," you say, and roll your eyes. Not so fast, dudo or duda. Read on before you step in it any deeper. FAQ

1. A car? Really?
   A car. Really. The car Enzo Ferrari always wanted to build but his accountants and lawyers screamed, "NO!" along with his wife, Laura. But after her 1978 death he decided to build something special for the NM Christmas Catalog and to heck with the lawyers and bean counters. The result was a car sporting a Merlin jet engine from a front line British fighter. The seat, like a Soviet space capsule crash couch, was molded to the owner's body before being hand covered in extra virgin unicorn hide. This wasn't just a fancy car; this was a fancy car that would leave the Batmobile a smoldering pile of slag at the starting line. Every driver in America wanted one, but a 1957 Ferrari Testa Rosa (the basis for the NM car's body style) was cheaper and easier to find. Ferrari made one per store. The Ferrari Ego sold out five minutes before it officially announced.
2. A solid gold lighter? Big deal.
   Big deal, indeed! Ten kilograms of 24 carat gold. Shaped like a sphinx, it could be used as a lighter, a welding or cutting torch (not that its owners cared), a flamethrower, or a hot air balloon engine. But wait! There's more! Hidden on the base was a button with a number (13) covered in a diamond crystal and set in a titanium bezel. It contained a (rare) 13th floor elevator button. Depressing it opened a portal and the owner (it was keyed to their soul) was whisked away to a dead man's party with Oingo Boingo. Most made it back. Few cared to repeat the experience. But it was theirs. This was possibly their most popular Everything item.
3. A pet? What kind of pet?
   Good, I see you have learned caution. Obviously not just any pet, but a rare pet of unknown origin. As in not of this planet and time. Seriously unknown as far as we are concerned. The instructions highly recommended not disabling the force field as violent death and further chaos and destruction might occur. While the cute 8" to 12" glowing lizard things looked harmless, it was alien enough no one disabled the force field. Sadly, this meant the creatures all died within a week but then the owners still had something rare; until then only federal governments had possessed dead space aliens. I just hope these were truly wild predators and not ambassadors from a technologically superior culture who would have helped us feed the planet, find peace, and cure the flu. Because who knows what they'd do now?

That took more time and words than expected, so you'll just have to wait to hear the tales of a hippie in a store too expensive to care about hip.

Ebola, My Love

As I look around at the current Ebola Hysteria, the media-whipped frenzy, the sheer volume of newsless news stories, the hordes of disinformation disseminators, I am confounded. By all that is modern American, why is no one cashing in on this?

Since nobody else has stepped up, I am. You should get in on the ground floor of this venture. No investment is too large, none too small. A dollar a share. Read on, and let your retirement fund drool!

First off, we need to rope in the kids. One of the first attractors is always a high sugar breakfast cereal. Introducing... Ebola[tm] breakfast cereal! The camera zooms in on a couple of terminally cute kids scarfing down their breakfast cereal, along with milk or a bright red energy drink. It zooms in further to a spoon coming out of a nearly emptied bowl. The spoon is full of milk, and three pieces of cereal- each in a (simplified) classic ebola virus shape.

The girl finishes just ahead of the boy as the camera pulls back.

In unison, they chant, "Mom! I want a bowl o' Ebola!"

Their Dad lowers his paper and looks at them.

"Please!" They call. Dad smiles, the paper goes back up, and Mom tells them to get it themselves; she's late for work.

As soon as the profits start rolling in, we hit the market with the dolls and action figures, just in time for the Holiday shopping insanity. Dolls? Dolls! Cute kids, bats, doctors and nurses, people in hazmat suits, angry American voters with pitchforks and torches, the works.

Ebola brand clothes for everyone from newborns to old folks; I predict the Ebola[tm] polo shirts will outsell Izod[tm] for at least a few months. Calvin Klein and Polo will be playing catch up.

We'll hold a contest; the winner gets a tour of the Presbyterian Dallas hospital's ebola ward,. complete with a custom biohazard suit in the colors of their choice, which they get to keep-- assuming their hometown lets them come back at all.

