Atomic Brain

C-3PO Jailed

2011-11-07T20:24:00.001-06:00

C-3PO, the copper-plated droid who played R2D2's fretful sidekick in the popular Star Wars series, was sentenced yesterday to 1 year in jail after being found guilty of stalking.

The ruling comes after Mr. 3PO failed to comply with a restraining order for harassing George Lucas, whom he blames for emotional damages suffered during the filming of the first three Star Wars films.

According to his agent, C-3PO endured abduction by Jawas, being gifted into slavery under Jabba the Hutt by Luke Skywalker, a beheading, a backwards re-heading, having to learn over 6 million forms of communication, getting an eye chewed out, being blown into pieces, numerous falls, impersonating a deity against his will, and being forced to perform naked.

A representative for Mr. Lucas said that C-3PO approached him two years ago at a science fiction convention, where he was curtly "flipped off" and told to "go chase himself." Another incident occurred weeks later, when 3PO was asked to leave a restaurant after staring into the front window where Lucas was dining with friends.

The droid's problems began during the first shoot, when a panic attack caused him to throw up his arms and hit a switch that activated a trash compactor in which the actors were rehearsing. Lucas unintentionally added to C-3PO's humiliation by putting that take into the final version of the film.

R2D2 could not be reached for comment, but according to his agent, he feels very "beep boop beep" for his friend and hopes that C-3PO can "boop-ee-doop" from this setback.

2011-09-22T21:29:00.000-05:00

Lavish beaver lodge found

Ike Clemens, a local river rat, discovered what appeared to be an exquisitely built beaver home in the middle of the Mississippi River Monday.

Clemens declared to reporters that he "ain't never seen the like."

"I's a-walkin' along yonder when all a-sudden [pause, dumb look], they's a house right there!" he announced in a grammatical train wreck.

According to Clemens, the unoccupied home was not built by regular beavers, but by invisible super beavers who work for the government.

"T'other way for how you can explain to?" he asked/said.

Walking Speed Has Opposite Influence on Social Standing, Study Finds

2011-02-09T15:19:00.008-06:00

Scientists have put to rest the myth that if you walk faster or louder, you will seem more important.

In fact, you may illicit the opposite response and be seen as a complete lack-wit who has no control over his own life.

In a recent study on the effects of nonverbal cues among office workers, participants were asked to rate the importance of a person only by the sound of their footsteps.

The subjects, whose occupations ranged from CEO to mail sorter, were given shoes with hard rubber soles (men) or high heels (women) and asked to walk at their own pace toward a ringing telephone at the end of a 30-foot linoleum hallway.

Of those who walked faster, 100% were perceived as "arrogant," "late," or "just damned annoying."

In contrast, 100% of those who walked at a slower pace were thought to be "with it," "totally on top of things," or "trustworthy," regardless of shoe squeakiness.

Shufflers were considered a scientific anomaly and were excluded from the study.

An unexpected outcome of the study was the high rate of listeners who reported that the sound of someone walking fast increased their own heart rate, which suggests that the body's metabolism could be increased just by sitting near someone who is actually moving. Further study involving gyms and recliners is already underway.

The study's findings will be published in an upcoming issue of the New England Journal of Medicine.

A Race Without Arms

2010-12-28T15:05:00.013-06:00

The restrooms at my office now have motion-sensing towel dispensers. I don't get it.

Yes, we live in the 21st century, and technology is advancing at a faster rate all the time. But maybe that's a problem too.

Our relationship with technology always seems to follow a certain pattern:

1. We acquire it.

2. We study it just long enough to figure out how we can use it.

3. We immediately market products that are stupid and self-serving.

We do not need laser beams to help us get paper towels. And anyway, if we have to use our hands to activate the laser, what's the point? It's a hands-free device for hands.

I don't even want to think about the ratio of useful-to-stupid technologies. For every surgeon who uses robotic arms to operate on a patient from across the country, we probably have twenty towel dispensers equipped with lasers. In time, one of two things will happen:

1. We will accidentally evolve beyond the need for arms, which will shrivel up and fall off. Then we won't be able to cover our coughing, dry our hands, or pull up our own pants, and the resulting germ parade will destroy our species and monkeys will inherit the earth.

2. Paper towel dispensers will become sentient, enslave humanity, and dry off the entire world.

It's either monkeys or towels.

Whether we're fighting for more time or fewer germs, our capacity to pervert new technology always seems to eclipse our respect for it, and we end up with lamps that can turn on and off because we clap our hands at them, or antibacterial soap so strong it could eat the bark from a tree. It's no wonder aliens are trying not to be noticed. They don't want to be caught gawking.

Talent: The Eighth Deadly Sin

2010-11-25T23:42:00.008-06:00

I was at work the other day and had a sudden moment of zen. My eyeballs stopped focusing and the work in front of me disappeared.

I knew it wasn't blindness, because moments of clarity are kind of the opposite of that.

Anyway, the thought I had was this:

To everyone else, our talents are excuses.

People are show-offs. We have to be. From the time we're kids, we want others to notice what we can do. And even though it's supposed to demonstrate strength and character, the motive is always a selfish one because it requires attention from another person to work.

But if the observer doesn't care, then it comes across as a cry for attention, unless you're really good, in which case it is passed off either as talent or luck and puts that observer in a jealous mood that he was not in before you showed up.

And if he does care, he's probably wondering how he can exploit you.

So, regardless of what you originally wanted to prove, a jealous person now cares more about the talent you have than who you are, and is plotting to exploit your gift to his own end and prove to another person that he can beat you at your own game before you even finished it.

Then my vision returned and I saw a sentence that needed a comma.

Electing to Vote

2010-11-02T18:48:00.006-05:00

Voting is important. Do you know how I know? Because I have been told by other people. I have also been told why it's important, by other people. But no one has ever asked me why I think it's important.

And if they do, they will be really disappointed.

Because it's just as important to recognize your right to vote as it is to recognize your right not to vote.

I'm not being unpatriotic, that's simply the freedom of choice. And if you try to put more value on your pro-voting viewpoint, that's fine.

But if you spin it into why it's right for me, that's unpatriotic. For now, let's call it ballotism.

I talked to someone today who was planning not to vote. Instead of lecturing her, I said, "Okay." Because for her, it's the right choice.

Then I talked to someone else, who grilled me on who I would vote for. Just for the insinuation, I replied, "Whoever's the Democrat."

I hate when Republicans do that, but for a different reason.

Anyway, that answer was not correct. "Okay, who's the democratic candidate for governor?" "The Democrat." "But who is it?" "It doesn't matter, it will tell me on the ballot." "But it's important to know who it is!"

Why?

Will he do a better job tucking in my child at night?

Will he do a better job watching Firefly with my wife?

Can he sauté asparagus better than me?

The answer to these questions, of course, is "Get out of my house."

Soldiers who gave their lives for our right to choose did not do it so we could act like children on the political playground, singling out others in their name just because they do not want to vote. That's a choice too. Let them be.

"But their vote counts!"

That's because they're in a free country. Let them be.

The easiest mistake to make is assuming that, if it's important to you, then it should be important to everyone. By that logic, it should be important for you to wash your whites in warm water because I do. No. It's important for me to wash my whites at all. You can do whatever the hell you want. That's freedom. And I'm not going to get up in your face on Laundry Day because you don't want to do yours. That's your choice. Plus you might smell bad.

I survived through all eight of the Reagan years and sixteen years under two Bushes. If I learned anything, it's that you can live on less and get really jaded, so I understand the importance of voting. But in this politically polarized country, I also learned the fine art of self-preservation that comes with choosing whether or not to participate. It restores reason, calms the nerves, and hands the choice back over to you. That's the power of free thinking, and that's where your vote should come from.

So why do I think voting is important? Because it makes me a better man in my small, ample world, not a tally mark among the millions on the winning or losing side. (Either way, it definitely doesn't make me more intelligent.)

Politics is an endless losing battle fought by the richest one percent of this country's most stubborn, sunshine-blowing morons, which makes it a matter of philosophy I can't possibly condone.

I vote for peace of mind.

Besides, if the other guy gets elected, then I get to exercise my freedom to bitch.

Which is really what voting is all about.

Perdition's Bolts

2010-10-24T09:00:00.010-05:00

I have been to Hell, and the sign at the gate reads "Joann's Fabrics - abandon all hope ye who enter here."

Traditional stories of the Depths of the Damned abound with descriptions of searing flame and unbearable heat, but here the fires have been replaced with fleece, satin, denim, silk, gingham, and a whole bunch of other kinds of fabric that I'm embarrassed to know the names of. Demons with beehive hairdos swarm around in aprons with pockets for their scissors. Babies, who were apparently very bad in life, wail in agony. Horrible renditions of songs you think you might know are piped through tin cans.

