Turkey, Mashed Potato and Baked bean McFlurry

I invented a road-game a few years back called "Invent the most disgusting McFlurry Flavor" which, for some reason doesn't seem to have caught-on farther than my group of friends. Sure sure, I couldn't do the board game version of it without permission from McDonalds, but you would still expect to overhear people playing it on the bus or in line at McDonalds.

The rules are simple and somewhat flexible and there are two variations:

Variation One: Invent the most disgusting sounding McFlurry flavor using only ingredients found on the menu at McDonalds. This game is best with more than two players, as there is no scoring, just a vote. Multiple entries are encouraged, and players may pick the best of their own inventions for the final vote.

1. McFlurry flavors already on the menu, while possibly disgusting, are not typically considered fair game.
2. Entries that cause other players to actually retch automatically win that round.
3. Always remember that the flavors mentioned will be blended into the base soft ice-cream.
4. All items from the McDonalds menu past and present are available ingredients (e.g. McRibs and McPattyMelt)
5. A minor variation to Variation One is to allow both items from the McDonalds menu and things you suspect are also in the kitchen.

Variation Two: All of the same rules from Variation One, excepting that any food item eaten in the last 3 months by any player may be used. Variation Two is not generally considered a sporting version of the game, and will doubtless not be considered for the Olympic approved version of this game.

My original entry of "Sausage Biscuit with Cheese McFlurry" still stands out as a classic, but MANY entries using minor variation #5 have propelled players to fame and glory (e.g. greasy fry-cook hair and McEgg McFlurry, from the Bainbridge games in '04)

I think you can all see where this is going. I expect that McDonalds and Hasbro have held back out of courtesy to my copyright, so I've decided that Christmas 2007 will be the last one in which children everywhere are not given the opportunity to make their parents ill by just playing a simple game. I'm officially and publicly placing the McFlurry game into the public domain so that people everywhere can savor the thrill of competition, the joy of victory over hale and hardy opponents as each of you describe the most horrifying ice-cream and McCrud you can imagine. Your imagination is only limited by the glowing reader board at your nearest McDonalds!

In addition, I'm establishing a fund to pay real money to the first person to get their game winning entry added to the real McDonalds menu. It can't be any worse than what's already on there.

Scheduled criminal visitation

Inexorably the calendar sits in sinister silent witness and I am again assaulted by the certain knowledge that a foreign person unknown to me will at some time during the night be entering my home, bypassing my security system on the doors and windows, leaving objects who's contents are purposefully hidden from me and then leaving as fast as his mutant ungulates can carry him, to serially perform these criminal trespass and possibly terroristic acts all over my neighborhood and much of the world.

I speak of course of the annual visitation of Kris Kringle AKA Santa Clause, Santa, Saint Nick, Jolly Old Elf, Father Christmas, Sinterklaas and other aliases too numerous to mention spanning the globe and many cultures. In terms of sheer volume, Mr Kringle is likely the most prolific criminal in history, breaking into millions of homes every year for hundreds, or possible thousands of years - depending on which origins one chooses to believe.

One of the stories most in line with commonly held beliefs regarding Kringle is one originating with early Germanic tribes who said that Krampus, a horrible monster, would slither down chimneys in Southern Austria and alternatively slaughter children, eating them on the spot or stuff them into a sack for a later snack. Later stories, clearly invented to calm the terrified populace, depict Saint Nicholas taming the beast and (this is the truly frightening part) then sending it BACK INTO THE SAME HOMES to provide candy and gifts to traumatized siblings - presumably after the gore was cleaned up from previous visits. While children may really like candy, I can't imagine that the sudden appearance of the horrible monster that disemboweled your brother or sister, only this time delivering candy, would be at all calming.

No, from the various tales told it seems likely that the Kringle entity is non-human in origin, likely possessed of some pretty serious alien technology. Most of us have seen the back of the napkin calculations on required speed, sleigh carrying capacity and visits per second required for the Christmas break-ins to happen the night of December 25th. Needless to say, those aren't really reindeer moving at 650 miles per second, carrying around 320,000 tons and "landing" on your rooftop. If he's not using some sort of anti-gravity, I'm pretty darn sure that my own roof would collapse under the weight.

