They never specified "Veterans" of what

As the Calendar Gods grant all Americans (except my mom, as usual) a rare Wednesday off from work and school (or, for some of us, from not neglecting the care of children), I think it's important that we all take at least a few moments to remember who this Veterans Day is really about: Me.

How is this day about me, you ask? In what branch of the military did I serve? Well, that's a complicated question, in one sense. In another, more realistic sense, the fact that I never served is not complicated at all.

But let's look past that technically unanswered question to the most pertinent issue-- I work really hard, kind of, and I sacrifice a lot day in and day out, kind of. I've been the victim of so-called friendly fire as well as, more commonly, heavy enemy fire, in the form of fists, feet, land mines, food, toys, and bodily substances.

I don't think I need to remind you that many of these missiles have been aimed at my eyes and/or nuts.

So for obvious reasons, I could really use this day off, from... sitting around the house with the kids..... dammit.

Now that D-'s in kindergarten, this "day off" school actually means I'll be facing an even greater armed resistance, with reinforcements even better trained in the deadly and disgusting arts.

This makes me fear that while you sit at home yourselves today, you'll be wondering the whole time if I'll survive long enough to post on Friday. I assure you, though, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, and treats in my belly* (thanks, Halloween!), so I'm sure I'll be fine no matter what they throw at me. Literally or figuratively.

So I suggest you change your usual plans for that time from focusing on me to an even more worthy cause-- remembering and thanking those men and women who have so proudly volunteered** to continue sheltering this American experiment that has led the world to a brighter future over the last 233 years.

They sign up for the ultimate sacrifice, and we should always make sure they never have to make it.

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* The latter will help me outlast any forced starvation efforts before the kids themselves need their next meal prepared.

** I include in this, of course, those who were drafted into service or involuntarily reactivated.

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NOTE: While you're remembering the sacrifices of our armed forces, also remember that today would be Madeline Spohr's second birthday. Please stop by her mom's blog to help celebrate Madeline's short but eventful life.

Snake heads, heifers, and Carnaval

Surprise, surprise, here I am on a Thursday just to throw you all off.

But wait, no... scratch that now-outdated post opening. Blogger has had some kind of issue with scheduling posts in advance this week, so now it's actually Friday as usual.

Here I am sitting in a hotel in New Jersey in the middle of the night, dreading getting back behind the wheel sometime late tomorrow morning, and I've got to pile on finding out that just like I feared as we crossed state after state all day, Blogger never published my post.

It's really not unlike the dog owner following behind the dog with a plastic bag and a scoop. Who really works for whom in this relationship?

Anyway, now that you've smiled politely and nodded through my whining, head on over to Hot Dads to read my post for today/yesterday. Then poke around a bit after you're done reading mine, and you'll be glad you did.

Don't you have some Memorializing to do?

That's right, I caught you. Or at least the Americans, anyway.

This isn't some cheap Labor-Day-type holiday, where you can sit on the patio guiltlessly drinking beer and barbecuing every meal from breakfast cereal on up. It's not a day meant for you to take a load off and reflect on how awesome you are-- this is a day to honor important people!*

So you have to guiltfully drink that beer and barbecue those corn flakes, because while it may be one of the very precious few days off you're given as a supposedly lazy American worker, you'd better make damn sure you take at least a few minutes today to remember why even blood-sucking, accountability-dissipating American corporations won't take this day from you:

A lot of people --black, white, poor, rich, straight, gay, Christian, Muslim-- over the years have answered a higher calling, but couldn't make it back here to enjoy days like this after they helped make sure we could all continue to enjoy them.

So maybe, to adapt a tradition, throw an extra piece of cake, bag of chips, or glass of milk on the grill this afternoon for your friends who couldn't make it. They'll be glad you did, and so should you.

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* Ooooooooooooooh, burn!

Macaroni-and-Death in the Garden of Good and Edam

As those of you outside what I'll call The Snow Belt may have heard, the rest of us are currently dealing with the kind of snow that builds you a fort all by itself, and the kind of cold that freezes your tongue to your coat zipper the second your foot hits the front porch.

Sharp cold wave shocks upper Midwest, temps to -36

In times like these, disaster is rarely located anywhere but Right Around the Corner:

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"Indiana police reported numerous crashes on slippery highways, including a truck that overturned and spilled 43,000 pounds of cheese, closing a busy highway ramp during the night in the Gary area."

