Only The Lonely

Well, my wife and daughter are off in Japan, and in preparation for my upcoming trip to meet them I stopped by the local Japanese grocery and bought some foodstuffs to keep from starving while on my own.   

When I unpacked my groceries at home I was surprised to find actual directions in English on the noodles.  I had assumed it would all be in Japanese, and I had planned on just boiling them for about ten minutes and then, you know, eating them.  Oh, what a fool I was.  No, nothing that simple will suffice for these.

Alright.  Let's take it one step at a time.  Here we go.  

Step 1. Put noodles scatteringly in boiling water little by little, turn the fire low when spout out, boil continuously for about 12 - 13 minutes without changing temperature of water, put out the fire, wash in water and put noodles in a basket to drain off water.

First off, in what world is that one step?  Let's break it down a bit more, shall we?

Put noodles scatteringly in boiling water little by little.  Clunky phasing, maybe, but understandable.  

Turn the fire low when spout out.  Um... what?  I'm assuming "spout out" means returns to a boil?  Sure, let's assume that and move on.  

Boil continuously.  Is this really a problem?  Are a lot of people boiling things intermittently?

For about 12-13 minutes.  Could you be more unsure?  Didn't want to add "maybe" to the end of that?  Have they actually tried cooking these noodles before writing the instructions or are they just guessing?

Without changing the temperature of the water.  Well, I hate to pick nits (alright, I live for it), but how CAN you change the temperature of boiling water?  That's the whole point of boiling.  

Put out the fire.  Wait, I had to build a fire to cook these?  Crap, this is seriously authentic.  

Wash in water and put noodles in a basket to drain off water.  Okay, at first blush this seems understandable.  But wait, do I drain the boiling water off first?  I need a basket too?  I already had to build a fire and now I'm weaving baskets?  These noodles better be amazing.  

So, we've got some cooked noodles (and a new basket too!), let's move on to some serving suggestions.

Step 2. In addition to serving it as ordinary Udon, it can be served as Miso Nikomi and/or Yutsuke Udon by floating noodles in hot water and dipping them in the stock in another receptacle with spices such as green onion, laver, etc.

Okay, fine, I won't serve these as "ordinary Udon" (way to sell it there, by the way), in fact, I will go all out and serve them at Miso Nikomi AND Yutsuke Udon.  So... I put them in hot water and then... uh... I make some stock?  I need several dishes?  Green onion is a spice?  What the fuck is laver?  Oh, it's a traditional Welsh dish of seaweed.  Obviously.  And how exactly would I make Miso Nikomi versus Yutsuke Udon?

Hmm, this all seems quite complicated, can't I just put a sauce over these noodles and treat them like good ol' spaghetti?  Oh, look, here's step 3!

Step 3. It can also be served as spaghetti style by boiling noodles hard, frying and seasoning them with ketchup, etc.

How do I boil them hard?  Does that mean boil them until they're hard (no time at all, since they're dried pasta and start hard) or boil them hard, as in vigorously, as in for a long time?  Now I need a fryer too?  Fuck!  Oh, but I can them season them with ketchup AND etc.   Mmmmm, that sounds delicious!

Parenting Craps

Once again, dear reader, we delve into the world of worthless, stupid, and needlessly complex (not to mention expensive) baby products.  The topic this week?  Cleaning your child.

Yes, unfortunately, no matter how high tech your wipes and diligent you are about changing their clothes, eventually, after a month or two at least, your child will need to be cleaned.  

Now, you have many options.  You could shower with them, but then you have a small, slippery, wet, squirming item you're trying not to drop.  It's like showering with an oiled watermelon, but much less hilarious (and delicious) if/when you drop it.  You could bathe it in the bath, but the tub is kind of big and the baby is, in case you didn't notice, kind of small.  

So, if you're with me thus far, we've entered the world of baby bathtubs.  Now, you could buy a cheap and simple plastic tub that sets in the tub, fills from the spout, and drains with the innovative "dump it out" technology.  This would cost about $12, and would obviously show to the world that you may like your baby, but don't really love them.  

No, if you really, really loved your little one, you would spring for something that would get them clean while also showing your love and devotion.  You know, something like this:

No, your eyes aren't playing tricks, it's a whirlpool bath for an infant.  Once again, in case you're brain refused to process that the first time around, a whirlpool bath... for an infant.  Yes, I am baffled as well.  And just for those of you who think I scoured the internet to find this obscure and almost non-existent product, they're disturbingly common.  Seriously.

