Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Determining the Value of Pi

"Take a Break from Blogging Week" continues — but I do want to share the following, which was sent to my by a friend of mine who is a professor at a prestigious East Coast university.

I have taught thousands of students all levels of mathematics in my life. But, until today, I never realized how rewarding it can be to influence the youth of America. Something happened in class today that I felt I should share with all of you.

A student was taking a test in my class today. She was obviously struggling to get through it. As she was turning in the test I mentioned the merits of doing the homework, getting tutoring, etc — hoping that she might turn over a new leaf and become a motivated student.

Instead she said: “I don’t care how I did on the test. I’m not coming back to school. I am going to move to Florida and become a stripper. I don’t have the brains to do anything else.”

Tag

"It's like someone crapped a rainbow in your brain!"

I was reading through the nominees for this year's Bloggie awards. Most of the awards go to categories for which I'll never come close to competing. "Best political blog." "Best design." "Most humorous."

Nope, until they start handing out awards for "Most mundane" or the like, I have no chance of collecting the gold. Except....

There is one category in which I could conceivably compete. "Best tag line." I really liked the nominees — in particular, I like Mighty Girl's "Enjoyed by Dozens." It'd be an apt tag line for the blog o' love, if only Mighty Girl hadn't thought of it first. And, of course, if I could get to the point where my readership numbers in the dozens. And, of course, those dozens would have to enjoy it.

I'd love to use the line up there at the top: "It's like someone crapped a rainbow in your brain," but unfortunately that's from Futurama. Obviously I'm not doing too well here, so I'm turning to you, the Blog O' Lovers. Send me some suggestions for tag lines. Seriously. HELP! Just think for a moment about the recurring themes here, the tone, the utter lack of substance — add it all up, and come up with a magical line that sums up what the Blog O' Love experience is all about. I absolutely guarantee that you will NOT hurt my feelings.

Bloggage will likely be a little light this week. I'm finally putting some work into the photo galleries that I've been promising for over a year. With any luck, the Fifth-Forbes gallery will launch next week, and will be updated once a week (in lieu of bloggage.) Then, and only then, I'll turn my attention to the project I've been rolling around in my head for months — Bob's Record Corner, which actually will be sort of blog-like in some respects. Basically, I'll be reconstructing my life through my record collection, from Abba to Zevon.

I may post a wee bit o' bloggage this week, and possibly some new Adam photos, so do come on in. But chances are it'll be pretty thin until next week. I need to recharge the ol' bloggin' batteries a bit. The entries have been pretty lame lately...

The Sound of (Bad) Music

While I'm certain that I already command a great deal of respect from one and all, this bit of information will most likely raise our stature even higher in your eyes: Julie and I are now the proud owners of a salad spinner.
Yes, we are truly living the dream.

Julie informed me today that she was heading out at lunch to purchase said spinner, and she asked me if there was anything else I wanted. Instead of doing work, I replied with the following — which she then suggested I should put on the blog. So now, for your enjoyment and since I have nothing else, I present (to the tune of "My Favorite Things):

Cameras and woofers
and blowers that blow snow.

Laptops with wireless
and modems that aren't slow.

Bright plasma wide-screens
showing Lord of the Rings....

These are a few of my most wanted things...

Bucco and Penguin
and PSU tickets.

A snappy new Web design
so more folks will click it.

New downstairs back porch
with hammocky slings...

These are just some of my most wanted things....

When the dogs stink
When the house cracks
When I'm feeling sad.....

I simply postpone buying my most wanted things
and then I realize -- I AM MY DAD.

-----

Ok, so it ain't "Stairway to Heaven" — whadda ya want for about 2 minutes of work?

Pulp Factions

While we certainly led remarkably similar childhoods, there's one aesthetic where Mr. Kelly and I part ways. I was a dyed-in-the-wool Marvel Comics afficionado, while Joe — Joe was a D.C. man.
Actually, my earliest comics purchases were neither Marvel nor D.C. I spent a year or so in the clutches of Archie and Jughead and their cohorts, until I grew frustrated with what I now would call a "lack of continuity." Back then, I would've just pointed out that these idiots never learned a darn thing from issue to issue. No matter how many times Archie came to realize that Betty was the superior girlfriend, by next issue he was always back to pining for Veronica.

