It's a good thing they have the Academy Awards every year. I think that just that one event probably is a huge shot in the arm for the economy, at least in California where they could use the whole battery of shots.
Just think of what a venture in capitalism the production is. Aside from the actual movie industry which is a fairly good example of supply-and-demand economics and generates a lot of capital which goes who knows where, there is the actual event which puts a whole panoply of businesses to work.
I don't know whether they realize it, but the Hollywood libs are heavily involved in big business which makes them very rich, in spite of their share-the-wealth mentalities. They just want to qualify who is doing the sharing—anyone but them. Did you ever notice who they actually target when they do a save-the-world fund raiser for whomever in the world? They give their time, of which they have little to spare; we give our money which is scarce also. So it all works out, right? Fairness all around.
Okay, that is as political as I get, but just think of all the businesses who have a stake in the Oscars. There are the news media, the designers and manufacturers of everything from sets to clothing, producers, the food providers, the lodging and transportation sectors, the accessories designers and retailers and the florists, the speech and script writers, the hair stylists and the makeup artists, and the surgeons, not to mention the people who actually make the Oscar statue itself.
I have not intended to leave anyone out, but I have a very narrow perspective on the whole event, not having watched an entire broadcast ever and only going to the movies about once a year. I know, I am not really qualified to express an opinion, which is not the same as not having one.
But without the Academy Awards, how would we know what to wear for the rest of the year, how to do our hair and makeup, and which movies to avoid?
You have to give credit to the Motion Picture Industry for being a bit traditional (non-progressive) in the format of their awards presentations. I know it seems like it during the ceremonies, but they really don't give Oscars to everyone who competes. Just to the winners. However, I wouldn't be surprised to see participation certificates handed out all around, which would be a good way of injecting peace and harmony into all of that excessive and raw competition.
The whole event is all about competition. Who looks the best? Who has the most famous escort? Who paid the most for a dress? Who has most expensive jewelry? Who gave the best speech? It's no wonder all of the players need therapists and pharmaceuticals.
So my sister asked me who I was dressed as. Well, not Oscar and not the Mad Hatter. At the moment, it is something like Little Orphan Annie, or Little House on the Prairie at bedtime.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Pinewood Derby—chapter two
In case you didn't remember or didn't care, Bertha wrote about the experience of making a Pinewood Derby car a couple of weeks ago. Well, she is going to get a little more “mileage” out of the subject. It got better as it went along.
I started on my car early enough, but it still took two weeks to get it finished, and we were doing the last minute things the day of the race. It is kind of like an art project. You never know when it is finished. But it got “finished” just in time to race it.
The delay was caused in part by the fact that my real car, the Grocery Getter, was experiencing some difficulties of its own while we were building the race car. It couldn't seem to make it up the hill to home without sputtering, and missing, and I do live quite a long way up the hill.
Mr. B. began to give the problem due recognition when it was his turn to drive the car over the weekend. He came home with renewed interest in fixing it. Since I had already been driving the car for a few weeks with the same problem, I gave it no more attention than I usually did. Consequently, the Grocery Getter with its problems was on Mr. B.'s mind while the Pinewood Derby car was on mine.
So with that background given and that stage set, here are a couple of our more interesting exchanges:
Me: Are you going to work on my car today?
Mr. B. I don't know what I'm going to do with it. I hope I don't have to put a catalytic converter on it.
Me: I don't think it needs anything that fancy. Just a rusty air cleaner is all it needs, other than one of those flashing lights on the top. (I was trying to build a quasi-faithful replica of Tow Mater)
Mr. B.: What are you talking about? It already has an air cleaner which I already checked once. That isn't what it needs.
Me: Well where is the catalytic converter going to go? And what will it do? Take the place of the weights?
We finally established that Tow Mater did indeed need a rusty air cleaner, but we were still wondering about the needs of the Grocery Getter.
A couple of days later, Mr. B. switched roles on me. He sent me to the box store to find some parts for my car.
“You're sending me to buy a winch? I thought you didn't like to buy parts there. You usually make me go to the parts store to get them.