Unlike Dante's Inferno, there is only one level here. But it is a labyrinth, and every fabric-lined corridor leads into another one. As one might expect, all signs in Hell read "50% off" to distract you from leaving and give you a false sense of happiness. If you try to leave a trail of bread crumbs, the demons will inform you that they do not allow food in Hell. (That is the only part that seems to make any sense to me. I mean, it wouldn't be Hell if you could walk around with a cheeseburger.)

Posy, my guide, advised me to take up several bolts of fine-woven hellcloth, I assume to keep me from being tormented by one of Hell's employees. Meanwhile my daughter, Poppy, darted about the place with reckless abandon, fawning over every yard of fib-spun fabric adorned with puppies, peace signs, or princesses. I cautioned her on the dangers of enjoying herself too much in Hell, but my wholesome fatherly wisdom was lost in a smothering sea of adorable puppy fleece.

As little as I like to admit this, I carry a light burden of masculinity, but with each passing moment I vowed to God that I would recant my hatred for power tools and spring for the first piece of electrical equipment I could find. God didn't hear my prayer, but Hell did, and when I turned the corner I was met with a bunch of sewing machines.

No cries in Hell are met with mercy, no timeline for escape given. The only respite -- O, to call it that in such a place! -- is in Hell's catalogs. In the pages of Simplicity I found a small measure of comfort, and the walls of cloth fell away around me as pages of beautiful vixens proudly sported about in fetching outfits. But all too soon we resumed our journey, and entered back into the cute-patterned halls of Hades.

After one and one-half eternities we found ourselves at Hell's checkout counter, where we paid the ferryman 44 dollars and were granted passage back to the land of the living. With the fabric we brought back, a Halloween costume for Poppy will be fashioned in the image of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, a solemn reminder of how far from Kansas we have truly been.

Martian Dust Devil

2010-10-21T19:38:00.002-05:00

A dusty whisper

lifts like a ghost and crosses.

A breath without life

Canyon

2010-10-12T17:32:00.003-05:00

Rock swallows river

River drinks from rock and gives

away its secrets

Elephant

2010-10-09T13:28:00.002-05:00

Planted feet like roots

Huge trunk and two gentle knots

An oak tree with eyes

On Being 40

2010-09-18T14:53:00.006-05:00

This post was written two months ago, on my 40th birthday. I just realized I hadn't posted it yet. So here you go.

PS - No joking about forgetfulness and old age. I've been forgetting since I can't remember when.

And now, the post.

This is the first day of my 40s, and I've been asked by several people if being 40 means we're old. My answer is no. Here's why:

1. Many people are older than 40. Some are even 50.

2. The Earth is 4,000,000,000 years old. The Universe is 14,000,000,000 years old. I'm 40. In those terms, that's barely enough time to realize that you even think you're old.

3. Many people do not get to live to be 40, so I consider myself lucky.

4. There aren't actually any rules about being 40, except that you can't run around with no pants on, but that one starts when you turn 30.

5. No laws of physics state that 40 will be a bad time. Except maybe the one about gravity.

6. "40" is actually a number. I am not 40. I am John.

7. Only you can make yourself become older. 40 can only make you wiser.

8. "40" is the atomic number of zirconium.

I don't really feel like I'm 40. I just want some good sushi.

Easter Egg Hunt at Memorial Park, 1977

2010-08-16T20:12:00.003-05:00

I didn't find a single one. I'm smiling into an empty basket.

I carry that feeling with me to this day, especially if I'm trying to find an airport.

Capturing the Data

2010-08-14T00:01:00.002-05:00

Carry On, My Wayward Neanderthal

2010-08-11T23:05:00.014-05:00

I try not to follow the news too much, but I keep coming back to the story about the airline employee sent to jail for cussing out a passenger, who had accidentally hit him over the head with a bag but refused to apologize.

Which brings me to cavemen.

Cavemen do not understand the intricacies of capitalism. They do not care if you are the customer. If you hit a caveman over the head with anything softer than granite, he will think one of two things:

1) You are interested in courtship.

2) You need to be removed from the gene pool.

Our ancestors did not pour hundreds of thousands of years of survival instinct into our genes so that some idiot with an entitlement complex could bonk us on the head with a carry-on bag.

Which is why capitalism is evolution in reverse.

On a Roll

2010-08-10T23:44:00.002-05:00

On walking into the men's room today, I saw several rolls of toilet paper sitting out. The brand name was "Preference."

It was one of those moments of zen that stops all conscious thought. Then:

Who gets to name toilet paper? Is there a contest? Does the name have to convey dignity? What do these people look like? Are they embarrassed to talk with others about their jobs? "It's true, I'm the one who came up with 'Preference.' That one took all night. Hey could I get another martini over here?"

I know that my job as a medical copyeditor is pretty unique, but I mean, I don't get to name toilet paper.

2010-08-05T21:58:00.011-05:00

For a point of reference, I am 14 and in marching band. She is 6 and entering Kindergarten.

2010-07-29T15:14:00.010-05:00

Thursdays on First was created by Rochester's planning committee as a way to make people come out of their offices each summer for one day a week, and into actual sunlight.

As Midwesterners, we don't see a lot of sun, so we are more apt to miss the cues (ie, sunshine).

But more importantly, we have a proud tradition of appearing as if we're not enjoying ourselves very much. Thus, we need the proper stimuli to coax us from our fluorescently lit environs and emerge en masse. (Self pity is less effective if people are seen in large groups, purposefully enjoying something tangible.)

The methodology is simple: flood the immediate downtown area with local vendors selling everything from homemade jewelry to homemade scarves. Then add music, sugar, and meat, and you've got 2 blocks of a full-blown, unadulterated nice time.

I don't go often myself, but when I do, it's mostly to take in the smoky aromas of sizzling food, get some vitamin D, and practice my weaving skills.

Unless it's raining.

An observance of trees

2010-07-26T13:07:00.018-05:00

I just read an article on the Web site Science Daily about the healing power of forests. They mentioned the cleansing properties of the outdoors, the color green, and how nature has an ability to calm that urban settings can't provide.

And that's all true, but they didn't mention the simple mystery of trees, which I've always been drawn to.

Trees are full of knowledge. We can see it in their rings, what they've been through, how long they've lived.

They soak in nutrients from the sun, rain, and soil, grow without seeming to move, and still provide shade and oxygen, and sap for pancakes. Food and shelter for birds and bugs. Books and beds for people. Just by quietly standing in one place for years.

The older ones are stiff and silent, their bark etched in wrinkles. They are sacred. Saplings are softer, eager, untempered by time but easily bent in the wind.

Where the autumn years bring gray to humans, trees unleash colors like fire, then dim like embers against a setting sun that yawns for winter.

I really don't know where I'm going with this. It just seems like the ancient poetry of trees has been diminished by the duller shade of green it lends to the drooping faces of dead presidents.

Face(book)less

2010-07-10T14:24:00.008-05:00

When I joined Facebook two years ago, I couldn't wait to reconnect with people. But the Web site wouldn't get out of my way, so I wrote down a few of my friends' emails and left.

If Facebook was a real person, he would tell you who your other friends should be. What "gifts" to send. Who you should talk to.

He would try to sell you things based on what he heard you talking about. He might tell others about it.

And he would give you a 2-week grace period to come back to him if you left.

I miss chatting with my friends. But I'm not going to do it while the Man looks over my shoulder. The value I put on my interpersonal relationships can't be bought by some nosy, lonely brat who thinks he knows what I should do with my social life.

Plus, who would name their kid "Facebook"?

Makeup Specialist of the Gods

2010-07-07T21:02:00.008-05:00

A few years ago I had a small role as a non-speaking, out-of-focus extra in the background of a video being shot at Mayo Clinic. There was a makeup lady there. She didn't put too much on me, because I'm already so dashing, and also because I was an extra. Anyway we talked, and she was nice, and then the video shoot was over and we parted ways.

Yesterday I saw her picture on the home page of Mystery Science Theater 3000. She was the makeup specialist for my favorite TV show.

Can you believe it never came up in conversation? Her standard greeting to everyone should be, "Hi, I'm Andrea DuCane, and I worked on Mystery Science Theater 3000! Can you believe that?!"

I can now say that I had the honor of getting my face caked by the same person who did Joel Robinson, Mike Nelson, Dr. Forrester and his mother Pearl, TV's Frank, the Observers, Professor Bobo, and every incidental character who stepped into the laboratory of Deep 13 or boarded the Satellite of Love.

Thank you, Andrea DuCane, for making me feel a little closer to my dream, in a bittersweet way that also involves makeup. I can now die happy. And with a bit more eye liner.