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Far be it from me to provoke an intra-national incident or incite legendary food-fight-related violence, but I think I speak for all of us when I say it should be clear to the people of Wisconsin that this willful distribution of copious amounts of free cheese to the public by the people of Indiana constitutes an act of war.

I believe I'll munch on some gravel-laced Gouda while I mull the implications of this tragic, region-shaping attack.

Next step for Pandas: Grow thumbs

Dispatches from the War Against Nature just keep piling up. Here's the latest report on the activities of our opponent's sinister Deceptively Adorable Tactical Force:*

Panda bites student who just wanted a hug

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The official Xinhua News Agency reports the hospitalized student later said the panda was so cute and cuddly he never expected to be bitten.

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And that, of course, is exactly how they get you.

How else do you think they've managed to exist this long while eating only bamboo? What other animal, certainly one so large, eats only one thing all the time?**

Considering that along with their notoriously picky mating requirements and long interval between cubs, it's nothing short of a miracle that at this point in history, pandas are represented on this Earth by more than a few fossilized bones in a drawer somewhere.

Or is it?

I believe that pandas long ago mastered the art of psychological manipulation, enticing other members of the animal kingdom to bring them copious amounts of food, either bamboo or possibly something secret that they never eat whenever people are watching.

Maybe bamboo is just usually the closest thing on which to gnaw innocently whenever National Geographic catches them by surprise?

Regardless, it's clear that they've tried to deal with us for as long as they're willing, and they have now moved into Phase 2 of their Human Response Protocol: Lure almost all humans to their death by clouding their logic processing centers with waves of overpowering cuddliness.

Phase 3 is of course to tally up the remaining bamboo-farming humans and decide on a responsible course of species management.

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* Other members of this elite squad: Hippos, Chimps, and Koalas.

** Shut up, all you whale scientists.

A conversation with D-: Balbo Drive isn't far off the mark

The following is a surreal conversation I recently had, apropos of nothing, with my 4-year-old son D- while driving through our suburb:

D-: Do you know why they call it "downtown"?

Me: Downtown Chicago?

D-: No, the word downtown.*

M- (because she loves to be involved): Why?

D- (adopting his Teacher Voice): Because a long time ago, there was a guy called Down. (very casually) He was that guy who shot his own self after that big war, where he killed so many people.**

Me: You mean Hitler?!?

D-: Yeah, Hitler. That was his name, but then his last name was... Down. So... (clearly realizing he's lost whatever was his original idea in a sea of rambling 4-year-old bulls***) they had a town, and they named it for him: Downtown.

Me: Oh. ... Wow.


Editor's Note: For anyone interested in this post title, here is a great article written on the subject by my former history teacher, and here's the good-old Wikipedia page on the namesake of this Chicago street.

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* I have no idea where he could have learned the concept of breaking down words for the meanings and origins of their components...

** You might assume that, at best, I let The History Channel babysit him all day, but actually, the kid just asks a lot of probing questions, and sometimes I can't help myself in answering them. We walk by a Holocaust memorial at least three times a week on the way to the library.

They're up in arms in Sandwich, IL

You know, folks, many of us have spent plenty of quality time mocking the Bush Administration's beating the drums of war against Iran, but though it pains me to admit it, they just might be onto something:

Iranian crowd devours world's largest sandwich

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Iranian workers prepare[d] a giant ostrich meat sandwich in an attempt to achieve a Guinness World Record ... But as the sandwich was being measured, chaos ensued ... when the crowd started eating it before it could be [officially] measured.

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I think we can all agree that if there are precious few habits we Americans consider "our things", among them most certainly would have to be forming angry mobs, eating compulsively whatever's put in front of us, and being the butt of everyone else's jokes.

But now the Iranians try to top all past and future competition with this madness? What are we to make of this affront to our honor, this usurpation of our primary role in global affairs? I say we move on to our second, and let slip the dogs of war!

But does anyone else really, really want a sandwich before we head out?

Beestallnacht

I now bring you a bulletin from a front-line soldier in the Bee Theater of the War Against Nature.

When my wife J- was walking through a park to eat lunch on a field trip last week, she found herself silently stalked by some of these honeymaking heathens. Whether any of them were going incognito in fly costumes is unclear, and completely unsubstantiated, but I just wanted to throw that frightening possibility out there.*

Her first notice of these hulking cretins might have very well been a few dozen stingers in the back, but for the selfless alarm of a student known for making Calvin Coolidge sound like the town crier.