Really?  Does your baby need the bubbles to massage their stress away?  With a normal tub they are gently hand-washed from head to toe, carefully dried off and then dressed in clean clothing.  This isn't luxury enough? 

But, if even a jacuzzi bath just isn't extravagant enough for your special little one, you can always combine the bath with another item, to have the double benefit of making them both less functional while also more expensive.  Yes, something like a combination changing table and bathtub.  

The bathtub is under the changing table... in one of the drawers maybe?

And all for the low, low price of $892!

But, if you really want to be on the cutting edge of bathing, what all the cool parents are using is the Spa Baby, a "european style baby bath".  Because Europeans are so well known for their personal care standards.  It's a lot like a bucket... in fact, almost exactly like a bucket:

In case you're confused, the Spa Baby is the one with the baby in it.  As far as I can see, the only difference between the Spa Baby and a bucket is that with the Spa Baby you don't get a handle.  Oh, and it costs $41 more than the bucket.  Yeah, that makes sense.  No better way to show your love for your child than buying unnecessary and expensive crap.  Me?  I'm waiting for the Travel Spa Baby.  It's only $67.  And it's got a handle, for bathing on the go!

The awesome power of naming

According to anthropologists (or, more accurately, an anthropologist, I think his name was Bob), "naming is one of the chief methods for imposing order on perception."  

Which, er, means, well, something profound I'm sure.  And many believe that names carry power.  Just imagine if Oprah had been named Bertha.  Yeah, something about "Bertha's Book Club" just sounds like it would only contain cookbooks... about pie.  Mmmm, pie.  


But I digress.  Most of us are rarely asked to name anything in life.  Maybe a pet hamster (Mr. Pickles!) or a dog (Doctor Marmalade!), maybe even a product (Crystal Pepsi!).  But then we become parents, and we have to name a human.  Suddenly Xerxes and Tulibo are no longer 'suitable.'  No, we need to come up with a 'real' name for our child, something that fits a variety of conflicting goals. 


1) It must be serious enough for an adult but fun enough for a child.  You can't have a 3-year-old named Sebastian Chrisphersonville Jackstonian Ruperacton XIV.  Yet, you don't want to create a 42-year-old mother of 4 named Boopsie McChuckles.  


2) It should have meaning without being bizarre.  Naming your daughter after the Greek goddesses of Trees and Memory sounds like a fair idea.  Yeah, I'm sure little Mnemosyne Dendritus will be thrilled.  


3) It should be uncommon without being strange.  You don't want her to be the 17th Isabella in her class, but you also don't want her to be the only Samiyah in the tri-state area.  


So, you work and work, and finally come up with a name that you and your significant other love, something that really captures the essence of this little person you are going to create.  And then she's born, and within a matter of weeks you find yourself referring to her as "Doodle."  Yeah, we should have just named her Dendritus.  

Results Are In...

Well, the polls have closed and the results tabulated.

Bringing up the rear with zero votes, a dead heat for dead last between sushi, lobster, and peanut.  Apparently the readers have issues with dressing my child as a food product.  Probably a good idea, especially if you've seen me around food.  I may not realize it's my child until I've dipped her in soy sauce... though I would need some big chopsticks.  

In fourth place with one lonely vote is Princess Leia, in third with two is flower (sorry dear!), and in second... winning the silver medal as the first loser, it's the Owl/Aviator thingamajobber (boooo!).  So, yes, with 7 votes, a full 50% of the votes (although Google calculates it as 75%... with a total of 149%... just a reminder not to have Google do your taxes), it's...

Monkey! (In case you didn't know what this is)

Yes, my sweet darling daughter is going to be dressed as a monkey for her first halloween... or whatever my wife decides she should be, because, let's face it, I shouldn't be trusted with this kind of decision.

And, dear reader, neither should you, apparently.

Well, if this whole process taught us anything (not necessarily a safe assumption), it's that online polls are meaningless.  Now I need to go sign an online petition to stop torture, global warming, taxes, and, what the hell, hail storms.

Oh, and search google to figure out where I can get some bigass chopsticks.