His in-transit activities aren't really that concerning to me though. I figure anyone out flying in a conventional aircraft on a night when we KNOW there's someone moving at 3000 times the speed of sound, with no filed flight plan in the air with you gets what's coming. The good news is that if there's a collision, it will be over VERY quickly. No, the problem I have is that for the Klaus criminal to enter each home, drop the suspicious packages and get on with the crime spree, he has to move that fast inside my home. While I can sympathize with the folks that try and slow him down a bit with milk and cookies, it's really just causing a bit of a ricochet effect for the in-house path. Your best bet is to park the Christmas tree directly in front of the fireplace, minimizing the time and distance a Santa sized projectile is moving through the house at about 1000 times faster than a high powered sniper bullet.

From experiments with magnesium and sodium metal in the fireplace, I can tell you that he's impervious to heat. Nothing you do to the fireplace or fire will be sufficient to keep him out, the technology he has access to is beyond our ability to protect against. Truly, anything you could do to proof your home against the rampage would be too dangerous to you and your family to really consider. No, the only thing you can do on December 24th is barricade yourself into the basement or bedroom and hope that the entity will not take interest in your entrails or decide to leave something truly nasty in one of the concealing boxes. If all goes well, he's only in the house for about 1/1000 of a second and then off to terrorize the neighbors. There's no way to know his schedule, so it's best to wait in your safe room with your family until daylight on the 25th before venturing out. If you have children, try not to share your justified terror with them, but be realistic about their chances of survival if caught out near the tree with a 260 lb bearded home invader moving about with enough kinetic energy to instantly incinerate the whole block if he impacted with something.

Regarding the packages, you can't rely on the bomb squad as you ordinarily would for this situation. Remember, he's broken into most of the homes in your city, and it's likely the mayor is the only one with enough clout to get the bomb disposal robot into his house today. No, you might as well just hug your children and/or spouse and then carefully unwrap each of them being careful to identify tripwires and oxygen sensitive ignitors. It's good practice for the kids, in case they are ever in politics or possibly just make a lot of enemies. For the most part, the packages are benign, merely delivered to inspire terror, but occasionally the threat has to be real, or it ceases to have any effect.

Sometimes, it's a hand knit sweater from a relative that you can't just avoid for the rest of your life.

I want what he's looking at...

People who know me might have the impression that I don't enjoy shopping. While I understand how they reach that conclusion, it's not strictly true. I'm OK with shopping, and if it's stuff I'm interested in, I could even enjoy shopping - if we could just get everyone else to leave the store while I do it. Perfectly good shopping trips are ruined by sales associates, other shoppers and checkout people who all conspire to ruin the experience.

As a part of a series on HOW these people turn a simple transaction into Dante's 4.2th circle of hell (that's a 40% discount!) I'd like to take a moment to contemplate the people who seem to have no will of their own, and wander aimlessly throughout the store until I happen to stop and look at something, whereby they immediately must closely examine that same item.

I've given some thought to what's wrong with these folks (yes, I know - you're not surprised) and I think it's really a list of genetic, social and mental deficiencies that produce them.

Genetic:
Long ago in the evolution of our species it was quite useful to stop and show interest in the water buffalo that I'd just killed with my fancy new flint tipped spear. As long as I didn't decide to use the fancy new spear to add you to my entree for the evening, you might end up with some part of the water buffalo that I wasn't interested in, like the spleen. Mmmm, spleen.

Those days are long past though, and I can virtually guarantee that whatever carcass I'm currently contemplating at Fry's, they have at least 3 or 4 more of, and I'm NOT going to share even the spleen with any fellow shoppers. I'm even reasonably certain that barometric pressure activated switches don't even HAVE spleens. I need all of you in this category to evolve. Concentrate on the scaphoid bone in your hand, envision your thumb touching a fingertip. Imagine walking upright. Visualize seeing me picking up a fancy new ceramic tipped spear, and yourself sensibly running away. Visualize.

