Jingling Change in Yoga Pants

I hate change.

You name it; I get settled in it, and then I’m like, “Why change it?” Routines, fast food orders, and underwear, these are all things that are more comfortable when you leave them alone.

One more thing: yoga pants.

Why yoga pants? I don’t know. Everybody else is talking about them. Why should I change that?  And why should Lululemon change my yoga pants? I knew they were sheer, that’s why I bought them.

Why change them now? Didn’t somebody at Lululemon notice that the pants were a bit revealing the first time Connie in accounting tried them on?

“Connie…not a natural blonde?”

Ok, they weren’t that sheer, but one would think Connie’s leg hair showing through would have said something.

“See me now?”

No. Lululemon waited.  Why? It costs more to pull them now than to quality control them first. Some are blaming quality control in the Asian mills where the pants are made. What’s it take to quality check yoga pants?

“They stretch?”

“Check.”

“They bend?”

“Check.”

“They don’t taste like lead paint?”

“Dang it! Charlie!”

I dunno it seems that somebody would have seen through this earlier. Then again, there’s another argument against sending manufacturing overseas: you get what you pay for.

Still, that’s how we do things now, and as I said, I don’t like change. So why is Lululemon changing them at the end of the first quarter? The timing is odd. Were they afraid the company wasn’t going to make their goals so they made it look like they were sabotaged rather than just inefficient?

That sounds like a lot of work just to shoot yourself through the Spandex and still point the finger of blame at yourself. Then again, some things never change.

That’s why I hate change. It’s usually a knee-jerk reaction to something that wasn’t broken to begin with.  Remember changing to Windows ME?

Not all change is for the better.

And now we’re talking about change in printers.  Have you seen these 3D printers?  They’ll print anything you program them to print. I don’t know about you, but in the age of terrorism, I find that a bit scary. 

Guns don’t kill people, printers do.

“It’s turning a little brave new world a little fast for my liking.”

Who said that?

Huxley?

No.  My grandmother, the first time she saw a microwave oven.

Great. In my inability to change, I’m changing into my Grandmother.  Somebody print me a cane. I’m gonna sausage case my legs into my see through yoga pants. I need to chase the kids off the lawn.

Music was the Case That They Gave Me

A lot of music news out there this week.

The good:

Dave Letterman and Selena Gomez both laughed about making Justin Bieber cry.  In unrelated news, I owe them both $10. I’ll owe you too if you can prove you made Justin cry.

"This is what it sounds like when Justin cries..."

The bad: 

Bobby Smith died.  Most of you didn’t know Bobby. I didn’t either, but I liked his music. He was lead vocalist for the Spinners.  I grew up on their music. They’re not the kind of band I would have admitted listening to after the age of ten, but before that, they were kinda cool. Rubberband Man, I’ll be Around, How could you not miss the Spinners? I know I will.

"Whenever you want me, I'll be there..."

Ok, you're dead. That's just creepy, Bobby.

The ugly:

Michelle Shocked.  Michelle’s not ugly. I like Michelle, Apparently though, she said some ugly things. She spoke her feelings towards gay and lesbian relationships, on stage at her San Francisco concert. As a result, the venue shut off the lights and her mic, while the audience voiced their opinion. 

Like Michelle, I was shocked on two fronts.  First, I didn’t realize she was still making music.  I hadn’t heard her make any new music since the early 90s.  Second, I always thought she was a lesbian. 

Guess not. 

I don’t really have a lot more to say about that.  I mean we all have opinions and misconceptions (obviously I do. Michelle isn’t gay.) And I think that Michelle’s speech was a little opinionated, and filled with some misconceptions which I won’t repeat here. On the other hand, she has the right to say what she wants. People paid to see her; it’s her stage. That said, people have the right to not pay to see her again, so I hope it was worth it.  

Michelle, can commiserate with the Dixie Chicks about opinionated stage dives. Sometimes it’s a good idea to know your audience before you speak out.

Me, I don’t have a lot to say on the subject. I try to keep my hateful thoughts to myself.  Let’s not be confused: I do have hateful thoughts, and every one of you who’ve wronged me knows that that’s true.  On the other cheek, the one that I’m supposed to turn, there’s already enough hate out there. I don’t need to add mine.