Wishlist

My wife and I, in the 13 minutes between when we put our darling daughter to bed and she starts crying because she rolled over and can't/won't roll back (yeah, this isn't going to get old) often have some interesting conversations.  Recently, we began mulling over what we would buy if we had all the money in the world.  Okay, fine, if we only had $4.2 billion.  


Now, most people will list a bunch of cars, perhaps an island or two, maybe even an entire country.  (Yeah, Luxembourg, sure you're not for sale.  That's what all the tiny countries say.)  Often people will wish for something stupid, like a magic wand, or invisibility cloak.  

Way to waste your money, douche.

Yeah, good luck buying those things.  No thank you, nothing but real, tangible choices that can be bought with cold, hard cash for the missus and me.


Which brings us to our selections, carefully weighed and chosen for the outright joy and pleasure they would bring on a daily basis.


1) A suit made out of fresh, warm bread.  Baked anew every morning.  Sometimes brioche, sometimes sourdough, periodically just good ol' wonder white.  Warm, fragrant, and delicious.  

Kind of like this, but even more awesome

2) A second sink in the kitchen that looks and functions pretty much like any old sink.  Hot and cold taps, sprayer head, you know, the standard.  Ah, but instead of water... milk.  And maybe whipped cream from the sprayer head.  A never ending supply of fresh, delicious milk.  Warm or cold.  Yum.  

Mmmm, warm milk.

3) A constant supply of new socks.  Face it, most clothing gets better with wearing.  The exception?  Socks.  Okay, fine, bread suits and socks.  But new socks, mmmm, nothing better.  And, being mildly obsessed with them, most of the socks would be toe socks.

The perfect accessory for a bread suit.

So, there you have it, the best three things to possibly spend your money on, given unlimited funds.  You can thank me later.  Although, yeah, you can thank me right now, too.  


Fine, at the end of the day, I think we'd just buy a servant to flip our baby back over in her crib.  And by servant, I mean a robot made out of bread. 

Japan!

Well, now we've done it.  We booked tickets to Japan for the family.  Exciting?  Sure, yes, of course.  But it is an excitement tinged with abject terror.  24 hours travel time.  Three layovers.  With a 7 month old.  Yep, I keep envisioning an entire day of this:

Hooray!

But then it could be worse.  Much, MUCH worse.  I could be a stranger sitting next to her.  At least she's my daughter, and I have some chance at calming her down, right?  And besides, her crying sounds like sweet music to me.  Sweet, sweet screamcore.

But we'll get through it.  Besides, we've got a secret weapon!  The sit-n-stroll.  It's, well, it's...

It's a stoller!

No, it's a car seat!

NO, it's a stroller!!!

CARSEAT!!!

STROLLER!!!!!!!

No, you're both wrong (and kind of douches too), it's both and MORE!

According to their manufacturer, it is 5, count 'em, 5 things in 1!  It's a stoller AND a carseat AND a, uh, wait, you count rear facing and forward facing carseat as two things?  And your other two are FAA seat and booster seat?  So, really, it's 2 things in one.  A seat and a stroller, right?  Or, you could go the other way and say it's 1,322 things in 1.  Hey, why the hell not.  Let's go crazy!

It's a paperweight!  It's a boat anchor!  It's a miniature office chair!  It's a sideways facing carseat!  It's an emergency ejection seat (with option add-on rocket boosters)!

Despite all this, we bought it, and are hopeful that it will mildly smooth the travel to Japan.  After all, Kiki needs to enjoy the many pleasures of Japan.  That's right,

High-tech Toilets, requiring an engineering degree to flush:

Conveyor Belt Sushi:

Interesting Translations

Friendly Wildlife

Dogs in Pants

and Arcade Sex Machines

But no matter what, at least we know she already likes sushi.

Kiki Undercover

Well, it's Kiki's first Halloween (that we know of), and we're struggling with the costume decision.  She needs something cute, unique, mildly clever, slightly funny, and with just a soupçon of absurdity.  So, obviously, she's going to be... uh.... yeah, that's the problem we're having too.  Here are the ideas we've got so far...


1) Monkey

2) Princess Leia

3) Sushi

4) Flower (Missus' current favorite)

5) Owl/Aviator Thingy (My current favorite)

So now, dear reader, we ask, nay, beg for your help.  On the right is a poll, please vote for what you would like to see Kiki become this October.  And if you have any additional ideas, please post them in the comments and I'll add them (while reserving the right to edit/reject) to the poll.  Kiki thanks you... unless you choose something really embarrassing, in which case she curses you.  Oh, how she curses you.