Claiming My Baggage

2010-06-30T17:36:00.005-05:00

The other day, I went to the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport to pick up my wife and daughter from their trip to visit her sister's family in Germany.

This should not be news, but it's a big deal.

I'm not even talking about their trip to Germany. I'm talking about my trip to the airport to pick them up from their trip to Germany.

I don't like to travel. I hardly ever drive long distances. Airports, like all crowded places, make me nervous. And I have no sense of direction. As a result, it would be easier for me to drive, even with a map, GPS, and travel guide, off the business end of a Norwegian fjord before I could find my way to an airport a hundred miles away in the same state. And I don't like to admit this.

So it's a big deal.

After entering the city and navigating 16 lanes that were actually one lane before the continental drift, I found short-term parking. I paused for a solemn moment and wondered if Christopher Columbus would have felt this way, had he suddenly discovered short-term parking.

I entered the airport and saw two sets of escalators, a stairwell, and several elevators, each going to a different level. And a lady pedaling around on a cart full of flowers. I picked a ramp that led down into the belly of the beast, where people crawled around with their own, visible baggage.

Arrow-studded signs unwrapped from every corner, all at once, from walls, ceilings, and lit-up displays, labeling hallways that branched off in every direction and were designated by colors. Red, blue, yellow, green. I felt like a disoriented Christmas ornament.

None of the signs said "This way to pick up your family from their trip to Germany," so I gave up and headed for a desk with a big yellow question mark on it. I asked the man, who had one crossed eye, how to get to gate 17 (where their flight was coming in). He pointed to a sign that said "tram," and asked if I had my boarding pass, because I would never get past security without my boarding pass.

Then I realized, out loud, that I was supposed to go to baggage claim to meet them, and that Gate 17 was for boarding passengers. (Does it make sense to anyone else that, since I have no luggage, naturally I wouldn't go to baggage claim?)

He kind of looked at me like I had something else in mind besides flying, so without trying to explain ("I hate airports"), I said thanks, smiled, and walked away. After all, how many grown men ask for directions to a boarding gate when they have no intention of boarding?

The intercom then announced that the terror alert for that day was "elevated," for those of us who weren't already walking around with knotted stomachs.

Epilogue

While I waited for Posy and Poppy, someone from London asked me to help him count out the correct change for a phone call. I never felt more useful in my life.

The sound of stupidity

2010-06-29T13:20:00.002-05:00

People who use leaf blowers would never survive in the natural world. They can't even control leaves without using a motor.

The lightness of being unbearable

2010-06-23T17:44:00.008-05:00

I'm a pessimist.

The beer glass in front of me is half empty. (My liver, though, is half full.)

And now I'm reading my fortune cookie. It says, "A pound of pluck is worth a ton of duck."

I don't know what pluck is, but I bet I could beat it senseless with a ton of duck.

I never liked pep talks, but the ones that rhyme are the worst. They take all the soul out of struggling and replace it with crappy frosting, the kind that's made from egg whites and air and food coloring.

No. I want someone to tell me that it is going to SUCK ON TOAST until it's over and everybody knows it. The will to keep things in an honest light is way more encouraging than a mere "atta boy."

And I know. It's supposed to inspire. But it sounds like you're just spreading fertilizer. Do you think plants can live on poop alone? Can you picture a row of dung-laden potatoes crying, "No pain, no gain"?

Well, okay, I just did, and it was hilarious.

Watt the...

2010-06-20T16:59:00.004-05:00

The circular, florescent ceiling bulb in my room, which couldn't spit out more than 30 watts and was once outshone by a lightning bug, had burned out. I went to the store for a new one and they had exactly what I needed. In 22 watts.

Cut from a different cloth

2010-06-14T22:17:00.004-05:00

In 1985, our science club took a trip to Mayo Clinic. It was noon, and all the courtyards were crammed with people in three-piece suits, sprawled out on the grass, trying to recharge themselves like a bunch of dying, well-dressed batteries. It all looked so pointless. I promised myself that I would never be like that.

And even though I now work at that exact same clinic, I'm still not like that, because three-piece suits are ridiculous.

At the Movies: District 9

2010-06-09T21:10:00.006-05:00

If you get anything out of this movie, it should be the alien kid. He is the soul of this movie. He will make you hope the crap out of yourself that everything turns out okay.

Thirty years ago, an alien spacecraft limped its way into the skies over Johannesburg, South Africa. The aliens inside it were rescued like cats from a dilapidated house, and grouped into a refugee camp called District 9.

In that time, they have done nothing but scavenge hopelessly around, with a little help from local gangs.

The cultural differences between these forced neighbors eventually escalates from racism to violence to rioting, so the government steps in to send the aliens somewhere else. Wikus Van De Merwe is the adorably naive nice guy who gets chosen to lead the task force in District 9, where he immediately sprays himself in the face with an unfamiliar canister he finds in one of the shacks. (This is important, but they don't dwell on it. They let the story unfold on its own.)

The movie seems to say that we treat each other so poorly that we would extend a hand in violence even to alien life, a habit they adopt, but the pace is steady and keeps it from getting too preachy. It stays interesting. The story is always a step ahead.

Special effects are worth mentioning because they are used correctly, like window dressing, not the product they are trying to sell.

Having said that, they should have won an Oscar for Most Realistic Display of Guys Getting Killed With Alien Weaponry. It was seriously unbelievable, and I didn't have to rewind it because it happened a lot. But they don't do it for it's own sake. They only blow someone up if they absolutely have to.

See this movie, but not for all that. See it for the alien kid. He trumps any human kid I've ever seen in a movie. (Want a good example? Compare him to the kid in The Mummy Returns. No 8-year-old has been alive long enough to be that smart, witty, resourceful, and unafraid of a mummy.)

This little guy finds his way into the scenes and makes you see the face of unassuming vulnerability, and suddenly you really care about what happens to him. He doesn't seem to understand how dire things are (how could he), he just wants to help his dad and it's inspiring to watch. If he wasn't a made-up alien, he would be your kid.

Let this movie tell you its story. It's as good as science fiction gets.

2010-06-06T11:08:00.002-05:00

The eight different flavors of blueberry, according to Poppy, are:

1. normal

2. sweet

3. medium

4. sour

5. sort of sweet

6. sort of medium

7. sort of normal

8. sort of sour

This information is provided to help anyone else who, like me, has 12 remaining taste buds.

At the Movies

2010-04-03T00:19:00.015-05:00

Clash of the Titans opened tonight, and I was all set for that familiar giddy thrill I got from watching the 1981 version.

It sucked.

Liam Neeson (Zeus) looked bored. So did Ralph Fiennes (Hades), probably because the two normally great actors were hidden, even as gods, behind stage makeup and fly wires that were better used on the marionettes in The Sound of Music. Sam Worthington was Perseus. He looked mildly constipated.

The story follows Perseus, whose father, Zeus, falls for a human woman who is married to some non-god, so no problem there.

Anyway, Perseus the half-god must kill Poseidon's pet Kraken, because otherwise it will eat his girlfriend in order to spare her home town. He could use his godly powers, but he hates his father, the creator of everything, and doesn't want to be like him. (I'll give him that. It's a lot to live up to.)

Some soldiers go with him so that the movie doesn't have to kill the hero. They visit three blind witches who share an eye the size of a softball and like the taste of people.

The witches tell him to find the Ferryman, cross the river Styx to the Underworld, and bring back the head of Medusa, a woman-snake hybrid who can turn anyone, including the Kraken, into stone with just a glance.

At this point I'm sure you want to see this as much as I did, but the real jaw-dropper is how they managed to make a great story like this so boring.

A cgi effect played the Ferryman. He took the actors across the river Styx and into Hades, a journey so bland that I felt like I was repeating my stroll through the theater's parking lot.

A pretty good cgi effect starred as the Kraken, hopefully worth all the money they spent giving him one minute of screen time.

There were also giant scorpions. They were awesome.

Whoever played Medusa had a fun, wicked laugh, but she was upstaged by her snake half, and when I saw her gaze I thought, hey, a computer did that. (As an armchair filmmaker, I think that gaze of hers would be much scarier if she did it with her back to us. That applies to the original film as well.)

The action scenes were good, they made me dig for the popcorn. But, like vacations, they were few and far between, with much labor from one to the next.

All the other gods looked like chess pieces hanging out in the lobby of Mount Olympus.

This movie was nothing more than an exercise in special-effects showboating, designed to blow your mind without actually expanding it.

Some Thoughts on Neutrinos and Cotton Candy

2010-03-20T13:25:00.011-05:00

I'm reading about neutrinos.