But by July of 1974, I was fully caught up in Marveldom. In fact, I can just about pinpoint my first Marvel comic purchase. On the way to Florida, in the lobby of a Best Western in South Point, South Carolina. Fantastic Four #149. The FF vs. Sub-Mariner — and this time, it was personal.

Really, it WAS personal. Sub-Mariner had finally convinced Sue Richards, aka The Invisible Girl, aka Mrs. Reed Richards, to leave her stick-in-the-mud-yet-stretchy husband, Mr. Fantastic. By issues end, Sub-Mariner is set to attack New York with his army of fishy beasties, and Mr. Fantastic is in the middle of a Fantastic nervous breakdown. There is no way to substantiate that the source of the marital issues was that, according to the Invisible Girl, Mr. Fantastic had become Mr. Not-Quite-So-Satisfactory.

Anway, I ate it up. I probably re-read the thing nearly as many times as I listened to my first album purchase, which ALSO was "fantastic" -- Elton John's "Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy."

Through the years, I would become quite the Marvel zombie. During the early days of my comic collecting (roughly from fifth through seventh grades, or 1973 through 1976), the FF remained at the top of my list. I also didn't miss an issue of Spiderman, Daredevil, Captain America, and The Avengers. I dabbled with some of Marvel's other titles, too, most of which were pretty bad.

At some point, I did delve into the D.C. canon. My first and last issue of Superman featured two stories — one, a typical hero vs. villain tale. The second story was what convinced me that D.C. wasn't for me: it featured a guest appearance by none other than.....Mason Reese.

You youngsters won't remember Mason. He was a pudgy little redheaded brat with a perpetually stuffy nose who starred in an Underwood Deviled Ham commercial. One of those child stars who make a blip in the public consciousness and then disappear for twenty years, until nostalgia and their subsequent mental and drug issues catch up to them and lead to a brief mention in the Enquirer.

Anyway, ol' Mason Reese's appearance convinced me that I was missing nothing by not reading D.C. — a stance I held until many years later, when a friend convinced me to sample the new Green Arrow series, which I dug quite a bit. By this time, it was the late 80's, and I was in my second phase of comicdom.

This time around, I still went for the Fantastic Four out of nostalgia, but my main interest was in the mutant lines. X-Men, of course, but also the spin-off New Mutants, Xcaliber, and a handful of others. Eventually, X-Men went from monthly to bi-weekly, the mutant titles exploded into about a thousand different offshoots, and the quality dipped to the point where I bailed out of comicdom for the second time. And this time, it was pretty much for good — with the exception of a couple of graphic novels here and there, like Watchmen, which I've recommended before and will recommend here once again. It's an outstanding tale.

Hail to the Chiefs

I made a serious mistake last week when I stated that loading the dishwasher was my only talent. While it's certainly my most USEFUL talent, I overlooked a particular ability that's been with me since I was five years old.
And today, President's Day, seems like the appropriate time for me to trot out the following (which I SWEAR is from memory):

George Washington | John Adams | Thomas Jefferson | James Madison | James Monroe | John Quincy Adams | Andrew Jackson | Martin van Buren | William Henry Harrison | John Tyler | James K. Polk | Zachary Taylor | Millard Fillmore | Franklin Pearce | James Buchanon | Abraham Lincoln | Andrew Johnson | Ulysses S. Grant | Rutherford B. Hayes | James A. Garfield | Chester A. Arthur | Grover Cleveland | Benjamin Harrison | William McKinley | Theodore Roosevelt | William Howard Taft | Woodrow Wilson | Warren G. Harding | Calvin Coolidge | Herbert Hoover | Franklin D. Roosevelt | Harry S. Truman | Dwight D. Eisehnhower | John F. Kennedy | Lyndon B. Johnson | Richard M. Nixon | Gerald R. Ford | Jimmy Carter | Ronald Reagan | George H.W. Bush | William J. Clinton | Al Gore

Yes, yours truly did in fact memorize the presidents during the summer between kindergarten and first grade. The family had been to D.C. that summer, and in a rare burst of Braughler extravagence, we splurged for a book about the presidents at the White House gift shop. (At least I think that's where we got it. You'd think someone who could memorize the presidents would have a better grasp of detail...)

Anyway, for some reason I ate that book up. I got to the point where my parents would hold up one of the portraits from the book, and I would spit out the name. Eventually, somebody said, "I'll bet he could name them in order." And I did. It wowed them at parties.

Actually, no. No wowing.