Social:
Some of you clearly feel self-conscious about approaching a retail item without someone else already showing clear interest. If you are in that category, I would like you to keep in mind that most of the stuff I'm interested in looking at more closely has some sort of sharp edge or other battle advantage. I'm not looking at the new thumb-drive that will make you more popular with all of the other social amputees that you hang out with. No, I'm gazing at things that will get you hauled off to Guantanamo if combined with 3 or 4 other household items and attached to your congressman's SUV. Back carefully away from the guy with the odd looking electrical components and walk over to the thumb-drive isle.

Mental:
Imitation is not the most sincere form of flattery, cash is more sincere. If you find yourself unable to resist the charismatic draw of my intense examination of the 12 mile range walkie talkies, don't pick one up yourself and pretend you are considering a purchase. Instead, just give me whatever cash you walked into the store with, along with your credit cards and checkbook and then go home. If you walk around buying stuff just because someone else seems interested in it, I'm afraid you shouldn't be granted access to your own money. Oh yeah, when you get home, tear up your voters registration card too.

Now, I have to go back to Fry's. I think I forgot 3 or 4 other household items.

Moby English

From time to time "people" ask me what horrible thing occurred in my life to result in the pile of ripe prose before you. While I'm sure it's the accumulation of many things, mostly unrelated to winding mazes of twisty passages or evil HVAC systems. No, most of what drove me to start putting these "thoughts" to paper was wrapped up in my "education." (Promise, I'm done with quotes for this post. I only do that when I haven't been using my right pinky finger much...)

Included below is a sample transcript from my infallible memory regarding a conversation I had in 7th grade or so. This transcript is about as exact as I can make it, though my thoughts about this teacher may have softened a bit over the years and may be remembering that he was nicer than was strictly true. For example, the blood mentioned below is assumed to be my own blood, but could in-fact be from multiple donors and/or animals. How much blood does it take to soak a yeardstick end-to-end to the point where it obscures the numbers? Those of you that quickly answered, please read my Wal-eyed blog entry, and remember my shopping habits.

Begin Transcript ----------------------------------------------------------------

English teacher: So, Mr. Simon, what have you decided to bother me about today?

Me: I humbly beg your valuable time and incalculable wisdom in
explaining a basic principal of good writing that I cannot seem to
grasp, no doubt due to my native and profound stupidity.

English teacher: Yes, your stupidity IS profound, and I despair of
teaching you anything, but since I'm paid to talk to all of you
morons, you may continue to blather.

Me: Thank you kind educator, I am most grateful for your kindness in
this matter.

English teacher: Get on with it, or I'll hit you with this stick.

Me: Since I see the dried blood from last time I was slow to learn,
I'll get right to it. One of the items that you so rightly mark and
subtract points for on my papers is that I use long sentences. You
tell me that this creates poor lexical density.

English teacher: Yes, that's true. Good writers use short sentences
which are easily diagrammed. You occasionally use twelve to fifteen
word sentences, which a) I expect that you plagiarize and b) are just
poor writing.

Me: So, there is no possible situation in which regularly using longer
sentences would be considered good writing?

English teacher: No, and in your case you should stick to sentences of
three to six words, so you can understand them.

Me: So you are telling me that this never ending pile of slag called
Moby Dick, which you've forced us all to read is really REALLY crappy
writing, since Herman Mellville frequently uses fifty to eighty word
sentences, such as this one from chapter 2:

"With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver, --So,wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south --wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too particular."

English teacher: Please step a little closer boy, my stick is only 3 feet long.

End Transcription-------------------------------------------------

For the next few years I ignored the content of the obviously substandard texts that teachers felt compelled to have me and my fellows read, and used the analysis taught in the very same classes to evaluate Homer, Melville, Swift and the like. In most cases, they received the grade of D or F but I cut some of them slack due to the problem of multiple translations and thousand years or so of writing via the telephone game.

You might think that immediately applying what I learned in these classes to the assigned texts would have won the hearts of each educator that I encountered, but for some reason it did not. So, I've learned to keep my distance from english teachers (about 3.5 feet) and am forced to practice here - safely out of reach, with the occasional 29 word sentence.