The reason I mention it is because I'm not sure what their purpose is, but they're really interesting, like cotton candy.

Let me explain.

Neutrinos are particles that go through everything at the speed of light. And every time they do they oscillate, or morph, into a new form that becomes undetectable. In fact, there are only three kinds -- or flavors, according to physicists -- that we do know of: electron, muon, and tau.

Like cotton candy.

Neutrinos are so hard to catch that when it happens, it's called an "event." In 1998, some folks decided that the best way to do that would be to line an underground, mineral-fortified cave with stainless steel and fill it with 50,000 tons of purified water. It worked, and they demonstrated that neutrinos have very little mass.

Again, like cotton candy.

You can even make your own neutrinos. Just get some hydrogen atoms, shoot their electrons off with an over-the-counter electrified iron chamber, spin the remaining protons through several miles of progressively spiral pipe until they reach the speed of light, aim them at a small, magnet-engulfed tube on the other side of the world, and fire.

After being shot I-don't-know-how-many miles and getting sprayed through several mineral-related filters at about a zillion miles an hour, the protons are stopped by 50 feet of iron -- what's known as a "beam dump" -- to simmer.

I once saw someone make cotton candy this way at the Watonwan county fair.

Some of what cools off will be neutrinos, which are then aimed at the detection laboratory in Gran Sasso, a mountain east of Rome. If you're lucky, some of them will not pass through the lab and into infinity, but will hang around for observation, much like the sugar from cotton candy after it gets stored as fat and appears on your waist as love handles.

The only thing I don't get is why it's so important to study them, but then, I'm not a scientist. And scientists think that the uncountable number of neutrinos (which, collectively, outweigh every star and galaxy in the universe) might be responsible for up to one-fifth of the dark matter that holds everything together.

Like cotton candy.

On Pants That Fit

2010-03-18T17:49:00.011-05:00

Last week I bought a new pair of pants for work. They're great, because they're the correct length.

Apparently, the innumerable pairs of pants I'd been wearing for the last decade were a little too short. Not short enough to be floods, but one of those things where you look at someone and think, "There's something 'off' about that guy." About an inch, to be exact.

I also found out that just because the waist says "32" doesn't mean that it's so. For example, let's say that you buy a pair of slacks. And the reason you bought slacks is because you thought you were buying khakis. But they were on hangers -- so they're slacks -- and not on the khaki shelves, where the khakis are, and you find that the button has been replaced with a metal clip cinched so far back that it aligns with your left kidney, next to a button even farther back in case you want to fasten your slacks to your spinal column. You have now hiked yourself into a pant-flapped lie that cost 12 more inches on top of the $20 you pulled out of your other pair of pants, which still fits. (You're still a "32," but now you look like someone who swallowed a balloon filled with cookie dough and just hasn't gotten around to buying bigger pants.)

Anyway, I'll hem up my story and just say that it's great to own pants that fit.

Now if I could just get the automatic door of the men's room to close faster, people waiting for an elevator in the lobby nearby wouldn't have to pretend that they didn't just hear my extra-loud zipper.

Devil in a Blue Tooth

2009-11-13T21:42:00.004-06:00

I just got back from the Verizon store. I would say the "cell phone store," but they said there are 89 million Verizon customers in the US. If you deduct the number of people living in rest homes, that equals the entire country.

I've always been against owning a cell phone. Except for a motor vehicle emergency, I can't think of a good reason to have one. I'm either at work, Target, home, or on a bus in between. I try to lead as unobtrusive a life as possible, which is harder than it sounds.

And companies have made the concept of cell phone ownership so alluring over the last 15 years that they don't even have to try anymore. I feel like I've become a member of a cult. We walked in and there was a guy who's only job was to greet us and sign us up for assistance, on a computer monitor. The other TVs showed their newest line of products and plans, more complicated than any moon landing manual.

Constant commercials shot out palettes of colorful, shiny cell phones, swirling like Borg children who looked like they couldn't wait to assimilate me and all my friends and family. Handouts and hands-on stations awaited us with 17 different models that had just been "launched," each with a phone book of fun features and plans to choose from. (Their newest model is the Droid. Its banner display proudly boasts an evil-looking red eye and claims to "know everything.")

I came home with a new cell phone, but I feel like it cost me my soul. I'll have to check the toilet-paper-length receipt "contract" and see if there's any fine print regarding the afterlife.

If I did end up selling my soul, and I do go to hell, at least I'll be able to send unlimited text of my fire-soaked agony to my loved ones for free.

The Village Idiot

2009-10-09T18:20:00.006-05:00

Author's Note: This is a parody. The opinions expressed here are the exact opposite of those of a smart person.

President Obama received the Nobel Peace Prize today, and a lot of Americans are upset. And I understand that. I mean we just get done celebrating his epic loss in the bid to host the Olympics in our own country, and now this.

I mean, come on! There are still people without jobs. There are still people without insurance. We've been at war for eight years...

...what am I missing here? Things are great!

But then, "Oh excuse me, we need to 'think green,' we need to insure everybody, the banks have too much power, and by the way my middle name is Hussein and I heart terrorists!"

The guy does nothing but whine for a year, and the folks at Nobel -- socialists from another country -- give him a medal.

Well let me ask one question: where was the Nobel committee on 9/11? Where were they when we liberated Iraq? Where were they...well you get the picture.

If you ask me, and you always should, we don't need peace medals. Look at Dick Cheney. You wouldn't even try to give him a peace medal. George Bush didn't need a peace medal, and look what he did. (Anyone remember "Mission Accomplished"?)

Now it doesn't take a smart man to figure out that Republicans aren't known for winning peace medals. Unless they shot the other nominees.

Because we're Americans. And we take what we want. And we also love our guns.

But we don't want this. So I say, take it back, Mr. President! If you're as smart as the huge majority of the people in this country think you are, take back that medal! You said it yourself: "I'm not worthy to stand among the other recipients of this award."

This great country stands for one thing: freedom, and the right to invade it on others. And if you don't understand that, then you don't understand freedom, and the right to invade it on others.

Thank you, and God Bless America.

Adventures on a Sidewalk

2009-07-02T23:18:00.002-05:00

Every day on the walk home I encounter the same piece of dog poop. It's in the middle of the sidewalk. After weeks of sitting there it doesn't even look like poop anymore, just a clump of dirt that the flies abandon when I get too close. I forget that it's there every time, and every time I see it I almost step on it and every time I think Whew, that was close.

It reminds me of work somehow.

At the Movies

2009-05-08T10:51:00.008-05:00

I found out that Star Trek opened a day earlier than planned, and about three hours after my eye appointment. So, through a blur of tears (a mix of happy excitement and huge pupils) I told my wife, who quickly arranged to have our daughter dropped off at a very understanding friend's house.

I don't want to give anything away, so I'll work around the plot as much as I can. One part of the story focuses on how Kirk gets to Starfleet and meets everybody. The other part of the story is about this guy who wants to do lots of things that are bad, and the good guys have to stop him, which seems impossible because the villain is a really mad grown-up.

But the story is just the half of it. The special effects were seamless, like there's this thing that goes [sucking noise] and then [sound a black hole makes], and then [explosion sound]! and then "Hey you can't do that!" and the other guys are like "What do we do?!" [more explosion sounds] "Aaah!"

I loved it. They made Star Trek edgy again, but without being dark. And they took out all the stupid winks and musical kisses that had become the tired staple of Star Trek films. In McCoy's own words, they made space a place filled with "disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence." Now that's science fiction!

Even if you're not a fan of Star Trek you'll enjoy the show. It's funny. It's tragic. The characters are complex. The special effects are unmatched. And it all happens in 2 hours.

By the way, having your pupils dilated is an awesome cover for tears.

2009-04-29T18:34:00.002-05:00

I just read that the swine flu has been upgraded to level 5, which means it's officially a pandemic. And yet I'm not scared. At least I don't think I am. I don't know. Should I be?

Because, in the same breath they seem to say Don't panic.

Well, okay.

But it's a pandemic -- but don't be alarmed.

Uh huh.

Level 5.

I see.

That means it's airborne and in more than one country and it could hurt you almost as much as the regular flu, and did we mention that the swine flu is a pandemic?!?!

Yeah I got that. Here's my thing. When you say "global," to me that sounds really bad. And "pandemic" already has the word "panic" in it. But you're telling me that for now I should just cover my sneezes, wash my hands, and avoid public places or I might get the runs and feel really tired?

Guess what, I'm almost 40 -- it's the same thing!! You can't say "Level 5" and "basic hygiene" in the same sentence! If that's true, then every day is Level 5 -- heck, being a dad is level 5! Come on people! I want to hear that those pigs have jammed our radar and they attack at dawn! Tell me to start storing water and conducting air raid drills under the table because HERE COME THE PIGS!!!!