Last but not least, console and phone games. The flagship will be Ebola Wars, where everyone races to weaponize and deliver ebola to wipe out their enemies. Hydra would be proud.

This is American profiteering at its best. Don't get left behind!

The Great Presidential Campaign Massacree of 88

Composed in the Afternoon of Destruct... er, Election (1988-11-01)

Nowhere near my best, but I think it conveys the mood I was in facing such a nasty decision that day...

We wanted a tree so straight and strong
 To hold the sky up all day long
  Protect us from the heat of the day
   And keep the storms' destruction at bay
    But all we got was a scrawny bush.

We wanted a king to lead our land
 To hold at bay with outstretched hand
  The enemies coming to destroy
   Our world so fragile that we enjoy
    But all we got was a second-hand duke.

We wanted an eagle to fly so high
 We'd barely see him with our eye
  Our daily lives to so inspire
   That to these same heights we'd aspire
    But all we got was an unknown quail.

I wanted a metaphor as absurd
 As a tree, a duke, or a national bird
  But Bentsen to few things could compare
   Til one thing gave me quite a scare
    The last time we elected a hot dog Texan into the white
     house as VP to a Massachussets Miracle, we ended up deep
      sneakers in Vietnam!

And me a Texan-
 It is so vexin'...

Reproduced here exactly 26 years (OK, and a few hours) later than originally written. It would have been far more perfect in a presidential election year, but resurfaced as mid-terms are this Tuesday, the 4th.

Commando Fail, or How I Learned to Love the Shorts

Back in my hippie days- and for a while after- I went what is now known as commando style. We just called it "no undies", or "partial freedom". Total freedom would have been "no undies, no pants" but (a) I was free but not that free and (b) Atlanta at large was definitely not that free. Atlanta at large didn't want to know how free anyone was.

One fine, spring day I went to the doctor for a job-related injury- one totally unrelated to my freedom loving nether regions. The doctor decided I needed a penicillin shot. Do you know where penicillin shots go? Yup. Right in the nethers.

The young nurse giving me the shot was a little embarrassed, which made me feel the same as I leaned over the table with my butt hanging out for her and the world to see. An older nurse came in to talk with her as she gave the shot. They left to check on something. "Stay right there. We'll be right back."

I took them at their word and did just that, in part because they left the door open and there were worse things than showing my backside to whatever segment of Atlanta at large happened to stroll down the hallway. That segment happened be two elderly southern ladies. They kind of paused, their eyes got real big, then they started shuffling faster down the hallway. Great.

The nurses returned. "Are you OK?"

Having no reason to believe this question made any sense, I replied with a bit of sarcasm. "No, I think I'm dead."

The next thing I knew they had flipped me over on my back, were checking my heart and pulse, trying to look in my throat, asking if I can breathe, and generally making a scene. That was how I learned you can die from an allergic reaction to penicillin.

And it turns out that "Stay right there" actually meant "Pull your pants up and sit down". Who knew?

I stopped on my way home from work that afternoon to buy underwear.

The Munsters vs the Addams Family W4F Grudge Rematch

Back when the web was very younge, one of the better entertainment sites was the WWWF (World Wide Web Fights) Grudge match site. At least, if you were a fan of MAD Magazine style entertainment. Tom Stewart and I submitted a couple of entries, but we never got amy traction. Sadly, we lost the other[s] in an email catastrophe too painful to remember; only this one survives. I think Tom contributed to this one mainly via editorial help, but I'm not 100% sure.

---

This is the never-before released transcript of the World Wide Web Wrestling Foundation Grudge Rematch between the Munsters and the Addams Family.

Transcript Date: Tue, 28 Nov 1995 11:45 CST

---

Dawson, madly in lust with both Marilyn and Morticia, is too distracted to explain the rules properly. After botching them he attempts to correct himself but Gomez explains that a witnessed oral contract is legally binding. Dawson, sweating from hormones as well as the producer's voice yelling in his earphone, starts to argue but Lurch's grumble (which destroys two TV cameras in the aftershock) hushes him. The game begins with each pair of contestants answering both questions in a short time limit, and buzzers used only to startle Dawson out of his stupor when he stares too hard at the women and loses himself in fantasy.