“I don't think you are going to find a winch at the parts store.”
“Well, what do we need that for anyway? I don't think I can find one at the box store.”
“Yes you can. Just go in the toy department and look for a little tow truck. We'll use the winch from it.”
The word “toy” was what finally got us looking for the same part in the same parts manual.
On the day of the big race, there were still some finishing touches to apply to Tow Mater. Mr. B. was going to add the flashers and the lead weights for me. So early in the morning, I woke my son up and asked for his help.
“Will you bring my car down to me when you come to town? Dad still has to drill the holes in it.”
“What? What is he drilling holes for?”
Now my son and his dad don't always agree on the proper methods for reapiring an ailing vehicle. In fact, quite often they each wonder what on earth the other is doing. But it certainly got my son's attention when he thought that his dad might, at that very moment, be trying to find his drill and his bits in order to drill holes somewhere in the Grocery Getter.
I started on my car early enough, but it still took two weeks to get it finished, and we were doing the last minute things the day of the race. It is kind of like an art project. You never know when it is finished. But it got “finished” just in time to race it.
The delay was caused in part by the fact that my real car, the Grocery Getter, was experiencing some difficulties of its own while we were building the race car. It couldn't seem to make it up the hill to home without sputtering, and missing, and I do live quite a long way up the hill.
Mr. B. began to give the problem due recognition when it was his turn to drive the car over the weekend. He came home with renewed interest in fixing it. Since I had already been driving the car for a few weeks with the same problem, I gave it no more attention than I usually did. Consequently, the Grocery Getter with its problems was on Mr. B.'s mind while the Pinewood Derby car was on mine.
So with that background given and that stage set, here are a couple of our more interesting exchanges:
Me: Are you going to work on my car today?
Mr. B. I don't know what I'm going to do with it. I hope I don't have to put a catalytic converter on it.
Me: I don't think it needs anything that fancy. Just a rusty air cleaner is all it needs, other than one of those flashing lights on the top. (I was trying to build a quasi-faithful replica of Tow Mater)
Mr. B.: What are you talking about? It already has an air cleaner which I already checked once. That isn't what it needs.
Me: Well where is the catalytic converter going to go? And what will it do? Take the place of the weights?
We finally established that Tow Mater did indeed need a rusty air cleaner, but we were still wondering about the needs of the Grocery Getter.
A couple of days later, Mr. B. switched roles on me. He sent me to the box store to find some parts for my car.
“You're sending me to buy a winch? I thought you didn't like to buy parts there. You usually make me go to the parts store to get them.
“I don't think you are going to find a winch at the parts store.”
“Well, what do we need that for anyway? I don't think I can find one at the box store.”
“Yes you can. Just go in the toy department and look for a little tow truck. We'll use the winch from it.”
The word “toy” was what finally got us looking for the same part in the same parts manual.
On the day of the big race, there were still some finishing touches to apply to Tow Mater. Mr. B. was going to add the flashers and the lead weights for me. So early in the morning, I woke my son up and asked for his help.
“Will you bring my car down to me when you come to town? Dad still has to drill the holes in it.”
“What? What is he drilling holes for?”
Now my son and his dad don't always agree on the proper methods for reapiring an ailing vehicle. In fact, quite often they each wonder what on earth the other is doing. But it certainly got my son's attention when he thought that his dad might, at that very moment, be trying to find his drill and his bits in order to drill holes somewhere in the Grocery Getter.
Putting money where the mouth is
One advantage to being my age is that I have already passed through most of the phases of life that people have to go through.
Childhood diseases, my own and my kids', are behind me. I have lived through the sleepless years, when I had babies. And I have lived through the teenage years. My own were not nearly so hard on me as my kids' were.
Altogether, I have launched seven children into their teenage years, prepared or otherwise. They all made their first trip to the DMV. They all went to prom once or twice. They all went to a few concerts. And we have been to see the orthodontist approximately 353 times.