Not, "Wash your hands."

Until then, I have no choice but to go to work tomorrow. In the middle of a PANDEMIC. And if swine flu hits -- and I've just heard Minnesota has its first case -- then I'll probably get sick. But no more than I would from hearing about how casually I should be treating this global catastrophe.

I just touched my face, I better go shower.

My flies have no zip.

2008-11-22T20:14:00.004-06:00

I have two pairs of jeans. The zipper on each pair always seems to come down without my help. My wife said I should take them to a seamstress, but that would cost me time, money, brain cells, and pants.

The end.

2008-08-19T23:55:00.001-05:00

Don't worry, I didn't

An Inventory of Chairs

2008-06-15T11:42:00.002-05:00

6 deck chairs
2 lounge chairs
1 beach chair
2 wicker chairs
2 easy chairs
1 piano bench
1 captain's chair
2 office chairs
2 children's desk chairs
1 bee chair
1 rocking chair
12 dining chairs
1 drum stool

Not bad for a family of three.

P.S., we also have 6 spatulas.

At the Movies

2008-03-22T20:48:00.007-05:00

Skeletor wants all the power in the universe. He has to, his name is Skeletor. And he's mad. He gets on the holographic phone and his face threatens everyone on planet Eternia -- all 12 of them. He-man watches the message from on top of a mountain, then turns to the camera and tries to look worried.

Then He-man, another man, and a lady show up and go to a dwarf's house to get a secret weapon made out of tuning forks that sends you across the galaxy if you play it like a synthesizer.

They do, and Skeletor gets even more mad. He sends his best stunt men in rubber alien masks to go find the weapon. They use radar.

He-man and his friends land in a small town on Earth and steal some fried chicken. It's supposed to be funny but it isn't. Who wants to see someone try to figure out fried chicken? Take yourself seriously, movie.

Enter Courtney Cox, very cute and almost the best thing in this film. She's going to leave her boyfriend because he's in a band, which we never meet. (Years later the boyfriend will become Tom Paris on Star Trek Voyager, a much better sci-fi show.) They go to the graveyard to visit her parents who were killed in a plane crash, and find the weapon. He wants to keep it, but the high-school principal from Back to the Future wants it to be evidence. They all meet the bad guys and run around.

Skeletor, who has been watching the whole thing from the other side of the universe, finally gets pissed off enough to come over here himself and throw down. He zaps Courtney Cox in the leg, melts the weapon, and takes He-man back to Eternia so he can enslave him before he kills him. He actually does succeed and becomes a god, but all the power in the universe isn't enough to stop the good guys from following him back and winning. The end.

I wanted this movie to be bad but it wasn't, it was just boring. I recognized 1.5 people from the cartoon version. Orko was replaced by a dwarf who's stiff mask made all of his dialog look like "mama." Even Battle Cat was missing.

Skeletor was easily the best thing in the whole movie. He was just nuts. Good skull make-up too, especially for 1987.

This movie gets 1.5 stars for each character I cared about.

P.S., When the dwarf sends everyone back to Earth he makes it so that Courtney's parents aren't dead after all.

2008-02-27T19:14:00.008-06:00

Thank you

Barefoot in the Park

2008-02-12T23:09:00.002-06:00

Not the best quality, but here's a glimpse of us as Paul and Corie Bratter from Barefoot in the Park. Don't we look happy.

Liberties abused

2008-02-03T11:26:00.000-06:00

You know those online ads for refinancing that show images of people dancing like drunken children? I was on weatherchannel.com trying to check what degree below zero it would be that day, and the little lady in the ad wouldn't stop. Normally they do after a few seconds, but she kept going. I tried to ignore it. I tried scrolling down past her, but then I couldn't see the temperature. Then I moved the cursor over the ad to see if that would do anything.

Nope, she kept going. She wouldn't stop. Her arms jerked. Her legs contorted. Her torso heaved. I wondered if she was about to vomit, but her expressionless face showed no sign of nausea. Her short red skirt and high heels just went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She looked like a horny marionette with Parkinson's disease. Soon I forgot which Web site I was on.

I finally snapped out of it and wondered if I had accidentally refinanced my mortgage.

Are advertisers so lazy that they're just showing us their fantasies? If so, gross. They're creepy, like how clowns are creepy.

I have no idea how cold it was that day.

Hardee's Chronicles, Part VIII

2008-01-09T20:44:00.001-06:00

This is me on my way to work at Hardee's during Crazy Days back in 1989. Apparently the regular uniforms weren't crazy enough. And those glasses are a perfect fit, for the doors of our '74 Oldsmobile.

Remembering Fargo

2008-01-05T15:59:00.000-06:00

The Seven Days of Christmas

2008-01-03T19:01:00.000-06:00

12-24: Seven pups a-peeing
Drive home, have lovely meal and open gifts. We meet Stella, John and Jen's awesome dog. She lays down a playful poker-hand paw for our neurotic pup Sophie. Sophie pushes herself into low orbit with her own pee. Luckily we're outside. Both Johns tell their respective dogs to stop it.

12-25: Six birds attacking
Lovely ham dinner. Watch birds duke it out over new bird feeder.

12-26: Five great ideaaaas
Get buzzed on coffee. Then go to Scheel's and spend more money on a sled and snowshoes for the girls. Then see Enchanted at the Princess theater. Then watch The Shining. Then stay up so late that we see mom get up for work.

12-27: Four games and booze
Play Family Feud, Outburst, Taboo, and Cranium over snacks and alcohol with Dave and Kelly. Every other joke must involve anatomy. Do not go to bed before 1:00 am.

12-28: Three late nights
Grab the "L" book off the shelf and make up a game called "Encyclopedia." Ask what the name Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch means. (It's a village in Wales.)
Stay up until 2:00 am.

12-29: Two extra gifts
Home to celebrate anniversary.

12-30: And a mall half the size of the staaaate
Go to Mall of America and buy Batman Lego people.

Geese

2008-01-03T18:01:00.000-06:00

I saw a big "V" of geese fly overhead on my way home from work tonight. It's like 1 degree out. I thought to myself, Man, those geese must be fricking freezing.

Hardee's Chronicles, Part VII

2008-01-01T18:05:00.001-06:00

To our young minds, Hardees was not only a peek at the outside world but a laboratory as well. At one point we had become obsessed with straws.

At the height of our obsession, Mark and I once linked about 30 of them end to end. The resulting superstraw was so mighty that it bowed under the low ceiling, a beautiful plastic arc blossoming from our meager cup. Then the ladies behind the counter said that was enough straws for now. But we could have jousted them if we wanted to, and I think they knew it.

The Last Blog of 2007

2007-12-31T18:05:00.000-06:00

I should really change my profile photo, but I haven't taken a better picture in the last year. Or the previous 35.

One point of interest though: the night that photo was taken -- December 24th, 2006 -- I flossed a small chunk of filling out of one of my teeth, making it impossible to enjoy the many Christmas treats with both sides of my mouth. And since it happened at the start of the happiest dang holiday on the planet, all the dentists of the world were at home with their families and I had to wait until January 2nd to get it fixed.

And that's how I secured my place among the greats at the Library Table.

[Sporty theme music here]

Happy 2008!

John's Brain

Christmas, 1972

2007-12-13T22:00:00.000-06:00

Here's what I like about this one...

1. The couch and the power outlet have just as much frame space as the Christmas tree
2. Mom's arm in a non-Christmas-y pose
3. Mark's pajamas, the most festive thing in the whole picture
4. The giant gray wall

Hardees Chronicles, Part VI -- starring dad!!

2007-11-29T22:42:00.001-06:00

Years ago dad was in Rochester on business, and he went to a Hardees for a fish sandwich. So he went inside and placed his order, and asked if they could give it to him in a napkin instead of Styrofoam.

When the girl at the counter asked why, he explained that it kills ozone molecules.

Then she went back to ask her manager, who craned his neck like an idiot. Then she came back and said it would be fine. So she gave dad the fish sandwich, wrapped in a napkin, and the battle for the environment was...not won. Because then the fry cook took a Styrofoam container from the stack and tossed it.

Not only did they serve the food in Styrofoam, they also used it to count how many sandwiches they sold each day.

Epilogue

A woman waiting in line behind dad had been listening to the whole conversation. When she placed her order, she asked not to have Styrofoam too.

At the movies

2007-11-28T23:13:00.000-06:00

If you've read Posy's latest blog, you know that we like Netflix. You also know that I ordered Short Circuit. In fact I just finished watching it for the first time since I was 15 years old, the approximate maturity level of every actor in the film. Except the robot.

