Pounds. No sense.

So I'm helping one of the little Pinatas with homework. Last week he had to do some homework where he was converting between various measurements of customary units. First off, I had no idea what customary units were when he asked me about them. Then, I was stumped when he started asking me how many ounces were in a gallon, how many cups were in a pint, and how many teaspoons were in a quart. Honestly, I still have no idea.

And then, today, he had homework on the metric system. You remember, it was the system we were supposed to convert to in, like, 1986 or something? See, pretty much everyone in the world switched over, except for three countries. (You'll see the world map with the three uncoverted countries up there. It puts our great nation in the august company of Liberia and Myanmar - otherwise known as Burma - as nonconverts.)

And it's just so dang simple:

1,000mm = 1m
100cm = 1m
1dm = 1m
1000m = 1km

Do you know how long it took me to explain this to my son? Oh, let's see...maybe three minutes? And then he went off and did his homework with no problem. Cups? Ounces? Gallons? Ugh.

I like a pint as much as the next guy, but I'm willing to trade that for 750ml any day.

Various and Sundrie Updates and Thoughts Thank You Mr. Larry King

I found out this week that Scott McClellan is my age. You remember him. The official White House deer-in-the-headlights from 2003-2006. Sometimes I think about the path not taken, and though sometimes it makes me sad (I didn't write Abbey Road when I was 26, for instance), in this case, I'll take my path over his any day. Though I think he's happier now, so good for him because only some people deserve misery, and I'm not sure he's one of them.

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I had this this week. Though it may have been this. Doesn't really matter which it was. Wash your hands and watch your food. I may have actually turned inside out for a time on Monday night. I'm alright and back to 97% today...it passed quickly. But it's possible that I'd rather have been Scott McClellan for three years rather than go through those 24 hours again. Thanks to LB for the Pedialyte. The apple flavor is nice.

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For whatever reason, I'm listening to Level 42 today, and I know I my Hombre compatriots will concurr that they were a great '80s band that deserves lots of praise. Makes me think of Miami and the boys. Whatever happened to M.M., that fabulous bass player I played with prior to Pinata? M.M.: Beautiful guy, wonderful musician, brilliant songwriter, well adjusted and fun, and a guy that wrote one of the best songs I ever played on...a song that will maybe never be heard by anyone but me and him again. The song lives on a 20 year old cassette tape demo, and, if it ever dies or is lost, I will be very, very sad. I should send it to Vinnissimo because I know he could transfer it to a safer format. Smo? Advice?

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The Bears are in the Super Bowl? Huh?

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This is where I might live next year, in order of preference: Chicago, Ann Arbor, Champaign, Kalamazoo. February 26. Stay tuned.

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19 degrees and going down today. Welcome to January. Pinata, now is not the time to gloat.

There's a P, and it stands for...

I just saw another in an endless series of preproduced segments on the human cost of the current war. All of the stats and injuries and fatalities and complications are generally well presented. This is not the problem...except:

Over and over again, reporters, producers, journalists, and yes, even psychologists will say something like: "The prevalence of Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, is on the rise. However, many of these cases are going unreported or unacknowledged. Many individuals don't report their symptoms until months or even years after they have returned from combat."

(Note: the quote above is made up. I just hear stuff like that constantly.)

So, my point? The problem? The P stands for POST. As in, later. Like, not right now. A cardinal feature of the disorder, aside from the flashbacks and unrelenting, tormenting anxiety and panic that ensues, is the fact that the syndrome does not become apparent until later.

It's not Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There's a P.

Please, pass the word. Someone that comes home and seems fine, IS actually fine for the time being. And if they develop symptoms later, it's not because they didn't want to report the symptoms. It's because they weren't there, and now they are.

And of course PTSD can happen pretty quickly. But the P is there for a reason, because it's generally later.

I Am A Large Man

I have overcome my fear of utilizing the self-cleaning feature on my oven. I'm giving it a shot.

I am huge.

You Will Remember

Him

Back In Town

Not much of an update here, other than: Ann Arbor is great, and please don't make me live in Battle Creek.

I'm gonna go nap under a blanket in my pjs during the day now.

Travelin' Dude

I'm in Ann Arbor, MI today, and I'm in Battle Creek, MI tomorrow interviewing for internship positions.

Some things you learn on the road:

Certain hotels have a nice looking price in comparison to others, but you get what you pay for. For the 15 dollars less I'm spending, my door opens outside, my room is tiny and I keep running into the wall (not joking about that), everything is beige beige beige, and I have to pay 10 bucks anyway just to get 24 hours of internet access. And my TV speaker is shot, so everything sounds like robots.

However, the Big Boy restaurant is actually not so bad if you are careful not to order the bacon-loaded fry plate (which of course looks tempting on the cover of the menu). And at Applebees, they have some fairly tasty food that beats the pants of Bennigans. The atmosphere? Well, not so much. But I'm on the road and the food is tolerable if you are careful and picky and smart.

Michigan travel stops are far grosser than Indiana travel stops, which I did not expect.

Ann Arbor is a lovely town.

The Ann Arbor VA is a superb facility, and though I desperately want to stay in Chicago, this is a pretty good 2nd choice.

Never forget to pack a sweatshirt in January in Michigan.

Tomorrow's plan: I will go to Battle Creek, and I will keep my eye out for a specialty store that features all the prizes ever found in millions of boxes of children's cereal.

This is a very Larry King-ish post.

Phone Wanderlust

It happened again.