We pray, “…forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Sometimes I wonder if that’s not God’s little sarcastic joke, cuz we don’t forgive. We fail to love our neighbor, and rage against them as if it’s somehow justified.

There are venues for dogmas, politics and opinions; my blog isn’t a courtroom or and executioners block.  So Michelle I wish you the best. If it’s any consolation, I won’t burn your CDs. I still like your music, especially songs like, If Love was a Train. I like that thought.

But like you sang, “If love was a train but love ain't a train.”

So, my $10 offer for making Justin cry still stands.

No Good Deed Goes Unpublished.

He’s a man.

He’s a hero.

He’s an online shark wrestler, and now he’s unemployed.

Don’t mess with the sharks. Their union is pretty impressive. They’ll get you anywhere you hide. They even know where you live. They’re also apex predators, which means the shark is at the top of the food chain.  Unless you’re a Jet, then you’re a Jet all the way, and the Sharks’ll steer clear.

Paul Marshallsea, a 62 year-old Welsh man visiting Australia found out about sharks the hard way. One day on the beach, he saw a dusky whaler shark swimming near water splashing toddlers.

We’ve all seen Jaws. We know how sharks hate to get splashed.

This shark wasn’t Jaws.

“We’re gonna need a smaller boat.”

Smaller.

Yeah, that’s about right.

Still, the shark was about six-foot long. A small child probably looked like an early lunch. Paul thought so too, and he didn’t want any shark messing with his meal, so he dove into the water, grabbed the shark by tail and fin, and guided it out to sea. That action made Paul a hero.

“Yay!”

It also turned him into a YouTube sensation. Or is that visa-versa, because what act can be considered “heroic” without being caught on camera and posted online first? It’s really only a “thoughtful gesture” until uploaded.

Almost immediately after driving of the dusky whaler shark, other sharks filled the waters.

“Hi, I’m Bob Sneed, channel 2 news. I just happened to see your thoughtful gesture. Can I have your thoughts?”

Paul told the mirror.uk his thoughts. “It’s shallow for about six yards where the shark was and a lot of babies and toddlers splash about there. It could have been very nasty,” Marshallsea said. “When I dragged the shark to just over a knee deep he turned on me and just missed me with a bite. It nearly took my leg off in a split second.”

Gasp!

Drama!

Heroics!

Danger!

Paul was a sensation online and in the press. An inspiration to one and all.  All except his boss back home.

See, Paul worked for Pant and Dowlais Boys & Girls Club, a Welsh charity. Paul called in sick to visit Australia and wrestle sharks.

I wish I were that sick.

Paul’s boss was sick too, and his cure was to let Paul go. Seems Pant and Dowlais has a “well enough to wrestle sharks, well enough to work” policy. It doesn’t matter that Paul was busy saving Australian children. Welsh charities are selfish with their philanthropy. On the plus side, Welsh taxes may not be so stringent. Paul might be allowed to write the trip off as a work related charity effort.

Not really. Don’t try this at home, even if home is Wales. And don’t strain anything beyond a “thoughtful gesture” if you’re calling in sick.

In a related story, Paul’s wife works for Pant and Dowlais too. It seems that she called in sick the same days Paul did.

They’ve fired her too.

Employment Considerations

There are advantages to unemployment.

Last Friday a man filed suit against a Florida temp agency because he lost his penis and testicles on the job.  Not “lost” as in, “So, this is the big Bermuda Triangle warehouse…hey, where did my penis go?” No, this “lost” was the “Ow! Your machine just cut off my penis!” variety.  Although I’m sure his version sounded more like, “AHHH! AH! AH! AH! AH!” 

Few words properly encompass the emotion behind, “I’ve lost my penis.” Trust me.  I’m speechless, and I know right where mine is.

“There, there, little batman. It’s ok…you’re still attached. Go back to sleep…”

And this Florida guy didn’t screw around with his castration. He let the machine take his testicles too. I don’t know how temp agencies work in Florida, but I usually make the employer pay me, not the other way around.

This guy didn’t know how Florida temp agencies worked either. He was new to our country. He’s a Puerto Rican national. According to his soprano claim, Edgardo Toucet was sent to a machine shop, where he was shown a peeler.

No, bigger.

Right idea, bigger still.

There we go. Yes. Edgardo was told to work the foam peeler without any proper training. Adding to his difficulty, Edgardo doesn’t speak or read any English either, explaining why he didn’t know to keep his penis clear of the spinning razors.