EDIT:


One bit of additional information and a few more choices, just to muddy the waters. 


First off, my wife would like me to clarify that we are not planning on our child being topless for the monkey option, as in the photo.  No, we were thinking something more like this:

and also that, though the owl costume is an option, she reserves the right to veto the goggles, depending on Kiki's tolerance.  And, now on to the additional options:


6)  Lobster

Cute, but it somehow looks to me like the child was just shoved inside a dead animal.  I think it has to do with having eyes on the hat.  Just kind of creeps me out.  For illustration, compare the owl costume above to this one:

Ick.


7) Peanut

Very cute, but Kiki's mobile enough now, I think losing the use of her legs isn't going to go well.  

Why not just suck on a flashlight?

So, being as I've written about a dozen posts and have hit the theoretical "blog-wall" I'm now using ideas from friends, families, strangers, and small woodland creatures (just wait until my squirrel post, it will change your life forever!).  So, Ross, thank you for alerting me to the disaster that is BluCigs


Please, take a moment to check out their site, I'll wait...

www.blucigs.com

Okay, and welcome back.


Yes, I am befuddled myself.  Well, let's start from the beginning, shall we?  Judging from their homepage, the number one selling point for this product is that it is "Made in the USA."  Now, I'm not trying to be unpatriotic, but first I want to know what the fuck a product is before I care where it is manufactured.  There are some amazing wood tick pesticides manufactured in northern Texas.  Doesn't mean I want to buy them.


Okay, moving on.  It appears their quality control motto is "It's All Good."  Since your quality control appears to consist of a jackass douchebag (just try saying "it's all good" and not sounding like a jackass douchebag) equipped with a tiny checklist with the very technical categories of Excellent, Good, Average, and Poor (what, there wasn't room for "Totally Bitchin'"), forgive me if I am hesitant to stick your device in my MOUTH.  I am always a bit reluctant to stick electronics in my orifices, especially when they contain lithium batteries.  For those of you who slept through high school chemistry, here's what happens when lithium meets water:

Neato!  But I can smoke it anywhere!


But let's get back to BluCigs sales pitch.  I mean, sure, you can look like a complete douche, and have the thrill of possible chemical burns on your face, but what do these things actually contain?  Digging a bit through their site, you find their language gets more and more vague and nonspecific the deeper you get.  In question #27 (of 27) on the Customer Service page, you will find this gem:


What are the ingredients in e-liquid?

The blu cartridges contain nicotine (in levels of high, medium, low and no nicotine), propylene glycol, flavoring, and other safe flavoring ingredients exclusive to blu. These cartridges come in various flavors and nicotine contents to satisfy the needs of a variety of users. Propylene glycol is a water based ingredient found in many health products and medicines. None of the ingredients in the cartridges have been found to be toxic to humans.

Really?  Really?  REALLY?  So, nicotine has not been found to be toxic to humans?  So, in their definition, something that can kill you isn't toxic, huh?  Interesting.  I guess this just falls under the "It's All Good" umbrella.  Pardon me if I am a bit skeptical when you're "high" nicotine product contains 16 mg of nicotine, also known as over 50% of the lethal dose for adults.  Or, 150% of the lethal dose for children.  Oh, and propylene glycol, also known as anti-freeze?  Yeah, it's water based in that it contains hydrogen and oxygen.  But, don't worry, the propylene glycol website (yes, it has it's own lobbyist site) reassuringly states that "actually, from a toxicological point of view, alcohol is more toxic than propylene glycol."  Okay, sweet, because no one has ever died from alcohol, right?  Oh shit.  


But hey, don't worry, "It's All Good."

Get Thee Behind Me

Now, I've been called many things by strangers while out on my bike: Jerk, Asshole, Jerkhole, Assjerk... you get the idea.  I've also been the recipient of lots of constructive criticism, such as "Get off the Fucking Road" and "Slow Down Asshole."  All of these bon mots I take to heart, and try to use to better myself.  You know, by not being such a jerkhole... as least not all the time.

But last week, while riding rather slowly by an older ponytailed man, he looked directly at me, smiled, waved, and said, quite clearly:

"Bye Satan."