The concerts and prom I could handle, and I could cope with most of the other milestones associated with the teenage years. I still clench my teeth when I think about the orthodontics chapter of my life, though.
This is what kind of luck I had: the first three kids all had too many teeth for their mouths, or more precisely, teeth too big to fit in there. (Grandma called those kind of teeth butter paddles.)
When the fourth child came, I thought I had it made. She had actual spaces between her baby teeth. For her first six years, I thought I was going to get $2,500 ahead in life thanks to this child's big mouth. Not a chance. Her permanent teeth were tiny little chiclets which didn't begin to fill up all that space. Grandma didn't know what to call them. Besides that, some of them were missing. Just not there and never were.
In those days my car could find it's own way to the orthodontist's office. I knew which magazines he subscribed to and how often he redecorated. His receptionist was on a first-name basis with my dog, the only member of the family with straight teeth.
I think we missed something like twenty appointments during my time in the the orthodontic years, but my percentages were pretty good. And the orthodontist didn't complain. We were his bread and butter. In fact he probably had me to thank for that boat in his garage, and when he saw mouths five through seven he probably saw luxury cars and European vacations. Cruise tickets traded for tin grins.
For the privilege of living with teenagers who wouldn't smile, wouldn't eat in public and avoided half of the foods available for human consumption, I paid that kind of money. And those are only some of the disadvantages.
After the patient passes through the brace phase, he moves into the retainer phase of orthodontic treatment. Retainers are something designed to help keep teeth straight when the braces come off. You pay a lot for them and then keep them on the bathroom counter where they function as room decor, except for when you keep them in a pocket or on the floor beside the bed. The last two places serve to keep the retainer new as it will have to be replaced if it is sat upon, washed in the washing machine, or stepped upon. Furthermore, you simply cannot display a broken retainer on the bathroom counter.
I know where you should keep a retainer, but who am I? I only paid for them. Should I have taken the retainers to work or school or wherever the mouth in question was? Well, I couldn't tell whose was whose. How could I give a retainer to a teenager who already had one in his mouth? But don't doubt my commitment. I have been known to beg the school lunch ladies for permission to go through the garbage in hopes of finding a retainer that might have been scraped off a tray.
I used to wish that the Granola movement would gain enough ground that naturally occurring teeth placement would be more desirable than artificial alignment. But no, the movement got a little bit lost when it came to physical appearances.
I'm not sure I would want to be launching teenagers these days. Too many things could be out of alignment. However, if I were to be text messaging my kids about the location of their retainers, my reminders might look like this: :-)$$) ?
Childhood diseases, my own and my kids', are behind me. I have lived through the sleepless years, when I had babies. And I have lived through the teenage years. My own were not nearly so hard on me as my kids' were.
Altogether, I have launched seven children into their teenage years, prepared or otherwise. They all made their first trip to the DMV. They all went to prom once or twice. They all went to a few concerts. And we have been to see the orthodontist approximately 353 times.
The concerts and prom I could handle, and I could cope with most of the other milestones associated with the teenage years. I still clench my teeth when I think about the orthodontics chapter of my life, though.
This is what kind of luck I had: the first three kids all had too many teeth for their mouths, or more precisely, teeth too big to fit in there. (Grandma called those kind of teeth butter paddles.)
When the fourth child came, I thought I had it made. She had actual spaces between her baby teeth. For her first six years, I thought I was going to get $2,500 ahead in life thanks to this child's big mouth. Not a chance. Her permanent teeth were tiny little chiclets which didn't begin to fill up all that space. Grandma didn't know what to call them. Besides that, some of them were missing. Just not there and never were.
In those days my car could find it's own way to the orthodontist's office. I knew which magazines he subscribed to and how often he redecorated. His receptionist was on a first-name basis with my dog, the only member of the family with straight teeth.
I think we missed something like twenty appointments during my time in the the orthodontic years, but my percentages were pretty good. And the orthodontist didn't complain. We were his bread and butter. In fact he probably had me to thank for that boat in his garage, and when he saw mouths five through seven he probably saw luxury cars and European vacations. Cruise tickets traded for tin grins.