I thought penis preservation was a universal concept, but it just goes to show how insensitive we Americans are to other cultures. To each their own. To Edgardo, he got his in a bag to go.

Now I’m not blaming Edgardo. Oh at first I was. At first, I was looking at the picture of the peeler going, “How did he get it there…” I even stood at bar pretending it was a peeler, trying to understand how he could get it caught...

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, your disturbing the other patrons.”

I’m sorry; I mean the bar at my house.

“Honey, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, you’re disturbing the cats. Oh, and here’s a Clorox wipe for the bar. Take care of that.”

I still don’t get it, but according to the Orlando Sentinel, Edgardo isn’t the first victim of this particular peeler. That’s right, this has happened before.

“Oh… “

Now this makes sense to me on so many levels. I’m still a little confused about the how, but obviously it’s a pattern. Maybe the machine’s possessed. I’ve read about that in Stephen King books.  It could happen. The point is, the machine is collecting penes. Men shouldn’t work it. The regular workers know it. They won’t touch the peeler with a twelve-inch—never mind. They won’t touch it. So when a temp comes in they send him to the official temporary work station.

“Uhm, why are there candles, a pentagram and is that blood on the machine?”

“I thought you didn’t speak English?”

“I don’t, but I found this important enough to try.”

“Oh, right. Good effort. The candles are for light, the pentagram shows you where to stand.”

“And the blood?”

“You’ll figure it out.  It’s perfectly safe. Remember to pull down your pants.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I said ‘there might be ants...’”

 Ants or no, that seals it. I’m a writer not a worker.  The worst thing that can happen to me now is a scalding coffee burn.

All things considered, I’m okay with that.

“Back to sleep. It was just a bad dream, little batman…”

At the Root

Cash incentives work. News at 11.

Yup, it was news to me too, but a study done by the Mayo Clinic proves it to be true.  Cash is king when it comes to motivational incentives.

That does explain why slavery never worked.

“Would you rather have: a, a whip, or b, one hundred dollars, for some grueling housework?”

Sure, on a scale of made up statistics, 1 in 40 would rather have the whip, but there’s always one of those in every crowd.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Do you have a hall pass?”

Yup, same guy. But that’s just what motivates him. The rest of us? We like cash. The Mayo Clinic tried out this theory on weight loss programs and discovered it worked there too.

“I’ll starve for cash.”

They offered $20 a month in a yearlong study and found that, in a group of 100 obese people, the group lost an average of 9 pounds.  The same study without cash turned out only a two-pound loss, and three jelly donuts. Ok, nobody found any donuts, but that’s just because one of the test subjects ate them.

So what does this prove? Nothing that we don’t already know. We watch TV. We know that people will do the stupidest things for money. I mentioned the network looking for new reality stars, right? They are. You don’t get much stupider than reality TV unless you’re a college kid with a bottle of Jack and a shopping cart out after midnight.

“You know what would be really cool…?”

Not that I’d know anything about that. It’s only what I’ve heard.

And now I’ve heard there’s a study for money. Maybe there’s hope for my blog yet. Sure, if people will give up food for $20 a month, imagine what blog-fodder they’d read for pennies on the dollar. Then imagine if I could prove that my blog makes you lose weight! Whoa! I’d have a gold mine.

RobBlog: Better than Botox!

A dream has to start somewhere. Nobody’s offering me cash to write; maybe I should turn that around.

I’ll let you know, just as soon as I get some cash. First I have to find somebody willing to motivate me with cash.

“Yes mistress.”

No, not you.

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy!

Guess what?  Georgetown University has announced another statistic that I’ve achieved.

Whoo-Hoo!

At first the whole great white caboose thing was kinda cool. I mean, I wasn’t chic or popular, but when it came to the American norm, I was the man. Divorce, foreclosure, laid off, if Grant Wood and Norman Rockwell had a paint fight over the American dream, I would be the drippings.

Now Georgetown is throwing out new statistics at the American Rob, and smacking him right in the face. Now I’m sort of like that Thrift Shop song that’s hitting the radio: fun at first, but after a while it’s just tired and worn out. I know. You still think it’s cute. Give it time. Trust me.