Then, just in case I thought I head misheard him, he repeated, "Bye Satan."

Yeah, I don't know what to make of it either.  I mean, am I Satan?  That would be kind of awesome.

But don't you think someone closer to me may have clued me into that previously?  Or that I may have noticed that I had some special skills like, for example, being immortal and having godlike powers?  And also, I don't think I would sweat as much, which would be nice.

But then again, maybe this beponytailed (hey, it works for spectacles) gentleman just has an incredible power of insight and sees what all others have missed.

But wait, maybe I'm not Satan (hurray!), but Satan was with me on my ride.  Kind of like that "one set of footsteps in the sand" parable, but bike centered.  Oh, and evil.  Yes, maybe Satan was simply acting as my personal cycling coach and, having done his training for this evening, was taking off.  So, this stranger was just being polite and bidding him adieu.

Great, now that Satan is training me, I'm sure I'm going to have to buy a powermeter.  Damn.

Wikipedia, meh.

Alright, yes, Wikipedia is somewhat nifty.  How else could you can find out all the facts there are to be known about Fictional Plants or Yatytay, Paraguay?  That's obviously invaluable to the betterment of society.  But my beef with them rests on three pillars.

1) You're internet based.  Thus, you have zero credibility.  Look at MySpace.  I rest my case.

2) You're created by an unpaid, largely anonymous group of know-it-all nerds.  Paid nerds have accomplished amazing things (science, medicine, internet porn).  But left to their own devices in their leisure time the best they've come up with is Dungeons and Dragons.

3) You take yourself too seriously and have no sense of humor about yourself or the world in general.

Yes, I am very thankful for number three, otherwise I would just be describing this blog.  Then I would have a beef with myself, and as any butcher will tell you, self-beefing is not to be encouraged.  In fact, it is currently illegal in 17 states, "seriously frowned upon" in 10 others, and "not mentioned in polite company" in the remainder.  Well, except for New Hampshire, where I think they provide tax breaks for self-beefers.  But New Hampshiranians are batshit crazy anyway.

"But Tulibo", I hear some of you saying (or, "Pero Tulibo" from my readers in Yatytay), "I cannot challenge the first two pillars of your argument, for they are solid and strong, like the mythical Wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk.  But I do not see the reasoning for your third pillar.  Please, enlighten me."

Well, dear reader, prepare to have your socks blown right through your shoes.

Exhibit 1: http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Count_Chocula&oldid=64163729

A brilliant, engaging, and thorough history of the life and times of Count Chocula.

Exhibit 2: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_Chocula

The current Wikipedia page on Count Chocula.  Not interesting, not informative.  All but useless.

Why the edit?  Why did Wikipedia remove this stunning example of fictional history?  Because it isn't true.

Bullshit, Wikipedia.  Prove it isn't true!  Huh?  That's right, you can't.  Because he's a fictional fucking character.

There is no truth, it's a goddamn breakfast cereal.  So then what does it hurt to have a hypothetical history of the Count?  Nothing.  Okay, maybe Billy Thompson, the third grader in Grand Rapids who is doing a show and tell next week on Count Chocula.  But, let's be honest, Billy's kind of fucked in school anyway.  A successful show and tell isn't going to help his future prospects.

But Wikipedia can't stand to have something "untrue" in it.  Well, guess what Wikipedia?  You're full of mistakes, falsifications, and outright lies.  You're created by the general public.  And they're self-serving, egocentric, asshole idiots (no, not you dear reader, you're delightful... and attractive... and smell vaguely of cupcakes).  So please Wikipedia, get over yourself, relax, and let a few known falsifications stand for the entertainment of us all.  I'm personally much happier living in a world where Count Chocula started out as Ernst Choukula's Golden Wheat Muesli, a packaged mix intended for horses, mules, and the hospital ridden.  

More Food Crimes Against Nature

As a follow up on my recent post about spray foods (and thanks to Bridget) I bring you....

The Candwich

Yes, let the preemptive vomiting begin.

It comes in peanut butter with grape or strawberry jelly, barbeque chicken, and a pepperoni pizza pocket sandwich amalgam from hell.  It's perfect for soccer moms, cyclists, and an isolated post-apocalyptic survivalist.  So, basically, whichever of my career choices I follow, the candwich fits right in.