For the privilege of living with teenagers who wouldn't smile, wouldn't eat in public and avoided half of the foods available for human consumption, I paid that kind of money. And those are only some of the disadvantages.
After the patient passes through the brace phase, he moves into the retainer phase of orthodontic treatment. Retainers are something designed to help keep teeth straight when the braces come off. You pay a lot for them and then keep them on the bathroom counter where they function as room decor, except for when you keep them in a pocket or on the floor beside the bed. The last two places serve to keep the retainer new as it will have to be replaced if it is sat upon, washed in the washing machine, or stepped upon. Furthermore, you simply cannot display a broken retainer on the bathroom counter.
I know where you should keep a retainer, but who am I? I only paid for them. Should I have taken the retainers to work or school or wherever the mouth in question was? Well, I couldn't tell whose was whose. How could I give a retainer to a teenager who already had one in his mouth? But don't doubt my commitment. I have been known to beg the school lunch ladies for permission to go through the garbage in hopes of finding a retainer that might have been scraped off a tray.
I used to wish that the Granola movement would gain enough ground that naturally occurring teeth placement would be more desirable than artificial alignment. But no, the movement got a little bit lost when it came to physical appearances.
I'm not sure I would want to be launching teenagers these days. Too many things could be out of alignment. However, if I were to be text messaging my kids about the location of their retainers, my reminders might look like this: :-)$$) ?
It's Pinewood Derby time!
Once in a while, someone comes up with an activity that is so good that it is simply repeated until it becomes a classic. When it is that good, sooner or later it is going to spread to other platforms. Next week I get to compete in one of those great all-American cultural events, the Pinewood Derby. By the way, the first Pinewood Derby was held in 1953.
I have a box of Derby parts right here on the counter. I suppose it will take some creative force to turn those wheels, axles, and block of wood into a racing machine. I further suppose that creativity is one ingredient. However, the main element is speed.
If you have built more than one Pinewood Derby car, you have begun to realize that there is more involved than sanding, painting and pressing on the wheels. To get the picture, you have to understand that this event usually involves men, boys and wheels, a combination that is going to produce a compulsion to engineer the fastest car—on earth.
Boys are born with the ability to run, chase one another, ride bikes, scooters and skate boards and they never tire of doing it. When they become men, they find that running and bike-riding are a bit tiring after all, so they turn to buying or building cars that will accomplish the same thing with less effort. Sort of.
I suspect that Detroit has a complement of engineers who were Cub Scouts in their youth because they would then have been exposed early on to the kind of grit and determination that is required to compete in the world of building cars, of whatever kind.
At any rate, this is serious business. A reading of the Pinewood Derby Times (I'm not kidding), along with some other high-tech websites, can keep one up on the “sport.” I had already heard about the innovation of digital electronic tracks. I just recently learned about the latest remake of the wheels.
I don't know whether they were designed for maximum velocity or increased gas mileage, but their arrival on the racing scene apparently made quite a stir. In fact, when they were released, they could be purchased separately in case buyers were unable to find a car kit with the newer wheel package. The word on the street is that an axle change is in the works as well.
There is a thriving after-market parts business as well. In fact you can buy kits with a finished body. You just apply the wheels. However, you could do that with the standard issue BSA kit and do just as well, I understand from The Times. Apparently aerodynamics has little to do with it. It is the polishing of the axles and weighting of the cars that gives them the competitive edge.
Unveiling your own revolutionary and successful model car depends on planning and secrecy. If you have the design of the decade, you don't want someone else having it as well. So men and boys plan and scheme in cluttered shops. They melt lead ingots in tuna fish cans, weigh their cars on postage scales, mix paints on plastic lids and dream of trophies. (I honestly don't know how these cars pass EPA standards what with lead and paint in the same sentence.)
When they meet on the streets, men casually ask one another, “So how's your car coming? You got a good model this year? “
“Naw, I don't think the wheels will stay on.” This is derby talk for what the engineer really means which is something like “Just you wait. We are going to kick your trash this year. You will eat our dust.”