Although the story goes that I pretty much floored my first grade teacher when I announced that I could do it, and then followed through. It was to be my last instance of impressing ANYBODY during what went on to be a mediocre, yet lengthy, academic career.

What's Black and White and Stinks All Over?

I've found a pop culture figure who I dislike as much as I dislike Jack Black.
And that person is — Jack White.

Together, these monochromatic no-talent assclowns represent everything that's wrong with society. And I don't like them. In their honor, I present the following, to the old Three Dog Night song "Black and White." Which is only appropriate, Three Dog Night being no-talent assclowns from three decades ago.

I hate Jack Black.
I hate Jack White.
Together they...

Aww, to hell with it. Back Monday.

Eleanor of Accutane

By my junior year of high school, the acne that had plagued me since junior high had become severe enough to warrant a monthly trip to the dermatologist — or, as I like to call her, the zit doctor.
Seventh through 11th grade were not a pretty time for yours truly. Braces, a veritable Valdez of oil in my hair, and a case o' zits that went from bad to worse. By 11th grade, I was on tetracycline, Retin-A, prescription-strength oxy-something-or-other, and a handful of other unquents and tinctures that may or may not have had some effect on my ever-worsening skin.

There was, however, one bright spot — one of those face creams had an interesting bleaching effect on my hair. A little bit of it would sneak onto my temples each night, leaving me with delightful golden flecks that would've been a hit with the ladies, had any of the ladies been interested. Which they weren't. At least not until senior year, when business picked up a bit.

In my sophomore year in college, things went from bad to worse. The zittage, which previously had been confined primarily to my face, began to spread down my back. Worse, I developed some pretty heavy cysts around the temples. The doctor felt that without drastic measures, I was in for some serious scarring. (And actually, there IS a bit of scarring on my temples, if you look closely enough.)

So the doc decided to put me on a recently-unveiled medication, one that she refers to as "the cure" for acne.

Its name? Accutane.

I bring this up because of this article, from the Tuesday P-G. Turns out, accutane is some pretty heavy stuff, and 20 years down the line, they're STILL not sure what all it does.

I can say this, though — it cleared them zits right up. Boy howdy, did it ever.

About one week after beginning the medication, I noticed a tightness in my lips, along with some serious chapping. Within a few weeks, that "tightness" had progressed to a permanent pucker. It was weird, but I kid you not — for the three months of the treatment, I walked around with a permanent "O" on my kisser. Weird, wild stuff. A buddy of mine who went through accutane a year or so later reported the same phenomenon.

Accutane also causes dryness in the mucous membranes. The inside of my nose cracked and bled for three months. Also, since they didn't (and still don't, apparently) know all of the effects of the drug, I went for weekly blood tests.

At least, I think it was weekly. I remember going to PSU's Ritenour Health Center a lot during this time. I ended up being something of a legend at Ritenour — between my freshman year macing (a story for another day, to be sure), the sliced-off tip of my thumb earned while working in the cafeteria dishroom, these blood draws, and the junior year guillain-barre episode, I gave the Ritenour folks a lot of breaks from the usual flu, mono, and herpes routine.

Anyway, to make a long and pointless story short, the accutane worked. The acne pretty much cleared up after that, although I still get the occasional zit — like everyone else, I suppose. As for the side effects still to come, well, your guess is as good as mine.

Baby Update, With Bonus Info On My Compulsive Behavior

Adam has entered a new phase, and it's one I'm sure that the parents among you remember with great disdain.

Specifically, we're now at the "let's drop everything on the floor, over and over again" phase. It could be an endless cycle if we let it — give kid object, kid throws object on floor, pick up object, hand to kid, kid throws object on floor....

I assume that most kids do this — although we do think that maybe his recent fascination with the dogs may have something to do with it. Is he dropping stuff purely to see the dogs scurry towards him? It's a possibility, I suppose. It's very likely that this is just the beginning of a baby/dog alliance that will soon see the immediate disposal of all unwanted foods into the waiting maws of our slobbering idiot hounds.

Also on the eating front, Adam is finally getting a couple of choppers. They're coming in on the top, which I'm told is sort of unusual. Ah well, he's an unusual kid.

I suppose that everybody has one thing at which they're the absolute best. In my case, I feel fully confident that my abilities in one certain area are unsurpassed — and that one area can best be described as "dishwasher logistics."