A few years ago, I obtained my first BlackBerry. It was more accurately described as a Blueberry, and I thought that it was just about the coolest thing ever. I'd had Palm Pilots, mobile phones, and even a Treo before, but the BlackBerry was taking coolness to a whole new level. Mobile phone, mobile email, rudimentary web browser - all in one device. Very cool.

And then, a little less than a year ago, I got a new BlackBerry. Better web browsing, smaller form factor, and Bluetooth enabled, it was pretty sweet. But then it stopped working and so I got an upgrade. The newest, slickest, coolest smart phone around. (Or, at least it was.) It takes pictures, it browses the web, gets my email, plays movies and mp3s, and works as a USB flash drive on my computer. I've had it for about two weeks and it's totally great.

And then this happens. Why do I let myself have wanderlust with my mobile phones?

Adieu

I can't explain it, but there are only a few pieces of music that are abhorrent to my ears. Generally, I like stuff or don't care about it, but rarely do I actively dislike something. There is one case, however, that goes way beyond dislike.

Grease. Please. No more. I hated it originally. I hated the revival. I hated the revival of the revival. There is no indication that I will not hate even the suggestion of a part of a commercial for the reality show for the revival of the revivaled revival of the movie.

There is not a good song here. Not a good, useful note. Not remotely. Not obviously. Not subtly. It's pure, unadulterated, undiluted, pure, premium bad.

It's annoying. It's cloying. It's everying I do not want to hear. It's all the wrong notes and lyrics in all the exact order and dynamic and phrase and disposition that I seek to avoid for the rest of my meaningful or even meaningless existence. If I were an existentialist, I'd convert and start praying for a solution to the mess that is Grease. If I were religious, I'd quit and become existentialist, because clearly there can be no meaning here. There is certainly nothing useful to God in this. It just is. Unless, as stated, I was already considering its existential meaning, which is so depressing I would need spiritual guidance. And meds.

As far as I'm concerned, particle physicists need to study the phenomenon that is Grease, because string theory may be able to be clarified by the fact that such a fucking terrible, moronic, awful piece of...what, art? music? theatre? thing?....can be allowed to exist an flourish despite the apparetnly intelligent universe. This must be evidence of alternative simultaneous realities. Grease is the antithesis of Intelligent Design. If you want to give me Intelligent Design, I give you Grease. Then again, if you want to give me Evolution, then I give you Grease and bid you adieu, because clearly we are about to be phased out as a lesser species.

This is all I have to say about that.

New Nickname

We've had the nickname conversation before. But I came up with a new one for LB yesterday. So LB (which in itself is a nickname) can now officially be referred to as either Sweetknees (in the summer when they can be observed) or Supperdish (in the winter when we think about hearty, nurturing food).

Bonus points to either Hombre (or anyone else other than LB) who can identify the origin of Supperdish.

Music, RIP, Part Deux

You know, I only have conflict here. I'm aging. I'm inconsistent. I defend cheese and have listened to it, but am also highly critical of totally worthy, honest music.

Over the holidays while visiting LB's parents, I was held captive by the easy listening station in Knoxville, TN. Which, before Christmas, was fine, because it was 24 hours non-stop Christmas songs. Now, if I had been listening for 6 weeks, this would have been bad. But I listened for the Friday prior to Christmas and then again on Christmas day, and, you know, that was okay.

BUT THEN I GOT SUCKED IN. And the format changed. So there I was for a few days, in my room, turning on the radio, and not changing the easy listening station that was no longer playing Christmas music. I don't know what they went into, but it was soft and LITE and airy and I'm sure "romantic". Yes now I remember. Lots of Norah Jones, who is both fine and intolerable. But it was like how you eat sugar during the season. You know you've got to stop, but you keep going anyway. By the last day when I was packing my bag to, like, Josh Groban or some shit, I stopped and said, "Oh man, this has GOT to stop." Happily, I was able to finish packing in silence.

Then, back here at the ranch, my new gym...the one in the 1920's hotel ballroom, with chandaliers and cardio on the bandstand...unfortunately has a specific personal trainer with a love of the 80s channel to go along with his singular control over what gets played in the gym. So there I am, day after day, with Eddie Murphy's "Party All The Time" and Samantha Fox's "Naughty Girls Need Love Too." Which I'm sure is true, and that's fine, but I don't want to hear it again. And I hear it regularly.

And then there's the confusing times where the 80s channel actually plays some good shit. It wasn't a completely wasted musical decade. The production choices were often unfortunate, but dammit, there WERE some good songs. And I hate that I actually just wrote that sentence.

So I do not know where I stand on the state of music, current or past, good or bad or otherwise. Because I willingly listened to Norah Jones for a few days before nearly impaling myself on the bed post, and while doing my abs the other day I was glad to hear the Thompson Twins song with the cool piano lick.

For the record, this post was authored by a formerly professional critic, wherein I published a record review of a Sting album with the last sentence being "Zzzzz.". Which shows you that nobody knows nuthin about nuthin.

As you were.

Fanboy

I know. I'm going to be Fanboy here for a bit. Indulge me.

But really, how is it possible that a team with a proud and truly great history can come to this point? The team of Shula, Csonka, Marino, Griese, and the one and only undefeated season is now left by Nick Saban after two years?

I want Shula back. I never wanted him gone to begin with. He was football greatness personified - like Butkus or Lombardi or Montana or Unitas. Saban? He crabbed at the media for daring to question him about his plans and then split a week later. And I don't begrudge anyone for leaving for a better offer, but criticizing the media for asking you about it and then leaving is pretty lame.

Ugh. It has been a long and difficult year for my football teams. Again, I say ugh.