I tried to think of a funny story about Pinewood Derby racing, but there aren't any. I may have one or two to tell after the girls, moms and grandmoms compete in a couple of weeks; but like I said, this is serious business. A lost race can only be remedied by doing better the next year. But a whole year of ignominy is hard to bear. It's a good thing that Mr. B. and I are in this together. If the wheels fall off, we can console one another while we wait for the next Derby.
I have a box of Derby parts right here on the counter. I suppose it will take some creative force to turn those wheels, axles, and block of wood into a racing machine. I further suppose that creativity is one ingredient. However, the main element is speed.
If you have built more than one Pinewood Derby car, you have begun to realize that there is more involved than sanding, painting and pressing on the wheels. To get the picture, you have to understand that this event usually involves men, boys and wheels, a combination that is going to produce a compulsion to engineer the fastest car—on earth.
Boys are born with the ability to run, chase one another, ride bikes, scooters and skate boards and they never tire of doing it. When they become men, they find that running and bike-riding are a bit tiring after all, so they turn to buying or building cars that will accomplish the same thing with less effort. Sort of.
I suspect that Detroit has a complement of engineers who were Cub Scouts in their youth because they would then have been exposed early on to the kind of grit and determination that is required to compete in the world of building cars, of whatever kind.
At any rate, this is serious business. A reading of the Pinewood Derby Times (I'm not kidding), along with some other high-tech websites, can keep one up on the “sport.” I had already heard about the innovation of digital electronic tracks. I just recently learned about the latest remake of the wheels.
I don't know whether they were designed for maximum velocity or increased gas mileage, but their arrival on the racing scene apparently made quite a stir. In fact, when they were released, they could be purchased separately in case buyers were unable to find a car kit with the newer wheel package. The word on the street is that an axle change is in the works as well.
There is a thriving after-market parts business as well. In fact you can buy kits with a finished body. You just apply the wheels. However, you could do that with the standard issue BSA kit and do just as well, I understand from The Times. Apparently aerodynamics has little to do with it. It is the polishing of the axles and weighting of the cars that gives them the competitive edge.
Unveiling your own revolutionary and successful model car depends on planning and secrecy. If you have the design of the decade, you don't want someone else having it as well. So men and boys plan and scheme in cluttered shops. They melt lead ingots in tuna fish cans, weigh their cars on postage scales, mix paints on plastic lids and dream of trophies. (I honestly don't know how these cars pass EPA standards what with lead and paint in the same sentence.)
When they meet on the streets, men casually ask one another, “So how's your car coming? You got a good model this year? “
“Naw, I don't think the wheels will stay on.” This is derby talk for what the engineer really means which is something like “Just you wait. We are going to kick your trash this year. You will eat our dust.”
I tried to think of a funny story about Pinewood Derby racing, but there aren't any. I may have one or two to tell after the girls, moms and grandmoms compete in a couple of weeks; but like I said, this is serious business. A lost race can only be remedied by doing better the next year. But a whole year of ignominy is hard to bear. It's a good thing that Mr. B. and I are in this together. If the wheels fall off, we can console one another while we wait for the next Derby.
Passwords do deny access
If you think that a password is something Gandalf or forty thieves speak to the face of a stone wall in an effort to open up secret doors to mysterious caverns, you are having serious reality issues.
If you think that a password is a series of letters/numbers which when typed into the password space on an internet site will result in the immediate opening of websites for your use and entertainment, you are probably full-on schizophrenic. To your credit, if you are thinking in those terms, you may be allowed to use your name and “geek” in the same paragraph, but being geeky has nothing to do with it.
Typing any combination of letters/numbers invariably returns the same message, “the password you entered is incorrect,” followed by the line (in happy blue type), “forget your password?” You will also be reminded that your password is case sensitive which means that you will have to be in tight control of your caps lock key.
“Who me? Of course I didn't forget my password.” A second more carefully typed entry will return the same message 99 percent of the time. Occasionally, if you hold your mouth right, the Entry Nazi will let you in.