Even if you haven't seen this movie, if you spent any time in the 80s you can guess where it's going:

1. To be a vehicle for Steve Guttenberg and/or Ally Sheedy
2. To introduce audiences to the concept of a misunderstood robot that could love
3. To turn you, the viewer, into an empathy-retching machine

Here's what I think.

The robot was actually the least-annoying one in the whole movie. First it gets hit by a stray bolt of lightning from a storm passing through some distant mountains and gets a robot soul. From there it wastes no time out-classing all of the people actors by escaping the compound and not swearing every third line of dialog. It also displays an emotional understanding of its situation. It also deflects bullets with a hubcap, and pushes one of its evil twin robots into an outhouse, which then explodes poop everywhere.

Am I asking too much? Is there a story in this? Sure there is. All you do is take away Steve Guttenberg, because he really can't act. Not even poorly. Then you take out his greasy, sweaty-palmed East-Indian colleague who exaggerates his own accent and uses the English language for target practice by saying things like "Well the cat sure dragged in a sight for sore eyes." Then remove Ally Sheedy, who instantly becomes so attracted to the unfamiliar robot that when they cut to the next scene it's morning, and he's making pancakes, and I'm officially worried. (Maybe she's just so repelled by Steve Guttenberg's plappiness, if I might coin a phrase.)

Finally, get rid of the gravy-thick Army guy who wants to blow it up, even though it cost 11 million dollars, along with his scientist boss who nags at him not to. You have now eliminated all of the formulaic characters, and the robot is free to discover life, and I am free to not go looking for a hammer.

I give it two stars -- one for the robot's tolerance of idiots, and one for its laser gun that can blow up tanks. **

Concordia, 1989

2007-10-02T19:53:00.001-05:00

Paul -- any idea why you and dad came up to see me freshman year?

Dad -- is that your shaving kit on my desk?

Birthday, 1987

2007-09-18T21:44:00.001-05:00

I got a new walkman, the kind that could play a cassette tape.

Check out the look on Dave's face.

Return of the White Ludwig

2007-09-13T21:50:00.001-05:00

For Paul, who wanted to see the restored set

For Mark, who helped me get it home

For Dave, who might think it's cute compared to the one he has now

The Hardee's Chronicles, Part V

2007-09-11T19:52:00.001-05:00

During my first week on the job my manager, the rotund Betty, gave me some sage advice about how to properly wash dishes. She said to me, "Make the water as hot as you can stand it, and then make it even hotter."

What?

First Day of School, 1978

2007-09-06T23:08:00.000-05:00

American Gothic, 1988

2007-08-27T20:58:00.000-05:00

I'm a werewolf.

2007-08-16T22:49:00.000-05:00

I once took a personality test to see which character I would be from Harry Potter, and the answer was Professor Lupin. The fact that I'm actually a werewolf had nothing to do with the test. It was that accurate.

My celebrity lookalike is Gary Oldman, who plays Sirius Black.

Area Pet Owner Stunned by Volume of Dog Urine

2007-08-11T09:05:00.000-05:00

Dog owner John's Brain was speechless Friday morning after discovering a three-foot-long puddle of dog pee on the kitchen floor of his home.

"Oh my fricking --" he uttered, unable to finish his sentence.

"That fricking...," he began again. In a gesture of apathy, he then raised his arms and allowed them to fall, slapping uselessly against his thighs.

Brain, who was on his way to the family's refrigerator, encountered the yellow pool just minutes before he was scheduled to leave his home, but remained motionless in front of it for some time.

Exposure to the substance may have been responsible for his increasing difficulty to remove the offending agent or form a complete sentence without the use of swear words.

"I wasn't late for work until now," he said, addressing the urine with an armada of paper towels.

The urine, which most likely appeared the previous evening, continued to inch its way toward the wall opposite the side of which it had started.

According to John, the dog's small stature makes it "highly unlikely" for her to generate pee in such quantities, leading him to believe that she had help from another animal, possibly a waterlogged bear.

DNA test results came back negative; nonetheless, he vowed a diligent search to find any accomplices.

He also said he would introduce legislation which would allow the dog to be let out more frequently, particularly during the evening hours, with the stipulation that the family's pet find a position of employment to help defray the cost of paper towels and Handi-wipes.

Hardee's Chronicles, Part IV

2007-08-06T19:31:00.004-05:00

My job at Hardee's was at the counter. I never worked the kill floor, or whatever it was they did back there. In those days it was rare to have a guy take your order, so just standing behind a cash register opened up a whole can of stigma.

One day the door swung open and a bunch of tough guys walked in. They looked like beat-up cinder blocks in flannel who just got back from a grease monkey fight, sponsored by oil.

One of the men, who I'm pretty sure had one eye, came up to my till. I just stood there in my cute little outfit, wondering how many seconds were left before the murdering started. I thought, There's nothing to defend myself with except meat. I suppose I could threaten him with high cholesterol but he'll probably order some anyway.

Then, in a crackly rumble that stopped the clock, he said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be a girl?"

I'm not kidding.

Hardees Chronicles, Part III

2007-07-30T21:42:00.001-05:00

I was scheduled to be "host" on my last day of work. That meant you would spend your shift refilling drinks and condiments.

In dress clothes.

It was like being knighted by a store manager. (I'm sure there are scores of others who feel like royalty as they roam from table to table with two pots of coffee -- "Hast thou regular or decaf?!")

Anyway, I left my scarecrow-colored polyester uniform at home and drove down for my last shift.

The only catch was that if someone knew it was your last day, they would dump a bucket of ice water over your head.

Not only that, but college orientation was the next day, so I had to book it three hundred miles that night. There would be no time for this knight to dry off. He would have to ride in wet dress clothes.

Luckily I was a skilled liar, so when the manager approached me to ask if this was indeed my last day, I replied, "Oh, no, that's tomorrow."

It worked.

And I never saw them again, ever. Because now it's a liquor store.

The eight other most likely faces of me

2007-07-28T19:46:00.001-05:00

Not bad, except what the hell is up with Einstein?

Trolling at the lake

2007-07-26T22:51:00.000-05:00

Science Club Trip to Idaho, 1985

2007-07-23T22:57:00.001-05:00

Rumor has it that the horse stepped on dad's foot moments before this picture was taken.

Vacation at the lake

2007-07-10T18:57:00.000-05:00

2007-06-27T20:02:00.001-05:00

Then...

...and now

Twenty Years Ago

2007-06-24T23:30:00.000-05:00

Untitled

2007-06-22T23:01:00.001-05:00

At first I wondered what she was thinking, then I realized I should know better.

Memorial weekend 2007

2007-06-04T23:37:00.000-05:00

This is the view from the dock of our lake cabin. The wind sketches across the water in the distance.

Closer to shore

Brother preparing to ski

Happy Blue Moon

2007-05-31T18:37:00.000-05:00

Full moon's twin bathes our
imaginations blue, a
beautiful white lie

Hardee's Chronicles, Part II

2007-05-26T21:32:00.000-05:00

My friend and I were sitting in a booth at Hardee's drinking Coke. We didn't have enough money for anything else. The store manager came up to us with a tray of french fries and asked if we wanted some. Several nanoseconds later we accepted his offer. He set the whole tray down and went back to work.

Aaand, roll credits.

Hardee's Chronicles, Part I

2007-05-21T22:05:00.000-05:00

In 1985 a Hardee's opened in my hometown of about 4,000 people. I didn't bother telling mom and dad I wanted to go. It was a forgone conclusion. A sign that popular in a town that small would eventually attract everybody. The bright orange sign might as well have said "This way to the outside world." It was a status symbol, at least in that little corner of the US. I would be able to say that I saw people I knew, eating at a Hardees.

And our store was unique. It boasted a train theme, in honor of the town's origin. There were train pictures, train memorabilia, and a wall border with an old-fashioned train design.

At first I was awestruck at having a nationally familiar store in our town.

Hardee's sold plastic goblets that could hold a quart of the new Cherry Coke, and twisty cones with spiralling towers of ice cream that could feed three and were served with a tiny sheet of wax paper wrapped around the little cone, increasing the chance that it would slip from your hand.

Behind the counter, unapologetically big burgers accented with lettuce and buns slid down metal chutes like cattle fodder, boxed in styrofoam that would puff up big sacks of garbage scented with ketchup and cigarettes.

Salads were condiments.

There were padded wooden booths and greasy brass handrails. Tinfoil ashtrays, some already full, were on half of the tables in the store. The floor seemed slippery, like someone had washed it with oil.

Employees in orange and brown polyester would walk around with water bottles and swipe wet rags across tables. They always looked too oily to be cleaning something else.