Speed Enforced by 50 quintillion watt radar

A recent road trip caused me to read many signs regarding how local law enforcement were planning to deal with my potential speeding, and I am now quite afraid of the massive radar arrays that these folks appear to have installed. Specifically, I'm referring to the signs which say "Speed Enforced by Radar."

Enforcement is a strong word with a short definition "Compel obedience to." In states and counties where the speed is merely "checked" by radar, I assume that they are using the normal radar guns which bounce a beam off of my car and use the Doppler shift to register my rate of travel, allowing the officer to see that I am safely under the limit and turn his/her attention to some other potential law breaker and NOT SEARCH MY TRUNK FOR MARMOSETS, SINCE I DON'T HAVE ANY IN THERE.

No, the folks that actually plan to compel my obedience to the speed limit using radar are the scary ones. To do that, you would need to use something called "radiation pressure" which is a minuscule force, even when you are measuring the output of something who's radiation you can feel as warmth, like the sun. As an example, if we were at a place where the energy flux from the sun were about the boiling point of water (373.15 Kelvin) the radiation pressure would be about 2 lbs of force per square mile. Slowing down a speeding car by 5 or 10 miles per hour is going to take a heck of a lot more energy than 2 lbs / square mile.

I don't want to do the energy calculations for the requirements of a radar gun capable of enforcing speed limits, but I'm reasonably sure that it would require a captive black hole and a pretty serious array of antennas, likely electromagnetically focused (or a shaped gravity lens -- if you have a captive black hole already, why not?) In any event, the resulting EM beam would almost certainly vaporize the car, the occupant and any marmosets that you then couldn't prove were ever in my trunk. It would also vaporize anything in it's path until it cleared the horizon, and small chunks of the moon if it happened to be in the way.

Where are podunk counties in Northern California getting this kind of technology? Why aren't we seeing huge swaths of the countryside charred to pure carbon by their speed enforcement technology? I expect everyone is as frightened by the threat of radar enforced speed as I am, and don't dare speed in these places.

You may note that I've not addressed the signs saying "Speed Enforced by Aircraft" which are really scary too, but pretty obvious as to their method. It seems wasteful to destroy a whole airplane that way every time you want someone to slow down, but at least it doesn't burn holes in the moon.

Paul McCartney hates everything.

Maybe hate is too strong of a word, but I believe I can prove that he "doesn't care too much" for anything, so maybe "Paul McCartney doesn't care too much for anything" would be a more accurate title, but if you've read this blog, you know it's not about accuracy (or style, definitely not content or structure... I guess I could tell you what it's about, but then I'd have to shoot me.)

Back to my point. If you listen to the lyrics for "Can't Buy Me Love" written by Paul and John, you'll hear this:

"....I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love"

The clear implication here is that the author/singer doesn't care too much for anything that can't buy him love. Since most will agree that nothing can buy love; clearly Paul and/or John is saying here that they don't really like anything. Paul later recanted, but not in a way that would warm your heart. He decided, based on his experience and success that indeed money can buy him love. This strikes me as even more cynical than his original position, that he doesn't much like anything, and not reflective of his thinking at the time of writing.

John Lennon later followed this up with the lyrics to "Imagine" which I'll excerpt here:

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for

John embraced his inner dislike of everything and imagined a utopia when all of those things ceased to exist. Paul on the other hand seems to have repressed his true feelings about everything not himself and gone on to write/perform several songs that at the very least explain that he likes cannabis. Actions speak louder than words though and Paul clearly showed his dislike for both his fans and the rest of the world by recording two songs with Michael Jackson.

Cynical as I must sound like from time to time, clearly Paul and John have me beat here. I've never claimed to hate everything. Everything is a really long list and I can think of several exceptions to it right off the bat. For example, I don't hate gold striped cats named "Westley" or most cheese (brie isn't cheese, it's spoiled milk with a rind.)

I'm also OK with money, even though it can't buy me love. So Paul - you can send me a check (Google knows how to find me) to get rid of some of the stuff you don't care for. I'm afraid I can't help much with the rest of it.