1) Name something you find in your closet.
Morticia:	a rapidly-breeding nest of Pythagorean cobras
Lily:	Grandpa, hanging from the clothes rod
Dawson:	Round 1 to Morticia, since it's passably close to the number one audience answer - a nest of rapidly breeding clothes hangers.
2) Name something you eat for breakfast.
Fester:	a heaping bowl of chocolate-covered fried spiders!
Grandpa:	[staring at Fester's neck] a quart of A negative!
Dawson:	Round two to Fester since his answer is close enough to the average breakfast cereal as makes no difference.
[The Munsters look nervous, but continue smiling. Gomez pulls a ticker tape from his pocket and frowns.]
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar on hand]
3) What is that you're eating?
Marilyn:	a Mars Bar
Wednesday:	I'm not eating anything.
Dawson:	Sorry - that wasn't a game question.
Gomez:	Lurch?
Lurch:	Uuuuuuhhhhnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh....
Morticia:	Look out!
[set collapses. When dust clears, everyone bruised but OK.]
Dawson:	OK, OK, it was a game question! What is that you're eating?
Marilyn:	Nothing. I lost my candy bar in the earthquake.
Wednesday:	[grabbing Marilyn's arm] A Girl Scout Cookie. [bites arm]
Marilyn:	Aaaahhhhh!
Morticia:	Wednesday, darling, no snacking between meals.
Wednesday:	[primly] Yes, mother. [drops arm]
Marilyn:	[plonk]
Dawson:	[rushes to Marilyn's side, begins giving mouth to mouth while Eddie expertly bandages Marilyn's arm]
Herman:	[slams Mil-spec buzzer button on loan from USAF] You stop that!
Dawson:	[leaps backwards, hits head on remains of set, collapses]
[brief interlude while Director screams, "Is there a game show host in the house?" A slender, grinning blonde woman steps forward.]
Vanna:	Round 3 to Marilyn, as most of the audience skipped breakfast in the excitement of getting to be on TV.
[commercial break]
Vanna:	Gomez may interpret for Cousin Itt in the next round.
Gomez:	Thank you, my dear. [kisses hand]
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised]Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar on forehead]
4) What is your favorite vowel?
Eddie:	F. I have a radio-controlled F-15 at home. Grandpa and I are building a life-size version next with real nuclear warhead-tipped missles!
Itt:	[typical, lovable Itt sounds]
Gomez:	That's amazing! Cousin Itt has one, too, and he and Puggsley are working on the same thing in one of our basements!
Vanna:	I need a vowel.
Itt:	[typical cute Itt noises]
Gomez:	Are you sure?
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar in ear]
Itt:	[typical cute Itt noises]
Gomez:	That's astounding! His favorite letter is also F!
Vanna:	Round 4 is a tie.
[Dawson wakes up, sees Marilyn and Morticia bending over him. Thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Grandpa walks over, looks thoughtful.]
Grandpa:	He looks a little puffy. I think a little blood-letting is in order.
Morticia:	That's just what he does need, dear.
[Morticia lifts an arm, Grandpa grins wolfishly, Marilyn pulls Girl Scout Machete out from under neck of sweater. Dawson faints again. Sounds of camera man retching, camera drifts off to point at ceiling.]
Vanna:	Looks like the Munsters need a win to tie, and a loss gives the whole alphabet to the Addams Family.
[Herman nervously grabs nearest pieces of set, begins twisting them unconsciously, creating sawdust pile at feet.]
5) Describe your favorite fantasy.
Herman:	A huh huh HUH HAH HAH HAH!!! [Blushes, begins twisting debris more furiously as ceiling crumbles and camera wavers.]
Gomez:	It's a perfect day. Stormy. Cold. A perfect beach - littered with fish parts, dead Portuguese Men-o-War, World War II mines... [Hands move dramatically. Gomez begins pacing, smoking furiously.] It's Christmas eve. [Band begins playing.] "Morti...cia roasting on an open fire... Sharks ... are nibbling my toes... War breaks out...in the Falklands again..."
Director:	Enough! And get rid of that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [tosses cigar away]
Herman:	[turning a bizarre shade of reddish-green] I don't think I want to say. [sulks]
Vanna:	Then the Addams Family wins.
Lily:	Oh, go ahead, Herman.
Herman:	Are you sure, dear?
Lily:	Of course!
Herman:	[beginning to glow like a pile of Uranium gone critical] Well, it involves Vanna and Morticia, and a huge vat of...
Lily:	<gasp>
Herman:	of... [entire set has been reduced to huge pile of sawdust now waist-high on Herman. whose hands flap helplessly like huge industrial shredders (or maybe penguin wings)] of... cannibals!
Vanna:	Round 5 is awarded to Herman, as this exactly matches the responses of our mostly male audience. [Vanna White turns a deep shade of red, then flees, shrieking, with male audience chasing her, female audience evenly divided between angrily chasing the male audience and fighting Marilyn, Grandpa and Morticia for Richard Dawson.]
[Pat Sajak saunters on stage, grinning hugely. The glare of lights on his teeth sets various things on stage smouldering, including Gomez's discarded cigar.]
Pat:	Well, we need a tie-breaker. Let's have Thing and Spot up here. We'll ask a question, and whoever has an answer first hits the buzzer. Ready?
!) Name the most common disease in your family.
[Thing hits the buzzer. The set is quiet. Thing frantically begins hopping up and down.]
Pat:	We're waiting!
[Thing begins a pantomine.]
Gomez:	Many syllables - first word - sounds like... Paleontology? Pterodactyl? Peritonital? Pepto-Bismol(tm)?
Pat:	Sorry, time's up! Spot?
[Spot turns to a still dancing Thing, sneezes. Thing is enveloped in flame. Morticia screams. Seconds later, the flames die, and a skeletal hand appears, still hopping frantically. Gomez' cigar has started a fire in the sawdust at Herman's feet.]
Gomez:	Pascagoola? Portulacca? Pismo Beach? ...
Herman:	Aaaaahhhhh!!! [hops up and down,. scattering flaming sawdust. The studio shakes each time he lands.]
Pat:	And the studio answer? Bad breath! Spot was right! The Munsters win!
[Lurch growls. Herman starts laughing hysterically, still hopping. The combination proves to be too much for poor, old San Andreas. California rumbles into the Pacific, never to be seen again. Months later, however, divers off the new Arizona coast report strange, low-frequency rumbling and laughing noises underwater.]