A chill must have ran down her spine as she heard, "The bees... the bees! Mrs. Copperbottom**, the bees!"

This girl then bravely laughed as J- flailed about in desperation, confused as to why these bees were unrelentingly targeting her no matter what she did or where she ran to.

You and I don't need to wonder why poor J- was being roughed up (and not for the first time) by these hired goons, but at that moment, fighting for her itchy-bump-free life, my hard-hitting blog exposés were the furthest thing from her mind.

Having tried everything she could think of, she finally tossed away the tote bag holding her precious, well-deserved lunch, and thankfully that was enough to satisfy these opportunistic idiots.

Wouldn't their precious Queen be pleased to know they were so easily thrown off their quest?

After consulting with an expert, my theories were confirmed that there's no way my new arch-nemesis would plan this hit merely to separate my wife from her lunch.*** This was incompetence in the execution of a much more malacious plot that, despite my gratefulness for regaining my wife relatively intact, I know will be rightfully punished as severely as a grotesque, miniscule insect with no arms can manage. I've got to at least respect Her Majesty's dedication and strict adherence to her fiendish ideals.

But regardless of the intent of this assault, I received the message loud and clear. And listen up, "lady"-- you've got a problem with me and my soon-to-be-Pulitzer-Prize-winning investigative journalism, you come to ME, or preferably someone only tangentially involved who I don't care much about. You don't threaten my family.

It's on now. And this time, we won't waste any verses duping ourselves into believing our Mommys would be proud of anything but a bee-colored smear on our palms.^

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* Associated Press, are you reading?? I think we'd be a good fit.

** Was this name changed for privacy? You decide.

*** Unconfirmed reports suggest these may have actually been neutral bees attracted to the large quantities of dried banana bread batter my wife forgot she had dripped all over the side of her tote bag the previous weekend.

^ Because I have various issues making this specific act undesirable to me, I'm much more likely to be bringing home those bee-colored smears on pieces of mail, other people's belongings, or my shoes.

All the Queen's bees vs. all the President's boys

On the way home from preschool yesterday, D- began chanting a somewhat disturbing song I only vaguely recalled hearing before-- The Baby Bumblebee Song.

Like any red-blooded American, my first thought was that I needed to call the ACLU to organize a protest against the teaching of this song that clearly incites violence against innocent bees, but then I thought, you know what else incites violence against suddenly-less-than-innocent bees? Those panicky little f***ers themselves stinging people without having the decency to give them a little honey first.

I guess I run hot and cold like that, so it's good to know that the kid is being sent off somewhere two afternoons a week to study at the feet of more level-headed people who understand we need to begin training our anti-bee army* as early as possible, to protect America at home and abroad in our uncertain future.

In case you haven't yet had the honey-soaked veil lifted, don't feel too bad when singing happily about slaughtering their young-- all these bees are steadily leaving for more profitable positions overseas anyway, so they can jack up their already obscene profits by avoiding taxes while exploiting our insatiable appetites and not giving a bit back voluntarily.

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* An important special unit in our overall War Against Nature.

You're either with us or against us

In case you haven't been following the news closely, we here in Chicagoland have been subject to numerous infestations of deadly animals previously unknown to the area as well as attacks by familiar adversaries. We recently dealt with a cougar roaming the streets of the city, we frequently dodge bands of coyotes at dawn and dusk, and, if the gossip on the street is to be believed, people are also fighting off chupacabras and carnivorous unicorns on at least a bi-weekly basis.

And, if all that wasn't enough, we now seem to have alligators commanding our life-giving waterways like terrifyingly toothy admirals at war:

It's no croc: Alligator found in Chicago River
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080620/ap_on_fe_st/odd_chicago_alligator

And you know what they say about alligators-- whenever you see one, there are at least 173 that you can't see.

Clearly, we are at the forefront of a burgeoning war against nature. Of course, this isn't really a new conflict any more than World War II was a sudden flareup of tensions after a couple decades of happy rainbows. We made a very uneasy, unbalanced agreement with Nature sometime after the Industrial Revolution and it has been stringing us along while taking the time to regroup before coming back for more. All those hurricanes, mudslides, awkward rashes, mosquitoes, and deadly-virus scares in the meantime have just been training exercises and passive-aggressive warnings from our bitterest enemy.