Yes, dear friends, yours truly is, without question, the single best dishwasher loader on the planet. Every four or five days I amaze myself with my ability to not only cram more stuff into the dishwasher, but also to cram it in such a way that every dish gets clean, every tine on every fork is spotless, and every plastic souvenier cup from every beer I've ever drunk at a Pirate game is as sterile as the Pirate offense itself.

I've developed a pretty advanced system for dish placement. Beige bowl in lower right corner, positioned so that the four beige bread plates slide snugly into the empty bowl space. Four black plates in the front rows of the plate area, followed by the two flowery plastic plates, and then the four beige plates. Not only does my system allow for maximum dish crammage, it also means that clean dish removal and storage is as efficient as possible. Since all of the plates are grouped together, you can just grab them in order and place on the shelves. No messy re-shuffling!

Someday I'll tell you about my sock drawer.

Paging Mr. Fonebone

An obit ran recently for a long-time Mad Magazine artist. He wasn't one of the "usual gang of idiots" whose name I recognized instantly (like Don Martin, Dave Berg or Sergio Arogenes), but when I did a quick Web search and found some of his work, I recognized it instantly.
I can spot a Mad artist a mile away. An ex-girlfriend once gave me a cd from Adrian Belew's late-80's band The Bears. It took me about one second of looking at the cover to say "Mort Drucker." And sure enough, ol' Mort did the cover illustration.

I imagine that a good percentage of guys my age are in the same boat. Mad played a huge role in forming my opinions and attitudes during the all-important fifth-grade through early-teen years. It was a healthy dose of cynicism and satire delivered every month to an audience that was just beginning to enter the age when opinion and identity start to veer off of the parentally-approved path.

An editor of National Lampoon once described his magazine as "a great magazine for guys with zits."And it was — I worshipped at the NatLamp altar from High School through college. (A few friends of mine and I can quote the "O.C. and Stiggs" issue verbatim. And we do, whenever possible.) But if NatLamp was a great mag for the zitfaces, then Mad was custom-made for the just-got-my-pubes crowd. Mad was "The Hobbit" to National Lampoon's "Lord of the Rings."

Through Mad, we got to learn all those great Yiddish terms like "furshlugginer" and "putz." My guess is that my Mad collection only spanned about three or four years, but the effects lasted much longer. I'm not even sure if they still publish, but I imagine they do. I wonder if they still don't accept advertising? That was pretty strange, now that I think about it, but there was never any ads in Mad — other than the occasional "subscribe to Mad" or "Buy this book of collected Mad articles."

There's a long list of movies that I only know through their Mad parodies. I can hold a reasonably intelligent conversation on the following movies, even though I've never seen them: "Love Story," "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," "Joe," "The Longest Yard," "Barry Lyndon," and "American Graffiti."

Anyway, here's to Mad Magazine, a major contributor to my cynicism and smart-assery — character traits that have managed to continue unabated for over thirty years

Bands Reunited

You can decorate it all you want, but folks, a nipple is a nipple is a nipple — and famous though they may be, Janet Jackson's nipples are no more (and no less) interesting than any other nipple you'd care to name.
Frankly, I'm tired of entertainers trying to shock me. Whether it's lesbian smooching, nipple flashing, or dogg-skee-skeeing, I'm immune to pre-calculated celebrity shockage. At this point, nothing short of (editor's note: I had a slightly undelicate description here of a certain band performing a certain unseemly yet popular Japanese fetishistic ritual upon a certain female performer, but thought better of it) would shock me.

I've been enjoying VH1's "Bands Reunited" immensely. It must be human nature to enjoy the downfall of the rich and famous. Lord knows that VH1, E, Biography and about a dozen other cable outlets — not to mention the tabloid rags — specialize in serving up stories about the dark side of fame. "Bands Reunited" delivers more of the same, but with a twist. Normally, we just hear about the downfall, and feel better about ourselves because we weren't stupid enough to blow it like the formerly-great.

But with Bands Reunited, not only do we get to hear about the decline, we also (if the band reunites, that is) get to see them relive their peak — but with the perspective gained from having had that glory yanked away. When (if) the band gets together, after years of bitterness and recrimination, it's a transcendant moment. Really. Even bands that you care nothing about (Flock of Seagulls) getting back together is touching. And when it's a band you DO like, like The Alarm, it's magic.

Too bad about Squeeze, though. That's the one I would've like to have seen the most. Flock of Seagulls had pretty much worn out their welcome by the time they split, but Squeeze and The Alarm still had some mileage left, I think.