 

Copyright 1995, 1997 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX and Triple R Publishing 2014, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.

If I Had a Pocket Lawnchair

For Mark Heard & Bruce Cockburn

The OOGling Anthem

by Miles O'Neal

This is all the fault of Gregory Simmons & Kyle Cheek from the notorious ``Orphans of God'' mailing list...

    here comes the riding mower -- second time today
    all the fescue seed scatters - it'll never go away
    why we don't just concrete over it, only God can say
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i'd wait for the bus all day

    i don't believe in regulated networks, or care about commerce interstate
    i don't believe in telcos and their exhorbitant data line rates
    and when i talk with the survivors of things too sickening to relate
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i'd leave them to their fate

    in the AOL chatrooms one hundred thousand wait
    to fall from speed starvation -- or some less humane fate.
    cry for busy modems, with all trunks busy, wait
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i would just stagnate

    i want to meet Victoria -- at least i've got to try.
    i haven't met Bob or JenMuse, it brings tears to my eye.
    or Mark or Ti or gingerine, and i can't afford to fly
    without a pocket lawnchair...i'll just curl up and die

    19 Aug 1996
    Miles O'Neal

If you're wondering why the ``Orphans of God''- a mailing list revolving around the music of Mark Heard- has as its anthem a parody of a song by another artist, you didn't know Mark very well.