The drive-thru had only one window, where one employee would talk to one customer, into a microphone, mounted to the cash register.

There was no nutritional information.

There was no fruit.

I never heard anyone question anything.

Those were the real days of fast food.

My phone conversation with Poppy

2007-04-25T18:15:00.000-05:00

Here is my first phone call from Poppy, as she and mommy were driving home. I had just walked in the door.

Me: Hello? (silence) ...hello?
Poppy: Hi.
Me: Who's this?
Poppy: Poppy.
Me: Oh, hi! How's it going?
Poppy: I'm gonna get the orange bike.
Me: Oh, ok.
Poppy: The one with bees and butterflies.
Me: Well that's good...
Poppy: Are you at home right now?
Me: Yes.
Poppy: Did you beat us?
Me: Well, I thought you'd be here. I wasn't racing you...
Poppy: Why did you do that?
Me: Uh, I don't know. Sorry. Where are you?
Poppy (pointing to house): Right there. (sound of garage door opening)

Our talk continued even as she came in the door and stood right in front of me.

I'll probably miss this when she's a teenager.

The hazards of Extreme Belting

2007-04-24T21:49:00.000-05:00

Aloha

2007-04-23T21:02:00.000-05:00

Here's a photo of the play I'm in, called Nurse Jane Goes to Hawaii. The story is about Vivien, a romance novelist whose next opus is created around the events unfolding before her. And trust me, that's the easiest explanation there is.

And now, the cast of characters.

From top left:

Bill: married to Betty; had a daughter with Doris
Doris: married to Edgar
Edgar (me): married to Doris; had a son with Betty
Betty: married to Bill; Vivien's editor

From bottom left:

Peggy: Bill and Doris' daughter
Peter: Edgar and Betty's son
Vivien: romance novelist

Sorry.

Area man kicks chair, wall

2007-04-16T20:32:00.001-05:00

Editor's Note: For those of you who do not know me, the following story is an exaggeration of the truth. Not the fortune cookie, though. That actually happened.

Area man John's Brain, distraught by a shortened lunch hour and a poor selection of dining options, turned and kicked a nearby chair earlier today when he became disillusioned by a fortune cookie which contained no fortune.

Although details are sketchy, it is alleged that the kicked-upon objects also included a nearby wall.

"Oh, this is rich," Brain said. "I'm loving this."

The day up to that point, Brain recalled, had sucked. "I was already in a bad mood when this crapload of work came in," he began, "and we decided to cut our lunch hour in half. Of course I didn't bring mine, so I had to go running off like a lunchless moron."

"I just wanted some soup," he continued. Then, wagging a finger and shaking his head, he explained, "But they always have to make it difficult, don't they."

It was unclear if Brain was actually asking a question.

Although he reported finding several places in the vicinity which offered soup, the only choices available were split pea or a "nauseating cajun broth that smelled like a decomposing forest."

"I mean come on, don't try so hard," he exclaimed, motioning to nothing in particular. "I had to book it three blocks to the next cafeteria, and guess what?" After a short pause for effect, he added slowly, "Split puke and wood rot."

Brain ultimately decided on chicken stir fry, accompanied with a free fortune cookie. "I figured 'What the hell, if the gods are going to mock me, I might as well know the joke,'" he mused.

The resulting irony of being denied even a false fortune led to the kicking incident. When asked to comment further, Brain suddenly appeared to grow disinterested with the interview before slumping into his chair to resume his duties.

2007-04-15T22:09:00.000-05:00

This afternoon we went to Herbergers, where I spent $90 on a $90 pair of shoes that cost $90. The shoes, which cost me $90, were not on sale. I went to the cashier, told her I would like to buy these shoes for $90, and was charged the full $90 retail price for the shoes.

The price of the shoes -- which was $90 -- was paid in full. I agreed to pay the whole amount of the non-negotiable price advertised for the shoes.

The shoes which cost $90.

The Universe Explained in Six Words

2007-04-10T23:30:00.001-05:00

holy crap this place is huge

Reasons to have lunch on Saturn

2007-04-06T10:05:00.000-05:00

1. Rings make the most awesome park bench ever

2. I'm 800,000,000 miles from the nearest office appliance

3. View of Jupiter beats the crap out of looking at photos in break room

4. 56 freakin' moons!

5. Estimated time of return, via car at 60 mph: 7,607 AD

6. Skip stones across atmosphere

7. Moon the Cassini orbiter and then blame Titan

8. Finally a reason to walk around in a space suit

9. No pollen allergies

10. Can't hear people's annoying ring tones

11. No elevator crowded with people also going to Saturn for lunch

Feel free to add your own reasons!

2007-04-04T23:56:00.000-05:00

I recently read about a scientific discovery that claims our brains are plastic. Not the kind of plastic that dad complains about, but neuroplastic.

Traditional thinking asserts that our brains become wired when we're young and all the neurons and synapses and dendrites set like cement, eventually turning us all into stiff, angry, old people.

The idea itself is not that new. There are books out there that tell you how to train your brain and keep it active and all that, but the book I saw -- I can't remember the title at the moment -- says our brains can be physically altered by how we choose to think well into our adult lives. We can change it.

I've always suspected it, but of course I'm a genius.

A few weeks before I read about it, I was at work. It was a slow day and I was thinking how cool it would be if ninjas came cartwheeling down the hall and I heroically saved everyone I liked, while a select few got a Chinese throwing star to the forehead. The reason it's safe to think that is because ninjas will never have a reason to infiltrate a work area that touts paper cuts as its number one hazard.

Long story short, I decided to try an experiment. Every time I felt the boredom coming on I would tell myself that I was happy by thinking of good memories. Soon I was flooding my brain every five minutes with surges of happy neurons. (Yes, the job is that boring. Not every ten minutes. Every five.)

So in conclusion, our brains are plastic and you can make them happy if you want. Isn't that the best news ever? Now everyone go flood your brains.

To help you with ideas, here is a short list of memories John used in his experiment

1. On the road to Spicer in the Nature Wagon in July with no air conditioner
2. Trip to South Dakota in the Nature Wagon in July with no air conditioner
3. Looking for agates at Camp Cuyuna
4. Eating ice cream and watching Friday Night Videos
5. Making home movies with a gigantic video camera

Happy wiring!

Husband forgets which film he just saw

2007-03-26T21:59:00.000-05:00

Area man and movie enthusiast John's Brain announced Saturday that he had completely forgotten which epic movie he had just finished viewing after coming upstairs at his family's home.

"He has no idea," said Posy, his wife of 12 years. "We've seen so many epics. We can't tell them apart anymore. "

The clearly agitated Brain remained adamant about recalling the event. "It might have been Star Wars," he said, nursing a large mug of coffee. "I don't know. It's going to bug me all day if I don't figure this out."

The couple began citing possible films but ultimately could not decide on which one he had actually seen.

"There's this poor farm boy in it," Brain said, "and someone gives him something and he doesn't really want it. It's a sword or a ring or an egg or something. Something magic and maybe evil. Either way, he's a farm boy."

"Is it Lord of the Rings?" asked Posy, attempting to help.

"No," countered Brain, "I think Harrison Ford was in it. He was fighting all these people. I think they were Nazis or maybe stormtroopers. Was Darth Vader a Nazi?"

Debate also focused on the differences between Ewoks and Hobbits.

At one point Posy suggested Dirty Harry but, Brain reminded her, that was fellow aging actor Clint Eastwood, not Ford. That series, which follows the story of a hardball San Francisco detective, was also dismissed due to its lack of wookies.

"If Dirty Harry was a wizard," Brain added, "the case would have been solved in ten minutes. And besides, who ever heard of a wizard named 'Harry'?"

Brain then removed his glasses and pinched the upper bridge of his nose. "Was it Star Wars? Because there was this poor farm boy."

Giveth up thy what now?

2007-03-20T22:34:00.000-05:00

On the bus ride home from work, I read the following message on our church's sign out front:

Give up your fear of dying

A week later it said:

Give up your fear of living

The week after that it said:

Give up your guilt and misery

Come on, this is the Midwest. By Easter we'll all be dead from boredom.

2007-03-11T23:22:00.000-05:00

And he was never taken seriously again.

Mystery Radio Theater Presents

2007-03-08T17:42:00.000-06:00

The name's Brain. I'm a detective. I dig around in peoples' lives and pull out the stuff they don't want but can't get rid of by themselves. Why? Guess I think it'll make 'em feel better. Never saw a guilty man die happy.

Tonight's episode: The Case of The Missing Dagger

It was early. I was stuffing the last bit of oatmeal in my mouth when I read the headline on the box:

Five Times More Omega 3's Than Regular Oatmeal!