Ah, science, what hath thou wrought now?  Now, just because you can do something (no pun intended), doesn't mean you should.  I could can bread, probably, but I don't, because that would be gross.  Wait, what?

Well fuck.  Where is this bunch of assholes with a cannery and too much free time?  Get another hobby, dammit, and stop canning random things.  Please.  Before you get really out of hand.  Oh shit, too late.

Well, at least they're Manhattan Style.  Now New England style canned fish assholes?  That would be gross.

Give me more stuff in a tube!

I was perusing the aisles of the local mega-mart and came across this glorious concoction:

Yes, Batter Blaster!  Oops, make that ORGANIC Batter Blaster.  Because god forbid your pancake/waffle batter in a spray can is somehow unnatural.  It's produced by the Batter Blaster Company of sunny Scottsdale, Arizona.  And frankly, I feel like they're seriously limiting their opportunities to sell foods in a can.  Personally, I would have named it the Food In a Can Company.  We would go by FICCo internally.  Yes, this is yet another reason I am not in charge of my own company.

Anyway, to review our pressurized food offerings to date, whipped cream and spray cheese led the pressurized food charge.  I'm glad to see pancake batter finally getting in on the game, but frankly I'm disappointed that this is all we've seen.  Where's our spray peanut butter and jelly?  How about chocolate chip cookie dough?  Or maybe italian sausage meat?  Yeah, this future is disappointing me as well.

It's hard to make out in the photo, but the serving suggestions on the bottom of the label suggest that you "Simply blast batter into a skillet or waffle iron.  No cleanup!"

Really?

When else have the words "blast" and "no cleanup" ever gone together?  Nope, you're going to have batter blasted everywhere.  On the ceiling.  In your hair.  Somehow behind the refrigerator.  Pretty much everywhere except your skillet or waffle iron.

Does this temper my love for this product?  Hell no, I'll take massively inferior product if it comes in a can.  Face it, spray cheese is horrific, whipped cream in a can tastes about 1/10th as delicious as true whipped cream, and these sprayed pancakes have a soupy texture coming out of the can and an odd chemical aftertaste, but I bought the damn stuff anyway, because I'm doing all I can to usher in a future filled with chemically processed pressurized foodstuffs.

My Daughter, Gozer the Destroyer

After our daughter was born we had many of the typical conversations with others about who she looks most like.  Typically the options were my wife or I.  But one person, my brother, cut through the social norms and told us how it was; we had brought to life Russell from Up.

But she grew and changed as babies do, and she stopped looking so much like the helpful little 3D pixar boyscout.  No, now our daughter more closely resembles Gozer the Destroyer.  

Yes, my daughter is an angry Stay Puf't Marshmallow Man.  I've never been more proud.

(Just so that I ever have a hope of my daughter talking to me when she's 15 years old and her friends find this on the internet (ha, like the internet will still exist in 15 years!), here's a cute picture of her:)

INTJ

Several months ago a friend sent me this quiz, a simplified Myers-Briggs personality test.  As you may have inferred from my blog, I am a sucker for a web based answer to my near Quixotic quest for self understanding.

For those keeping score at home of my personality quiz results, I'm Charlotte from Sex in the City, Ralph in Simpsons, and the gay guy in The Village People.  So, according to Myers and Briggs, I'm an INTJ.  This personality is alternately described at "The Mastermind," "The Scientist" and "The Know-It-All Asshole."

Thus, I have decided to abandon my chosen career (and my burgeoning blogging stardom) to become an evil mastermind scientist.  I think the asshole is kind of implied by that.

But wait, I guess I could be a good mastermind scientist, or at least a morally neutral mastermind scientist, but then I wouldn't have as good an excuse for my three favorite pastimes:

1) Dressing in all black
2) Laughing maniacally
3) Building doomsday devices in the basement

Yes, I think the internet has finally delivered something useful to me, instead of the usual... well, porn.

No, wait, just did a google search for "evil mastermind scientist" and 98% of the results were porn.  And one treatise on the evil scientific method.  Nope, wait, it's mainly porn too.

A long, proud tradition of cheating

July is coming, and you know what that means? Fireworks?  No.  Barbeque?  Hell no!  Le tour de France!  Oh, for those who don't sprechen el français, THE Tour OF France.  Yes, I know, most of you do expect a bit of a language lesson in my posts.  Yes, this Saturday the Tour kicks off again, this time in the Netherlands, I believe.  There or maybe Detroit.  I can't keep it straight.  