By not making a separate peace with nature's predators, and by not offering concessions to the gods of weather, such as laying down our hated umbrellas and burning our Doppler-wielding meteorological shamans at the stake (sorry, Tom Skilling, but I don't want to be eaten by a cougar), we were unable to keep the forces of nature divided and prevent them from putting aside their differences and reuniting to rid themselves of the human menace.

As far as I can see, the logical next steps for me are as follows:
1) stop shaving
2) start hording gas
3) wear protective athletic gear on the outside of my clothes for some reason
4) fashion some lightweight armor plating for my Camry

Meanwhile, I'll practice my one-armed pullups and begin indoctrinating my son into an eventually ancient brotherhood of stoic, overconfident warriors, training him against the unbelievably prolific but lazy neighborhood rabbits and the irritating rats that occasionally wander over from a nearby restaurant's dumpster.

Next, I'll school him in the weak points in the offense of nature's greatest killing machines, once I find out what they are (I'm confident he'll be all over this part of the training, as it would give him an excuse to roar more often). Thankfully, there is a well-stocked free zoo here, and I'm sure you'd agree it's better that we take those predators out before they escape and run rampant across the city without any of the lovable whimsy of either of these bands of recent escapees.

In case you think I'm exaggerating, I'll pick just one more piece of evidence from the pile here at hand:

Python found in toilet in northern Australia
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080620/od_uk_nm/oukoe_uk_australia_python

Clearly, they've already learned when we're most vulnerable and most embarrassed to be attacked, so they're way ahead of us.

But fear not, dear readers, because this isn't all bad news: if it comes to it, we can at least satisfy our need for spite by destroying nature along with ourselves, in ways we're all quite familiar with, and secondly, you all just might be getting those Armageddon* tote bags I promised you sooner than you thought.


* The world-ending event, not the awful movie.

Dr. Livingstone, I presume?

Allow me to digress from the stories of kids and their oddities for a moment (which I originally intended to do more often than I have so far). I figure the weekend is a good time for this kind of post, since most of you presumably spend these days with your family and catch up with me on Monday.

You may have heard of the new "uncontacted" tribe they discovered in the South American rain forest. I find it astounding that's there's enough forest left to host totally isolated tribes of people, but they seem pretty sure.

Incredible pictures of one of Earth's last uncontacted tribes firing bows and arrows

Of course, flying a plane just over the treetops and taking a bunch of pictures, even when doing so to prove their existence to nonbelievers for the tribe's own protection, counts as contact to me. So, so much for that.

Am I the only one that sees this and feels bad for these lucky folks?

And I agree with their reaction to these photographers in the plane-- I think it's distinctly possible they know all about all of us evil humanlike beings in the world outside the forest, with all our wicked technology and strange ways, and they've just said, "No, thanks" and kept to themselves.

Don't they have that right? Can't they just live their own lives their own way? I doubt they're capable of launching any kind of respectable attack on the U.S. any time soon, but then that didn't mean anything for Iraq in 2002, right?

I know leaving them alone and creating some kind of "wildlife preserve" around them will be a hard sell to some of the people of South America who were themselves victimized by the West and are now doing what they can to level the playing field (i.e. ravaging their forests, selling the wood, and raising scrawny cattle for McDonald's in the stubble). But hopefully they can learn from our mistakes and harness our guilt for these people's benefit.

Here's hoping! Back to the funny stuff next week.

Five years later.

It may seem as unbelievable to you as it does to me, but it has been five years since the U.S. invaded Iraq. Whatever you may think of that and everything that goes with it, today didn't seem like a day to post about something else.

Let's just hope everyone involved on every side can suddenly grow up and figure this all out, so both Americans (and other nations' troops) and Iraqis can get out of harms' way as soon as possible.

Here's hoping five things, one for each year: 1) the non-Iraqi extremists and troublemakers leave the country soon; 2) the people can pick up the pieces of their lives shortly after; 3) an independent and genuine government comes to power, without undue influence of self-interested Americans and their massive permanent military bases; 4) the full truth is eventually revealed about why and how our troops were sent there; and 5) all those responsible for crimes against our nation, its ideals, and humanity at large will be held accountable and punished like any common felon.

And most of all, here's to the nearly 4,000 American soldiers, hundreds of "coalition" soldiers, and the tragically uncounted hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians who have lost their lives, as well as all those injured, as a result of this horrifically unplanned invasion.

Let's do better in the future, for ourselves, our children, and all the people who share this world with us.