Strike One!

haiku factory strike
replacements still train, old writers
are pick[et]ing at scabs

Put the Lime in the Coconut, Verbena

Most of you will be familiar with Harry Nilsson's song, "Put the Lime in the Coconut", a song that has long perplexed historians. This week I found a new clue thanks to Body & Bath Works, but I'm not sure it didn't obfuscate things even more. BB&W has a soap named "Lime Coconut Verbena". Clearly this is a cleverly coded reference to Harry's Enigma, as serious historians are wont to call the song.

But who or what is Verbena? Several possibilities come to mind.

• Verbena is the girl Harry^[1] wrote the song about. Harry is simply telling a story of something he saw in the islands while living there for tax purposes.
• Verbena is a former lover who drove Harry to drugs. The lyrics make a lot more sense if seen as a product of hallucinogens.
• BB&W has discovered that- as Elton John had Bernie Taupin- Nilsson had a collaborator named Verbena. This begs the question why Harry never wore big glasses^[3], clearly the secret of Elton's success. It also prompts us to wonder at Verbena's first name. My guess is Coconut, certainly a name one might wish to eliminate. Or perhaps her entire name is Lime Coconut Verbena.
• Verbena^[4] is the missing ingredient in a drink many made in hopes it would induce the same sort of hallucinogenic ecstasy that clearly brought about the lyrics of this song.

Some of you may feel I have played fast and loose with what is and isn't known about this song and its creator, but I promise I have used the same rigorous fact checking techniques Congress uses when passing laws and budgets. Assuming you can remember back when Congress actually passed budgets.

Come to think of it, if Verbena was a subtle reference to Congress rather than a woman, suggestion 2 above seems even more likely.

 

NOTES
1 Nilsson, not Potter.^[2]
2 There are no known recordings of Harry Potter singing this song.
3 Clearly Nilsson, as Potter had big glasses.
4 The flower, not the well known woman mentioned above.

All I want for Christmas is to not be a hula girl

Several (or perhaps a couple of several) years ago, we had a party at Church. I don't recall for sure; was probably New Years Eve. Possibly 2000.

At any rate, a young Courtney Calkins (age 7 or 8?) wanted to sing during the "talent show" part of the festivities, but was feeling sort of shy. Someone- possibly her mom, Camil- came up with the bright idea that if some the men in her life danced behind her, it would help. In grass skirts. And maybe coconut bras (I don't recall that part for sure). More likely the whole thing was a plot to trick us softies into dancing like hula girls. If so, we fell for it hook like, and sinker.

Court's uncle Mario, her (adoptive) uncle Miles, George Castillo, and Darrell Childers all donned our costumes and made up hula-like moves (we hoped) behind her on stage, framed by tiny Christmas lights, while Courtney sang, "All I want for Christmas is a hippopotamus".

The stage was crowded; we bumped into one another (sometimes in ways probably not appropriate for church, but there was no *intentional* groping or doing the bump). Near the end of the song, my skirt caught on a nail holding the lights, and ripped off.

Most of the applause was for Courtney, but I think the skirt got some, too.

 

(Yes, I was wearing pants beneath the skirt. This is Texas, not Hawaii.)

Interview with Tony Stark

Special interview by Anonymous

The billboards on I35 led me exactly where I wanted to go:

STARK WAREHOUSE SALE

I hadn't even realized Stark Industries had a presence in Austin, but there it was. With more security than the President of the United States and Jennifer Lawrence combined.

The building was chock full of slightly outdated Stark tech: older arc reactors (palladium is so passe, regardless of the output); Jericho missile prototypes; souped up exotic cars and planes needing repairs; propulsion systems; miniature rocket launchers; body armor; the list goes on.

I had, of course, gone incognito. Like half the people there I was in an Iron Man costume, with large quantities of laundered cash on my person. One doesn't really like to attract SHIELD's attention.

Imagine my surprise when I tapped a salesman on the shoulder to ask a question, only to find myself face to face with the man himself, Tony Stark!

"Mr. Stark! It's you!. I mean, I didn't expect to find you here..."

"I didn't, either."

"I don't mean to gush, but I'm probably your biggest fan."

"Nope. Not even close. I am. Now, what can I do for you?"