Anyway, once again the press is filled with news about the latest cheating rumor in the professional peloton.  No, not blood doping, or even it's lesser known (and less effective) alternative, saliva doping.  Not testosterone creams, lotions, suppositories or mints.  Not even HGH.  Nope, the latest approach for the cheating cyclist is to put a drill motor in your bike that pedals it for you.  I am not kidding.  This is what people are claiming.  Seriously.  


Cue the whining, complaining and arguing in the cycling blogosphere, but are we really surprised?  Cyclists will cheat, especially in the tour.  The work is so demanding and the rewards are too enticing.  The penalties just won't suffice.  Short of automatic amputation of both legs at the knee upon suspicion of doping.  Now that would make things interesting.  


Personally, I'm just impressed at the level of sophistication that dopers have achieved.  High tech motors and batteries more powerful for their size than anything a major automobile or laptop manufacturer has been able to produce?  Nice work.  To give perspective on how far they've come, let me introduce you to Hippolyte Aucouturier:

Two time winner or Paris-Roubaix, winner of five stages of the Tour (back when they were really hard, you know, 300 miles or so, on single speed bikes, with wooden wheels, and no support).  But, what Hippolyte (H-dog to his friends) is perhaps best remembered for, besides looking like a villain from a silent movie, was his part in the 1904 Tour.  


In a year plagued by cheating, Hippo took the cake by cheating in a most brazen, creative, and unusual manner.  Sure, some of his competitors simply rode to the train station and hopped a ride for 50 or 60 miles of the stage, and others had gangs attack their competitors, but such pedestrian cheating was well beneath ol' Hippoly.  No, he simply had a cork mouthpiece he clenched in his teeth.  Which was connected to a wire.  Which was connected to a car.  Yep, he was pulled up a mountain by his teeth.  The amazing thing is, that was less painful than riding up it using, you know, your legs.  


So, yes, maybe at some point, someone will use a mechanical motor to cheat in a bike race.  But so what?  It's just the next logical step in a long, proud tradition.  And at least you don't risk having your front teeth ripped out by a 1903 Model A.  

Anti-American Sentiments

Look, I'm not trying to be unpatriotic or a jerk (okay, I probably am trying to be a jerk, it is pretty typical for me), but I really hope the U.S. never wins the World Cup.

Oh, for my American readers, the World Cup is a soccer tournament played every four years among all the nations of the world.  Kind of like the World Series, except with the entire world having a chance to win, not just New York.  Fine, and Boston.

Anyway, I hope the U.S. does well this year, even advancing well into the knockout rounds, but I really don't want us to win it all.  Thankfully, I don't think there is much chance of that happening anyway.  But, seriously, the U.S. winning the world cup would be like the Bora-Bora Buccaneers winning the Stanley Cup.

Sure, they'd enjoy it for about a day, then they'd move on to the next important news item.  Like a 12 year-old who is stuck in a weather balloon but isn't actually but his parents just said he was so they could get a television show... are you FUCKING kidding me that that actually happened?  What the fuck is wrong with people?  And we all just kind of accept that this is now acceptable behavior.  Not only for our fellow man, but for our news sources too.  If I call CNN and say I accidentally flushed my daughter down the toilet would they, with no other verification and despite the fact that such an occurrence goes against all logic and sense, proceed to televise 4 hours of the sewer outlet downstream waiting for a baby to pop out?  Probably.

Anyway, yeah, back to the World Cup, I will spend the next week rooting for North Korea until they are statistically eliminated by being beaten 12-0 by Brazil, then I'm thinking of throwing my support behind Ivory Coast.  Or maybe the Bora Bora Buccaneers.

A Crack Commando Unit

In honor of the upcoming A*Team movie (nice work Hollywood, only 20 years late), I've created an answer for all your sleepless nights trying to decide which cast member best represents your personality.

A*Team personality quiz:

Pick the Answer that best describes yourself.

1) I am:

A) Older, smart, and have lots o' gray hair.
B) Large, black and intimidating.
C) A woman

2) I enjoy:

A) Solving problems, helping the helpless, cigars
B) Being filled with men
C) Being helpless

3) My idea of the perfect saturday night is:

A) Having a plan come together
B) Jumping off dirt ramps and smashing into things
C) Being helpless

YOUR RESULTS......