A third try works about half the time. If by the third try you are still on the outside, you may have to concede that you did forget your password. To remedy that situation, you probably begin to sift through all of your password possibilities.
Entering passwords in not only a test of your memory, but your persistence also. “Let's see, for internet shopping sites, I always use the name and age of my third grandchild. Or wait, was it my shoe size, or my hat size? Was that backward or forward? I'll try my hat size, 7-&-3-4.”
“No, I didn't think so. Okay I'll look it up.”
At this point you consult your cryptic sticky note collection which is inconveniently stuck to the bottom of your keyboard. Unfortunately the note you need is a little too cryptic or msising. The rest are the kind of notes that any kindergartner could use to rob your bank account and buy you a couple of high-tech Lego sets. Under your keyboard will be the second place he will look for your passwords, too.
If you are trying to get innto one of those high profile, high-security websites, like a bank site, by guessing the password, you are going to be in trouble. Three strikes and you are out on those sites. You will be getting a phone call to warn you that someone is trying to hack into your bank account. You will be feeling incredibly silly when you have to admit that it was only you.
If you think that using your own passwords is tricky, just wait until someone e-mails you a locked text file, which feat he will be able to accomplish without any real intent on his part. Try figuring out someone else's passwords. Maybe it's the name of his dog.
“S-P-O-T. T-R-E-Y. Okay, I'll call him.” Joe, this file is locked. What's the password?”
“What password? You need a password? How come you need a password? Try S-P-O-T.”
How do I know all this? I listen a lot. And I forget my passwords a lot. And no, they are not stuck to the bottom of my keyboard. They are stuck in the first place my grandkids would look.
One thing is in our favor though. Most people are too busy trying to remember their own passwords to want to work on ours.
If you think that a password is a series of letters/numbers which when typed into the password space on an internet site will result in the immediate opening of websites for your use and entertainment, you are probably full-on schizophrenic. To your credit, if you are thinking in those terms, you may be allowed to use your name and “geek” in the same paragraph, but being geeky has nothing to do with it.
Typing any combination of letters/numbers invariably returns the same message, “the password you entered is incorrect,” followed by the line (in happy blue type), “forget your password?” You will also be reminded that your password is case sensitive which means that you will have to be in tight control of your caps lock key.
“Who me? Of course I didn't forget my password.” A second more carefully typed entry will return the same message 99 percent of the time. Occasionally, if you hold your mouth right, the Entry Nazi will let you in.
A third try works about half the time. If by the third try you are still on the outside, you may have to concede that you did forget your password. To remedy that situation, you probably begin to sift through all of your password possibilities.
Entering passwords in not only a test of your memory, but your persistence also. “Let's see, for internet shopping sites, I always use the name and age of my third grandchild. Or wait, was it my shoe size, or my hat size? Was that backward or forward? I'll try my hat size, 7-&-3-4.”
“No, I didn't think so. Okay I'll look it up.”
At this point you consult your cryptic sticky note collection which is inconveniently stuck to the bottom of your keyboard. Unfortunately the note you need is a little too cryptic or msising. The rest are the kind of notes that any kindergartner could use to rob your bank account and buy you a couple of high-tech Lego sets. Under your keyboard will be the second place he will look for your passwords, too.
If you are trying to get innto one of those high profile, high-security websites, like a bank site, by guessing the password, you are going to be in trouble. Three strikes and you are out on those sites. You will be getting a phone call to warn you that someone is trying to hack into your bank account. You will be feeling incredibly silly when you have to admit that it was only you.
If you think that using your own passwords is tricky, just wait until someone e-mails you a locked text file, which feat he will be able to accomplish without any real intent on his part. Try figuring out someone else's passwords. Maybe it's the name of his dog.
“S-P-O-T. T-R-E-Y. Okay, I'll call him.” Joe, this file is locked. What's the password?”
“What password? You need a password? How come you need a password? Try S-P-O-T.”
How do I know all this? I listen a lot. And I forget my passwords a lot. And no, they are not stuck to the bottom of my keyboard. They are stuck in the first place my grandkids would look.