Wall Eyed

There’s some sort of weird experiment going on at WallMart and it’s not the one you are thinking of. No, this one seems to have something to do with mind control (no, not the one you are thinking of now either.) What I’ve noticed is that as I walk around WallMart, looking for some elusive item, like a machete or a razor sharp double bitted axe, I see the following behavior repeated time after time. A stationary shopper, who’s body is oriented in direction A whose head is turned in direction B will suddenly and without warning begin to move in direction C, which space I am currently occupying.

First, I’m almost 6 feet tall, and large enough to do these shoppers serious damage if I planted my feet, stuck out my elbows and then checked them like I thought they had the puck and the referee wasn’t looking - but I would never consider doing that. My point is that since I’m large, wearing a bright red cap with reindeer horns and playing the bagpipes while I do my shopping it shouldn’t seem like a good idea to back into me. If I’ve already found the machete or axe, I would say that goes double.

So, what explains these people countering millions of years of instinctive fear of blundering into tar pits, sleeping lions and bear traps someone put under a pile of leaves that I raked? Walking in a direction you aren’t looking is sketchy even when you are in a safe place, in a wildly hostile environment like WallMart, it’s an evolutionary dead-end behavior. The only realistic explanation is that the aliens that own WallMart have decided to exterminate the human race by somehow encouraging this dangerous behavior through mind control. Remember, it’s not just backing into me, these victims specifically confuse the issue by pointing their body towards the expired cashews, looking at the demo-sized soap isle and then making a feral plunge to their 7:00.

Fortunately, the affected population is easily identified, even outside of the WallMart environment. Look for the ones with axe marks on their demo-sized soap container and tar on their shoes.

Anarchy shouldn't have it's own symbol

I've now seen the circle with an A in it on bumber stickers, window clings and as a non-spinning weighted hubcap cover on a minivan, and I'm confused by the whole concept. Not the concept of anarchy, anyone that has seen my office knows that anarchy and I have a close working relationship. No, the concept that I'm not quite fully understanding is how a concept which by its nature implies - a state of society without government or law - can have a symbol that is accepted by anarchists as the symbol. Who, exactly, is laying down the bucks to do a graphic design suitable for a bumper sticker / hubcap cover? If someone DID pay for a nice graphic design, did they copyright it or did they license it from whomever owns the trademark on representations of the circle A? Are there anarchist board meetings that discuss how distressed the swooshy brush strokes of the A will be, or how far outside the lines of the inverted V the cross stroke shall be? Can I get in trouble with some Anarchist governing body if I start using one with a perfect circle and a helvetica A in the exact center with no distressing or brush stroke stuff? Since nearly all of the representations I see are identical, I have to assume that like most organizations there is someone in charge of the ID, and enforcing conformance to acceptable versions. Can someone please send me the EPS scalable version of this thing?

Somehow related to all of that is the uniforms checked out to the students of the Art Institute of Seattle. If you drive by the Institute from time to time, getting onto the Alaskan Way soon-to-be-another-100,000-cars-each-day-on-surface-streets Viaduct, you know what I mean. Black shirt/blouse, black pants/leggings, black head thing (hat, scarf, headband, tatoo), black shoes, birkenstocks, Doc Martins and at least three items of flair which MUST include a stylized flame tatoo, a silver studded piercing and a "free item" which can be chosen by the art student. Does the Institute have a uniform shop where they sell these, or is it more like getting your boy scout uniform from regulated multiple suppliers? Do they have problems with rebels wearing yellow rain jackets or shameless gold piercings from time to time and have to crack down hard with the dress code?

All of these people are giving anarchy and rebellion a bad name. I think I'll go clean my office.

Economics of mystery shows

Just so you all know, this is a rant. I want to distinguish it from my usual postings, which are typically ramblings verging on tirades. I'm starting to hate the fact that you can always tell who the criminal/saboteur/evil mastermind is the second they walk on-screen by seeing that they are a recognizable B list actor. Almost any mystery series or show of any kind that tries to hide the identity of the antagonist has this problem, but I'll use Law and Order as an example, since they are one of the worst. If I recognize someone that just walked on screen from their appearances in other television dramas, there's about a 97% chance that they are the killer/rapist/fraudster for the episode.