Mostly "A"s :
Congratulations, you're Hannibal.  Um, what do you want, a medal?  Oh, you do?  Alright, I'll see what I can do.

Mostly "B"s:
Congratulations, you're the van.  Enjoy the brief increase in resale value you're going to enjoy following this remake, then be prepared to be stored in a barn next to a hillbilly's General Lee replicar.

Mostly "C"s:
We apologize, you appear to be a woman.  In the A*Team universe you register slightly above a cat and well below a helicopter in importance.  Sit back and hope a man comes along to help.


Hope that lets you rest a bit easier.  And, just for the record, Shaquille O'Neal would have made a kickass B.A. Baracus.  Bringing a bit of that Shaq-Fu magic back to the silver screen.

Slings and Sharrows

In the face of an ever increasing incidence of cars deciding to show their love for bicycles by smashing into them, my fine city has jumped into action.  Putting aside the typical issues of a large bureaucracy attempting a difficult solution to a complicated problem, they've implemented a corrective course of action.  They're painting sharrows.  About 50 of them.  On one stretch of road.  For those of you who don't regularly read cyclist activist blogs, a sharrow is this:

Yep, it's a "clever" name for what is more technically (and accurately, you know, in english) known as a "share the road arrow," or to most drivers, "crap on the road."  So I guess it was "Sharrow" or "Croad."

Look, I'm not against these, they don't do much harm besides mucking up the nice aesthetics of pure blacktop.  Hell, if the city wants to paint a continuous strip of advice on the road saying:

"Don't run over people.  If you're drunk, please don't drive.  If you're an asshole, consider just doing us all a favor and removing yourself to somewhere you'll blend in.  Like New Jersey"

I'm fine with that.  I don't know if it's the best use of tax monies, but according to our government it does provide an incredible boost to the economy.  Because, as Adam Smith postulated, the basis for all economic growth rests on the financial success of roadwork painting crews.  But I digress (yes, I know this entire post, and really the whole blog is a digression, smart guy).

My real problem is the insipid name.  Sharrow.  It sounds like a weapon a Care Bear would use.  To fight, well, what the hell do Care Bears fight?  Selfish children?  I mean, it kind of sounds right, until you drop out the adjective: "Care Bears fight children....with sharrows".  Hmmm, maybe they fight something less controversial.  Like cancer? 

It sounds better, sure, "Care bears fight cancer", but frankly, looking at one of them, I want something a little more badass fighting cancer.  Like Voltron.  I mean, the bear is asleep.  Asleep!  Cancer's not sleeping, oh no!  No, in my world, Care Bears fight nasal congestion.  With sharrows.  And our roads are covered in Croads.  And all is well... oh, and Voltron is going to kick the living shit out of cancer.

Synthetic Life: About as exciting as synthetic piano.

For those of you who turn to this blog for all your world news, there was a breakthrough last week in the realm of synthetic life.  J. Craig Venter of the J. Craig Venter Institute, located in J. Craig Venter, Illinois, successfully synthesized DNA and inserted it into a bacterium, creating an organism with no "parent."  People, especially nerdy people, are very excited about this.  But no one thinks about this poor bacterium.  Brought into this world all alone, no parents, no relatives, no siblings.  Destined to be frozen and sent to a museum.  But, given what it would be doing if it wasn't this famous little life form, i.e. living in the respiration tract of a goat or cow like it's bacterial donors, maybe it's life isn't so bad.

I know, lots of nerds are all atwitter about this, but seriously, creating an organism that is closely related to bacteria that live in the respiratory tracts of ruminates and the genital tract of primates just doesn't do it for me.  After spending 15 years and over $40,000,000, they've created an organism that, well, lives in a petri dish... and replicates... oh, and it's blue.  That's about all there is to say about it.

This work has led to talk of producing strains of engineered life that will feed on carbon dioxide and produce bio-fuels.  Yep, still not all that excited.  Sorry, but until they come up with a large blob-like organism that lives under your sink and eats garbage and excretes... hmm, let's say cake, I'm just not that excited.  But when they do make the cake pooping blobster, I'm totally getting two.  One for home use, and one to sell poo cakes to Japan.  They've got a very unusual relationship with poo.