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The building was chock full of slightly outdated Stark tech: older arc reactors (palladium is so passe, regardless of the output); Jericho missile prototypes; souped up exotic cars and planes needing repairs;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.)

Mamas, Don't Let Your Young Babies Grow Up To Be Dragons

Thanks to Andy Whitman and Cindy Collins for inspiring this!

I met Smaug's parents once just outside Düsseldorf. They were pretty embarrassed about their son. In his Mom's words (recorded on a Grundig reel to reel tape recorder) "We taught that boy better. So destructive, but of course our home was blown up in the war, you know, we barely got all the gold out, and then we had to roast the Nazis because they wanted to take it. About the only thing that dragon got right was his name; he never said 'Smog' even though it was all the rage. And he could make such a nice fire, if only he hadn't run around roasting everyone like some sort of flying volcano. Here, would you like some more Schnapps?"

Of course what she really said was,

"Wir brachten den Jungen besser. So destruktiv, aber natürlich wurde unser Haus in den Krieg geblasen, wissen Sie, wir kaum stand das Gold aus, und dann mussten wir die Nazis zu braten, weil sie wollte, es zu nehmen. Über die einzige, was die Drachen bekam Recht war sein Name, er sagte nie 'Smog', obwohl es der letzte Schrei Und er konnte so ein schönes Feuer zu machen, wenn nur er nicht herumlaufen Rösten jeder wie eine Art fliegende Vulkan.. Hier, möchten Sie noch mehr Schnaps?"

I hope Google translated it into English properly.

With Two You Get Tachycardia

At one point in my software career I was responsible for developing, maintaining, and supporting a certain piece of software[1]. At this point I happened to sit between the marketing and marcomm folks at work. A vendor brought each of those departments (one and two people respectively) a gift basket.

The free coffee at this particular job was pretty bad. Coffee shops were nowhere near as ubiquitous as they are today. I rode a motorcycle to work so a travel mug wouldn't work. The only thermos I trusted to survive on a bike cost over $100, so most days I made do with the caffeinated nastiness they called coffee. Working 60-70 hours a week and working with youth evenings and weekends, I needed the caffeine.

Remember those gift baskets? Included in each was a quart of chocolate covered espresso beans. Since none of the recipients cared for those, they ended up on my desk. around noon I could have kissed my co-workers; they were speaking my love languages-- chocolate and espresso!

These were really good chocolate covered espresso beans. They were practically magical beans, delicious and potent. I'd munch a couple, work on code or documentation, munch a couple, support a customer, munch a couple...

Matthew, Pam, and Angela began to laugh as I typed faster and talked faster to customers. It got to the point I asked what they were laughing about. "You can't type that fast!"

"Huh!" I thought. "Not before now, anyway."

About two o'clock they all came to my cube. "Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm working! What are you doing? What are you staring at?" I looked down. My hands were off the keyboard, but my fingers were still going a mile a minute, practically a blur. On the desktop.

"Stop that!" I told my fingers. I don't think they even knew I had spoken. I moved my hands off the desk, but found that as I talked they kept moving. I thought if speed freaks I'd known in college, and said so. I spoke too quickly, with far more words than necessary and plenty of stuttering.

Pam started. "Did you eat two whole cans in two hours???" She picked up an empty chocolate covered espresso bean can.

Matthew picked up the other one. "He ate half this one. I'm going to put it in my desk until tomorrow."

"That's probably a good idea," I said. Or thought, anyway. The way it came out was, "Hey! No! Gimme those!"

Pam and Angela blocked the way as Matthew carried the rest of the food of the gods off. Relieved and infuriated, I growled a thanks, sat back down, and returned to thrashing my poor keyboard.

I'd calmed down enough by 6PM they let me ride my motorcycle to dinner.

They were gone when I got back from eating. I was proud of my self control; I had no more magical beans that night.

Mainly because Matthew locked his desk.

 

Notes
1. Its name was Co-Xist, which is utterly irrelevant to the story so why are you reading this?