I didn't really know what all the excitement was about. I was never good at math or Greek. I don't know why all those extra 3's are five times better at the end, but it's more than I could say for regular oatmeal.

Then I saw the little dagger symbol.

In my business that means someone has more to say but they don't want you to know what it is. So they make a footnote and stick it somewhere else, thinking you either won't care or won't have enough time to go snooping around.

I've seen a lot of daggers in my day, I even used a couple myself once. But I never saw anyone tag one on that didn't lead somewhere else. Whatever else this guy had to say, he thought he could bury it on a simple 6-sided box.

Not with me on the case. He'd have a better chance of winning the lottery with a parking ticket.

I pulled the box closer and felt the adrenaline hit me as I snooped around, weaving in and out of eye-popping graphics and exclamation points, I could smell that footnote, it was close. But every time the lead got hot I'd stumble over a nutrition label or a drawing of a heart with wheat coming out of it.

This guy was good, a real pro. It took a full minute for me to realize that I'd been staring at a sign that said "Enhanced with barley and ground flaxseed." What the hell does that even mean?

By now I knew I'd be late for the number ten downtown, so I dropped the box and hoofed it down the street.

The distance seemed to make it worse. I spent the whole day stirring it over in my head. They always say not to dwell on things, but I'm already a snooper, and snoopers can't not be dwellers.

By the time I got back home my curiosity was higher than a cat on nip, I couldn't wait to get back to the chase. I picked up the box, found the headline...

Then it hit me. I was looking right at it.

That was the footnote.

The dagger was at the beginning of the headline, not the end.

The adrenaline burned off like a match under a faucet. I felt like a two-cent stamp on a trash bag.

They say that losing is like winning, it just doesn't feel like it yet. I don't know what that means, but if it's true, then I'd just won the lousiest game against the best loser of all time, but somehow I'd feel better about it later.

It doesn't matter. I'll never meet him anyway. And tomorrow I'll be hungry all over again.

The name's Brain. I'm a detective...

2007-03-06T22:52:00.001-06:00

Ok, I'm back now.

And now for some local news.

Weary customer uses shopping cart to rest top half of body; solace sought

In an attempt to stave off a "mental wall," area man John's Brain was seen slumped over his shopping cart during a trip to Target last evening. He was waiting for his wife, Posy, to return from a trip to the restroom with their daughter, who allegedly had to "go potty."

"I just want to go home," Brain said. "I came here to get yogurt and meat, and that was an hour ago."

Although there was no prior indication that he was suffering from fatigue, Brain suggested that the sugar rush from his hot cider drink was wearing off.

"If I'm here much longer," he said into his coat sleeve, "I just know I'll walk out with the third season of The Simpsons. It's on sale and I'm right here and I've wanted it for like a month."

Brain then fell silent and began rocking the cart back and forth with one leg.

Witnesses reported seeing a woman emerge from the restroom a few minutes later with a young girl who, when asked to comment, replied, "I went potty!"

The family then proceeded to the checkout, where they completed their transactions and left the store.

Popcorn Lust, Part II

2006-04-29T17:44:00.000-05:00

I found the air popper I had in college. The little plastic intake fan was cracked, so I applied some Gorilla glue, stuck it on and, to use a dated term, Bingo!

I have air popping closure.

Elbow Banging

2006-04-20T18:02:00.000-05:00

I am banging the hell out of my elbows lately. I'm fed up with the pain of how it feels, causing me to get angry and wave my arms and bang my elbow on the counter.

High-risk activities for elbow bangings:

1. turning in chair at work
2. eating at kitchen table
3. reaching for shampoo dispenser in shower
4. getting out of car
5. carrying daughter to bed

I could hold a concert where all I do is walk around on stage, banging various objects with my elbows. The applause might be worth it.

And now, a neural detour

2006-04-18T23:12:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning I woke up, and in less than two minutes I was in the presidential debate of 2004. That's right, in the debate. Against Bush. At the podium. In my bathrobe. And I was making some good points because I wasn't dreaming.

What the hell? Why would I think of such things on a beautiful day off before driving home for my 3-day Easter weekend?

Other mornings I've had comedy routines go through my head, or how I'd apologize to a friend years and years after an argument, or what I would say at a family member's funeral. And at the time it makes total sense to be thinking of it. But if I have to decide what to have for dinner...(sound of clock ticking)

If you could go back in time, or forward -- anywhere but the present -- I'd know just what to say, which is why I can't think of a good ending for this blog right now. I'll see what happens over Cheerios tomorrow and get back to you.

Popcorn Lust

2006-04-09T18:34:00.000-05:00

I bought an air popper at Target today. It blows. Half the kernels just kind of fell out with the ones that popped. Some shot out like I'd packed it with gun powder. The butter melted fine.

When I was a college freshman I got a Black and Decker air popper because they didn't allow microwaves. (Too evil?) It was a well-built, self-contained appliance. Loud, sure -- but that thing could air-pop a buffalo if the need arose. (It didn't.)

Yet here we are, 17 years later -- 17 years to perfect the science of air poppage -- and I'm zipping up a flak jacket and barking orders at my wife (who, I'll admit, is neither getting caught up in the drama nor firing the flares like I asked her to).

So we turned to the Internet, as do all who survive a war with a household appliance. We went to Sears, Kohl's, Bed Bath & Beyond, Herbergers, JCPennys, Linens & Things (whatever the hell that is), Walmart, and even Black and Decker, who no longer makes them. Every model looked the same as the one I bought, basically a Pez dispenser with a backwards Darth Vader helmet.

All I'm saying is, don't buy an air popper unless you are filming a war movie that takes place in your kitchen.

Happy Daylight Saving Time

2006-04-03T19:43:00.000-05:00

Since Daylight Saving Time is not considered a holiday (and it should be), I chose to celebrate it by getting myself a white chocolate mocha. (I stopped drinking coffee two weeks ago.)

I'm also holding a moment of silence -- because I lost 60 of them -- to mourn that holiest of hours, the one that gave itself so I could have more light in my day.

And to curse the guy who thought of it. I'm sure there was a reason, and I'm sure he didn't sleep much, and I'm sure he was a dork.

Technically the loss of one hour and the acquisition of more light should not make that much difference, yet today I felt like I had been on a plane that went around the globe nonstop and then dropped me off at my job. What if I were a landscaper? A pet groomer? The guy who bends paper clips for a living?

I know it doesn't sound like a holiday, what with all the drinking, mourning, and cursing, but I feel that it should be one anyway. And I wish you all a Happy Daylight Saving Time.

I'm John's Brain. Good night, and good luck.

I've got a pleasant voice

2006-04-01T23:23:00.000-06:00

Last week I was approached about narrating a DVD for a medical book. Seems the regular guy had a thing about saying medical terms the not-right way, forcing their hand. That's where I come in.

I used to be in radio. It's almost exactly the same as what I do now, which is proofreading medical text.

So you see.

Anyway, I've been doing it for six years and can pretty much pronounce medical words until I regurgitate and have to consult a gastroenterologist.

The moral of this story is, don't sit on your hands waiting for something cool to happen, because it will take about six years.

Paradise: I'm lovin' it

2006-03-26T12:02:00.000-06:00

I was on teflonjedi's about-me page and listened to an audio clip of the Olympics theme.

That is probably my all-time favorite song. When I get to Heaven, that is the song that will be coming through the speakers, right as I am handed a plate of Chicken McNuggets.

Heaven is Olympics and Chicken McNuggets, is all I'm saying.

Binary Puberty (or, "11001001")

2006-03-25T09:32:00.000-06:00

Yesterday Posy bought a robot vacuum cleaner. It cleans the floor and scares the dog.

Today she's trying to show me how a blog works. It doesn't clean the floor and scares me.

Someone once said, "People are not thinking machines, we're feeling machines that think."
(Hence the robot vacuum.)

That's how I feel about technology. Posy loves it. She gets it. She could spend hours telling me what she's learned about html code, but in the end I'm still Frankenstein, holding out my arm and saying, "friend?"

I am going through binary puberty.

Scarecrow vs. Tin Man

2006-03-14T21:47:00.000-06:00

At work today I wondered if it would be possible to have a heart attack from boredom. Then my heart rate went up a little, so I stopped wondering and went to get an apple turnover.

My thoughts are steering toward another job. This has happened a bunch of times but today was a little different. I realized I can't learn any more useful stuff at this job. I thought how it might be fun to edit videotape.

Related Thoughts That Occurred Just Then:
1. I just got a cost-of-living increase
2. I know what I'm doing at this job
3. It's a stable job
4. The benefits are good
5. I might hate editing videotape

If you sacrifice happiness for security, are you still alive?