"But why are you here?"

"We get all sorts of people in here. Half of them are dumber than a Hammer. I want to make sure people know exactly what they're buying. Pepper says it plays hell with stock prices when someone lights up their new "arc reactor" but it turns out to be a personal neutron bomb killing everyone in a three block radius. Or, conversely, they light off a Jericho prototype to stave off invasion by hundreds of feral hogs, but it's a chemical agent dispenser full of pig pheromones.

"Not only do those sorts of things cost us millions, but I end up testifying before Congress, and if there's one thing I hate more than people taking my stuff, it's wasting time before that pompous, self-inflated windbag who heads the Crucify Tony Stark Committee.

"Now, were you going to buy something?"

At this point the discussion got technical. I don't think I want to say just what I bought, but let's just say that if it could grow up it would expect to be an Insight hellicarrier. But don't worry, because the targeting system only goes after really bad musicians. I asked Tony what his definition of "really bad" was in this context.

"If Obadiah Stane liked the music, it needs to go. At this point, the only bands I'm 100% sure are safe are Black Sabbath, AC/DC, and probably U2."

"What about the Rolling Stones?"

"Have you heard them lately? Lame-o. I think they're probably a big influence on Miley Cyrus."

Gotcha. Nuff said.

OK, SHIELD. Try and track this!

Poll Taxing

I have been registered for years to be involved in online surveys with a well known, top tier survey company. The parent company is best known for TV ratings. In general, their online polls are very professionally done. But occasionally they work as a vehicle for an outside agency (with all sorts of disclaimers to this effect, for reasons that will become apparent). Tonight I was rejected by not one, but two, of these outside pollsters for reasons unknown, but related to personal data (age, income, type of work, age of cars, etc.)

The silliest question I have seen in a while follows. Note the range of answers and then explain the last two. I suppose either of those could include "I don't know" which is technically a legitimate answer, but it seems unlikely there would be enough of those to matter.

Which of the following pets are present in your household?
Please select all that apply
    Cat(s)
    Dog(s)
    Bird(s)
    Fish
    Amphibians (frogs, toads, etc.)
    Small animals or rodents (hamsters, mice, rabbits, ferrets, etc.)
    Reptiles (turtles, snakes, lizards, etc.)
    Horse(s)
    I do not have any pets
    Other
    None of the above

And why did they ask my age right after asking my birthday? It's the internet. I bet if you're clever, you can find today's date and compute my age.[1]

But the best, the very best part of it all, was the text that I could neither copy and paste nor get a screen shot of[2] because they disabled such shenanigans. This survey led off with a set of statements to the effect that I could not discuss anything from the survey with anyone, especially online in any shape or fashion. Neither could my family. It then claimed to be a legally binding contract. I forget the penalty, but the whole effect was highly entertaining, although someone who didn't know better would probably feel Extremely and Properly Warned. Sadly, I did not qualify for their survey so all I can illegally discuss here is their "legally binding contract" and that I Did Not Qualify. But I have high hopes that those two offenses will get Alcatraz to re-open. I could be the Bird Man for a while.

They spelled everything correctly (bonus points for correct use of "your", along with "ferrets" and "lizards") and they put a period on the end of "etc." This puts them ahead of at least 20% of everything posted to the internet.

NOTES
[1] If not, you just may be in the wrong business.
[2] At least on that window; I didn't think to get an entire screen shot and cut that part out.

Zombie Ball

I lost interest in sports years ago, especially pro sports. I still enjoy a game if I know someone playing; this generally restricts me to high school and younger teams.

When our kids decided they wanted to play, I got interested in their sports. I went to all their home games and whatever away games I could make. The first year both Esther and Josiah played basketball I decided to give pro ball a chance again as well. I didn't even recognize what I saw. The uniforms were huge and baggy and silly looking, but the biggest problem was the play.

Or lack thereof. Both teams plodded back and forth, individuals taking turns showing off like a bunch of junior high kids who'd all just moved to the neighborhood, wanting attention but not really caring that much about the game or teamwork.