One exception is when they bring in a A list actor, in which case you can depend on them being the villain only in the second or third part of a multi-part episode. Occasionally, an A lister will be the villain in only a single episode, but they will be really really evil. Like when Law & Order SVU brought in Martin Short as an evil psychic - Evil, evil, evil.

It pretty much ruins the show for me when you know whodunit 10 seconds after the bad guy walks on screen. I understand that these are the actors that are making their bread and butter on these shows, and for it to be worthwhile for them, it has to be a larger part, not just the grieving widow or estranged scion. I say give them a large part, and choose the killer from the extras list every once in a while.

What's the net effect? Well, since everyone I recognize on these shows are the bad guys, I'm only truly comfortable in the company of strangers these days. It's not that I can't separate reality from fiction (OK, but you have to admit it really LOOKED like a giant walking killer ham.) it's that I'm being conditioned to see the familiar as threatening by these shows. For those of you that know me, I've got my eye on you. For all of you total strangers, the key to my knife collection is in the adckuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

My AMAZING ABILITY

Not many people know, but I have an amazing 6th sense, which I believe I inherited from my father. Some people make interesting claims about mind reading or telekinesis, but those are all pretty much old-hat as far as I'm concerned. I've talked to a lot of you out there, and believe me - I don't want to read your mind. Sheesh, half of the time I can barely bring myself to listen to what you are saying out loud (...blah blah speed limit blah blah blah flock of turkeys blah hazmat team blah blah...) it's always the same old stuff. However, back to my ability; I can predict the future - but only in a really specific way. I can almost always tell when something annoying is about to happen, especially if I'm the one that's going to cause it to happen.

Yup, I know - you're wondering why all of the national labs aren't knocking on my door, asking for permission to study this ability. No no no, when they come knocking it's always about the "seismographic disturbances" or the "folded space" problem in my back yard - never about the cool 6th sense thing.

I remember clearly seeing my father demonstrate this ability when I was a child. He was working on a car, trying to get a nut to break loose with a cresent wrench. Pull as hard as he might, the nut was not budging and then it happened. He muttered to himself "if I pull on that one more time, the wrench is going to slip off and hit me" he pulled, it hit. I watched him pull on the wrench for 20 minutes before he said those fateful words, then smack, wrench sandwich.

While my Dad never again used his power in front of me, I soon found that I had inherited the gift. While lifting my breakfast plate I might suddenly be possessed by the thought "That newly buttered toast is going to fall off of the plate and land butter-side down on my new suede shoes, forcing me to jerk my foot away, thus spilling the orange juice on my homework, causing the citric acid to lift the ink right off the page, leaving me with a title and a blank page that smells like Florida. 10 seconds later, I'd be planning to skip first period to re-write my treatise on the chilling effect of high school on developing intellects, part IX.

Now, I take it all in stride. Yesterday, I looked at my shoelaces and immediately mentally added 5 minutes onto my exit for work, just microseconds before the lace snapped in my hand. I look in my rear-view mirror and signal a lane change, not because I'm about to change lanes, but because I want the person in the lane next to me to speed up and get out of my blind spot. What I can't figure out is why I still pull on the wrench, even though I KNOW it's going cause swearing and consternation. I guess I can't change the future, just be pre-annoyed by it.

Gah, I'm going to hit publish and then decide it's not worth re-opening this post to correct the spelling errors.

More Uncertainty

I usually don't stay on a single topic for more than one post here, but with a total of what - three entries you can't say that ANYTHING would be considered out of character, right?

One interpretation of quantum superpositioning and the observationally rendered wave function collapse is that for each and every possibility, all of the available options are realized, resulting in an astounding number of alternate universes, each precipitated by the observed resolution of (at the atomic end of the scale) an electron into a dicernable particle. If we consider that our actions at the macro level (e.g. choosing to hrrumph instead of snort as you read this) are precipitated by an extremely large number of events at the atomic level - we can imagine that for each of our actions, there are universes full of us that chose a near infinite number of alternate actions (assuming there are a finite number of quanta in the observable universe.)

If you're still reading, take a moment and consider what decisions in your life made that happen, and how you might influence things to produce better outcomes in the future, where you would be reading page 17 of your cellular phone manual instead.