“I wear your granddad’s clothes, I look incredible…”

So what other American dream have I achieved now? According to a new Georgetown study, students who earn a two-year AA degree are making better money than students who earn a four-year bachelor’s degree.

Yup.

My Mass Comm BA and I can attest to that. Then again, in my unemployed state, there are high school graduates making more money than I am.  They didn’t spend a dime on their degree. I’m waiting for that statistic next.

On the other hand, I am off the graph areas: my student loan is paid off. Who else can say that? Yeah, who’s the dummy now!  Now watch this:

paycheck – loan payment = income.

Where paycheck = 0 and loan payment = 0…

Oh.

Holy Econ 101, Batman!

Well at least four years of school taught me how to work that kind of higher math. Maybe I should have gone for my master’s degree; then I could have learned to deal with the resulting depression from my results of mathematics.

Georgetown did offer one hopeful caveat. Their study furthered that in the long term and fine print, a bachelor’s degree earner would earn more than an associates degree earner.

Now that’s more like it. I now have something to work for. I still have a lot of long term left. That’s why I spent the longer term in college. I can win the long game. I have the extra education. I have the tools. I have the technology.

“We can rebuild him…”

I just need to play for the future. In the end I’ll come out ahead. Just like all those other artists whose work became famous after they died.

After they died…

Wha…?

Ok, so my plan needs work. Still, I’m a long-term white caboose, and my game isn’t over and I’ve got time to figure out how to play that game out.

Or time to be the best greeter Wal Mart has ever seen.

Time

“Angels Want to Steal My Red Shoes…”—Elvis Costello

I’m not Catholic, but if I were, I’d want to be pope.  In fact, I’ll pull the pointy hat off my pointy little head and throw it in the ring. Catholics, if you want me on your team, make me pope.  I’m a great addition to any bowling league, and a ringer wrestler. For full disclosure though: Vatican league softball will suffer under my reign.

I heard the exiting pope was a solid fielder. The Cardinals will miss that.  Right now they’re bitter. Did you hear what they’re doing to Pope Benedict before he leaves?

Most companies, throw you a party, then take your security codes and make you sign a confidentiality waiver. Not the Vatican.  I’m sure there’s a waiver, but that’s between Benedictine and God. The Vatican doesn’t have time for such trivialities. They want what’s important: the popes red shoes.  That’s right. Tomorrow the pope gives a farewell speech at St. Peter’s Square. After that, he’ll smile, wave and disappear behind the curtain, never to be seen as pope again. Behind that curtain the pontiff will turn over his Swiss Guard, his papal ring, and his awesome red shoes to a wardrobe accountant.

“And remember, never let those ruby slippers off your feet for a moment, or you will be at the mercy of the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Glenda would be so disappointed.

Pope Benedict does get to keep his white cassock. yay! Sounds like a bad day on “Let’s Make a Deal” to me. He’s also the one pope who gets out alive. I think there’s something to say for that. No, really, there is something to say. Say, “His Holiness Benedict XVI, Roman pontiff emeritus.” That’s his new title. Friends will still call him “Stymie.”

Without the red shoes, nobody will every call him Dorothy again—or pope, for that matter.

Shoeless Joe? No, that one’s already taken.

So now that “Stymie” enters the private sector, what will he do? He was a pope. That’s a hard act to follow. I don’t take him as a sit on the porch and yell, “Get off my lawn, baby Jesus” sort of guy. Or, really as a stay-at-home guy. So, in honor of the worlds first pontiff emeritus, here are a few post-papal options. Hope they help:

1.     Make a Harlem Shake video

2.     Challenge Lance Armstrong to a race. Lance gets his drugs, Stymie gets God

3.     Tour with the Chili Peppers

4.     Move to Mars. “Mars needs pontiff emeritus!”

5.     Stay on as a paid papal consultant

6.     Go to Universal Studios, cast out Harry Potter.

7.     Judge on American Idol

8.     Become a weather man

9.      Challenge Chuck Norris to a Badass contest

10. Wal Mart Greeter

Getting Schooled

First it was hiding the salami, now it’s swapping the tuna. What’s this world coming to? Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark and, yes, this time it is the fish.

And the mongers.

And the retailers.

And some restaurants.

There’s a fish racket going on and it’s not just those singing McDonald minnows.