I couldn't tell you what was going on in their heads, but I can tell you what it looked like from my vantage point.

"I have arrived! I am the star. I don't have to break a sweat unless I want to. I'm the coolest dude around, and cool dudes don't have to sweat. All these cats out there paid to see me so I'll mosey around. occasionally make a break, and then show off my trick shot. I don't make as many as I used to, but so what? I'm cool and stuff."

And then, perhaps because he was busy imagining he was admiring himself in a mirror or on a giant screen TV (since the league allowed neither on the court), he'd accidentally commit a foul-- perhaps tripping, kneeing, pantsing, or scuffing an opponent's hair. The latter usually resulted in a full brawl between the teams, although nobody ever got hurt and the coaches' starched shirts and ties never even looked ruffled.

College ball, on the other hand, was very good. Collegiate players showed a passion the high school teams understood but the pros had forgotten. They were, of course, much better than the high school teams. I'm not sure that was the case with most of the pros. I once sat bemused in Mr Gatti's, watching two teams of million dollar babies mope up and down the court for foul shots at least a dozen times in a row without more than a couple of seconds of play between each set of fouls. I really think Josiah's team could have beat either of them. Esther's team, despite a severe height disadvantage, could have beat them.

I haven't watched much in the way of basketball since our kids finished at Hilltop, but the few moments of pro ball I've noticed lately suggests that either someone lit a fire under those guys or those college players graduated and took over the pros. Either way, the recent games looked like pro ball again.

But everything I see on social media about this year's college brackets suggests the college teams have caught whatever disease the pros had a decade ago. I hope someone comes up with a vaccine soon, and offers it to the high schoolers before they catch it. Zombies and basketball just don't mix.

On Ice in Norcross

In January and February of 1985, the Atlanta area experienced an infrequent serious cold spell. One day the official temperature at the airport was -8F. It was -10F in the boonies up north where I lived (outside Marietta) and worked (outside Norcross).

After more than two weeks of temperatures averaging below freezing, the pond by work was frozen to a depth of at least a foot. Kevin and John, both from Ohio, proclaimed it frozen enough to walk on. Kevin was amazed to learn the reason two of us kept asking was that we wanted to go play on the ice. "What's the big deal?" he asked several times.

The big deal, of course. was that we had grown up in the south, and neither of us had ever seen a body of water frozen enough to walk on. And so we did. We walked, we slid, we tried to run, we whooped, we hollered. Kevin and John watched for a minute, then headed back inside, laughing at us.

A couple of guys built like college football linemen wandered to the edge of the pond ten yards away from us. They looked back and forth at the ice and us. Finally one yelled, "Is it safe?"

"Sure. Just take it easy!"

Whereas we stayed within ten feet or so of the shore, they went straight to the middle of the pond, and proceeded to cut up like little kids. One of them fell. "CRRRAAAACCCKKKK!" Said the ice. We heard and watched the crack race away from the fallen man toward the edges, in two directions. Suddenly there were two pieces of ice on the pond, not one. It got very quiet. We all froze, so to speak.

The guy who fell started trying to get up. We were thirty feet away, near shore, and we could feel the ice move. We heard grinding and cracking. "Don't get up!" we yelled. "Just pull him gently and slowly to shore, away from the crack!"

They looked at each other. Slowly the guy on the ground raised an arm; his friend carefully (and slowly) hauled him to land. It worked just fine. How did two southern boys (and me a desert rat) know what to do? I don't know. It may be because we were voracious readers, or perhaps just because we were geeks, engineers, problem solvers at heart. But nobody had to be drug, shivering from hypothermia, out of the water, so it was a good day.

After that, we stuck to what we'd been doing before, racing our RC cars on the ice. We stayed on shore. Within a week or two, the ice age was over.

I had to wear a suit at JHK (long since bought by another company); the photo is of me, barefoot, in tie but sans coat, on the ice. Our camera didn't do a lot of zooming. This was as zoomed in as Kevin could get.

(I was thinking about rotating this photo 90 degrees, but was afraid I would fall. It's hard enough staying up on ice barefoot when the ice is horizontal.)