So, if a few quadrillion versions of myself are spawning off new universes several times per second, manifesting all possible outcomes from each decision I make, that means a simple good versus evil choice that I make, like choosing the fajita versus the fish taco for lunch actually happens in equal measure by inumerable mes for every variant of each combination. So, while the me that's typing this has invariably chosen good (i.e. fajitas) over evil (clearly - fish tacos) there are JUST AS MANY mes that are out there ordering some horrific halibut with cheese and lettuce thing. So, while I'd like to think that I am generally a positive force in the universe, there's just as many mes out there wearing disco pants to the grocery store and voting republican.

Dedicated to our beloved Coda, still snoring on the couch in several quadrillion alternate universes, snoring evilly in about half of them.

Schrödinger's Outlook Calendar Entry

It has come to my attention that for periods of time, certain of my Outlook calendar entries are in a state of super quantum superposition, in that they are both scheduled and unscheduled at the same time. The state comes about when I've sent off several messages to people that I'm planning to meet with at some time in the near future (lets say within the week) and since I'm dealing with a finite resource (my schedulable hours this week), many of my announced available times overlap between meeting invitees. So, any specific entry may be:

1. Unscheduled (no invitee has decided to take this spot)
2. Claimed by one or more of several invitees (hence super quantum superposition)

Before I am able to get to my email and read the various responses, this means that the unobserved calendar entry is both unallocated, allocated and super allocated (everybody wanted Wednesday at 10:00.) According to the Copenhagen interpretation, My simple observational act of reading my email will coincide with the collapse of the wave function and resolve my schedule into something Microsoft Office can express. (That is unless you prefer to believe that non-conscious observers - in this case Microsoft Office - alter the quantum state of the observed phenomenon. If that's true, Microsoft Office is changing our reality at the quantum level millions of times per second. Try not to think about it.)

Now you know my problem. If I miss a meeting with you, it's because I was simultaneously also scheduled to be having tea with the Society for the Elimination of Annoying Car Sqeaky Sounds and saving a cat in a box with a radiation source nearby from certain doom. It's NOT because my scheduling habits are disorganized.

NOTE: The "laws" of "physics" portrayed in this note should have almost no resemblance to Schrödinger's "Die gegenwärtige Situation in der Quantenmechanik." Precisely, the similarities are:

• Use of the verb "know" although not in the same context.
• Reference to a cat, though mine was strictly to try and gain the reader's sympathy in the case where I stood/stand the reader up for a meeting (and attend it.)
  
• Improper use of comma splices.

Since I don't look at my blog logs, the entire planet has read and not read this entry. I'm VERY popular and ignored.

Titanium Spork as alternative lifestyle

So, along with the usual 4' hunting blowguns, lemur skulls, fish fossils and dried frog carcass-as-cell-phone-cozy that everyone I know received for Christmas this year, I also received a titanium spork. Much like the various versions of my TiVo thinks I'm gay out there, I begin to wonder what the gift of a titanium spork indicates that my good friends think of me.

I pretty much doubt that the people that bought me the spork have ever seen me eating with a spork. Hands, pocket knives, toothpicks, gravity and the occasional bendy-straw, but not a spork. So the focus is potentially on the hardy, will-survive-apocalypse nature of a titanium instrument, which holds more promise since they probably do know about the extensive system of underground tunnels under my house (and several neighbors houses if you want to get technical - see "hole digging") and the 3 years supply of food, water and silly putty stashed away just in case.

So, I'm thinking that they have thoughtfully provided me with an indestructible combination spoon/fork utensil on the off chance that Seattle will be destroyed by a combination of the Juan de Fuca Plate Tsunami / radioactive creature attack and spontaneous devolution of the Seattle city council and mayor into CHUD (their mothers would almost certainly notice the difference.) If that happens, I'll be packing around a very light weight single eating utensil while all of you are dishing up your rats and squirrels with your bare hands. You'll be all like: "Rarrrrgh aaarrgh, Spork man civilized" and I'll be all: "Quite true. Please pass the salt, this mutant opossum-squid is a bit gamey."

I'm glad folks are looking out for me. Oh, and for the record, my TiVo thinks I'm a llama.