“Fishy, Fishy…”

Well, wait, they’re not minnows—but that is the problem. When buying fish, nobody knows what they’re eating. It’s not the same thing as the Nugget mystery meat quandary of the 80’s:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To hide his nuggets.

What is a chicken’s nugget, and can you show it to me while my children are watching?

These are not the latest fishy questions raised by a concerned group of watchdogfish. Their question is simple: Is the fish you order the fish you’re getting?  According to Oceana, a non-profit ocean protection group, the answer is, “no.”

Sorry Charlie.

Oceana sampled fish from retailers, restaurants and mongers and found that all too often, the fish you order is not the fish you’re getting. Order red snapper at your favorite restaurant? It could be tilapia. Is your free salmon farmed?

“Moooo!”

Probably not that farm, but there is a difference between free and farm salmon, and that is usually included in the price.

So to whom do we point the fishy finger of blame in this ocean-sized conspiracy? I say it’s Charlie Tuna.  You can never trust an old tuna in glasses. What about Chicken of the sea? “Ask any mermaid you happen to see?” Really? And where am I finding this well endowed bastion of aquatic truth?

“Yup, that’s a chicken.”

“Holy crap!”

I have a far better chance of finding somebody to blame for mislabled fish than I have of finding a mermaid.

What about the fish themselves? Is this underwater espionage? Are grouper infiltrating schools of Atlantic cod in order to discover the secrets of the deep, only to get schooled in the circle of life?

“In the circle of life, I am but a triangle.”

And the triangle grouper still gets eaten as battered cod. Because we don’t know the difference. Our little See-and-Say never distinguished fish noises for us. Sure, the cow goes, “moo,” the sheep goes, “baaa,” but what does the Sea Bass do? 

Hold up a chart of underwater swimmers in an optometrist office and you’ll get the following:

“Read line one please?”

“Fish.”

“Line two?”

“Fish, fish, fish, fish”

“hmmm…Which way is the perch pointing?”

“I can’t tell.”

“I see…let’s try this. How about now?”

“Mackerel, Mahi Mahi, Amberjack, Bluefish.”

“As I thought, Mr. Brown.  You need fish-focals.”

We all do. Oceana says the best thing to do is to buy your own whole fish and prepare it. Many fillets look alike, whereas whole fish do look different. This only helps if you know what you’re looking at.

Buy a fish book. I’m sure Oceana will start selling them for donations.

In the meantime: caveat emptor, fishy, fishy.

Discoveries, New and Old

“If it were a snake, it’d bit you.”

“If it were a snake, I wouldn’t have been looking for it.”

“And it still woulda bit ya.”

And so it goes with most discoveries. We usually discoverthem while looking for something else we can’t find.  Newton was looking for a tasty way to preserve his figs, anddiscovered that lying under falling rocks was no way to accomplish this.

In Newton’s day the world was newer. Discoveries could befound everywhere. You couldn’t throw a rock without discovering something. Idon’t believe that has changed, even though the world is older. I do believewe’ve stopped throwing things.

Too many glass houses? Probably, but I also think we’vegrown complacent. I believe there are new things everywhere; we just need toopen our eyes to see them.

In Tucson, a scientist opened his eyes to discover a newbreed of scorpion. How many breeds do we need, you might ask. I don’t know, Iwould answer, but now Tucson has one more.  According to Zookeys, a website dedicated to new species anddiscovery, there are now ten species of mountain scorpions now living in theSky Islands, a group of mountains north east of the city.

Because of the region’s seclusion, creatures survive withouthuman interference. At least until now. Now we’ve found them. Who knows howthey’ll fare. Be careful though: they aren’t snakes, but they still might biteyou, if you go looking. Then again, you may just discover an eleventh species.

See how that works?

Look.

The new scorpion is actually quite distinctive, compared tothe old scorpions. Vaejovis brysoni (as the new scorpion is called) is a smallbodied scorpion, medium brown in color, with legs that vary in color from brownto yellow.  The female is a littleover an inch long.

 

The old scorpions are pale and Germanic in nature, alsoquite small, and cling to their youth with fierce pinchers. Usually drawntoward loud noises, scorpions can be found, “on the hunt tonight, for love atfirst sting.”

What were you expecting to find here? I’ve been sick for aweek.

You were looking for my blog, and you found it.

It’s good to be back. That’s my new discovery.