One thing is in our favor though. Most people are too busy trying to remember their own passwords to want to work on ours.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
We're not lost. There’s a 7-11
One of the tasks that guys are inherently incapable of performing is asking for directions. There seems to be only one reason for this incapacity which is a fear of admitting to being lost. Never mind that they are lost; that is irrelevant.
Why "lost" is such a problem for men is unknown. Even guys don’t know why they can’t admit to being lost.
But the unnatural phenomenon explains why men have such a fascination with Google Earth, GPSs and maps in general. It doesn’t explain why they are occasionally lost, however.
Guys don’t even want a girl who is with them to ask for directions. They will wander in circles. driving both counter- and -clockwise, past the same neighborhood convenience store several times and refuse to stop and let her walk inside to ask for directions.
Maybe they have heard women use that query as a pickup line a few too many times to let their spouse or girlfriend use it for locating an actual destination. I don’t know.
Also, I suspect that sometimes the guy doesn’t actually want to find the spot in question—like when it is the location of Great Aunt Polly’s 80th birthday celebration or the handbag store.
Nevertheless, men tackle the problem of being lost by driving around in circles, while women ask for directions. Of course women will want to know the answer in terms of landmarks, not in terms of GPS coordinates or compass points. Say "over by that Maverik station," not "west on 500 South."
So as I was looking for reasons for the behavior in question, I checked some online references and found the following news story:
BALTIMORE -- Baltimore City police arrested a Virginia couple over the weekend after they asked an officer for directions. WBAL-TV 11 News I-Team reporter David Collins said Joshua Kelly and Llara Brook, of Chantilly, Va., got lost leaving an Orioles game on Saturday. Collins reported a city officer arrested them for trespassing on a public street while they were asking for directions…
Collins said somehow they ended up in the Cherry Hill section of south Baltimore. Hopelessly lost, relief melted away concerns after they spotted a police vehicle.
"I said, ‘Thank goodness, could you please get us to 95?" Kelly said.
"The first thing that she said to us was no -- you just ran that stop sign, pull over," Brook said. "It wasn’t a big deal. We’ll pay the stop sign violation, but can we have directions?"
"What she said was ‘You found your own way in here, you can find your own way out.’" Kelly said.
Collins said the couple spotted another police vehicle and flagged that officer down for directions. But Officer Natalie Preston, a six-year veteran of the force, intervened.
"…the officer screeched up behind us and got out of the car and asked me to step out. I obeyed," Kelly said. "I obeyed everything -- stepped out of the car, put my hands behind my back, and the next thing I know, I was getting arrested for trespassing."
"By this time, I was completely in tears," Brook said. "I said, ‘Ma’am, you know, we just need your help. We are not trying to cause you any trouble. I’m not leaving him here.’ What she did was walk over to my side of the car and said, ‘Ok, we are taking you downtown, too.’"
Okay, alright. Maybe I will have to rethink my strategy for finding places. Maybe the fear men have of asking for directions has a completely sensible underlying rationale: what they really fear is spending a night in jaul, with or without their wives or girlfriends. I can’t fault that.
Why "lost" is such a problem for men is unknown. Even guys don’t know why they can’t admit to being lost.
But the unnatural phenomenon explains why men have such a fascination with Google Earth, GPSs and maps in general. It doesn’t explain why they are occasionally lost, however.
Guys don’t even want a girl who is with them to ask for directions. They will wander in circles. driving both counter- and -clockwise, past the same neighborhood convenience store several times and refuse to stop and let her walk inside to ask for directions.
Maybe they have heard women use that query as a pickup line a few too many times to let their spouse or girlfriend use it for locating an actual destination. I don’t know.
Also, I suspect that sometimes the guy doesn’t actually want to find the spot in question—like when it is the location of Great Aunt Polly’s 80th birthday celebration or the handbag store.
Nevertheless, men tackle the problem of being lost by driving around in circles, while women ask for directions. Of course women will want to know the answer in terms of landmarks, not in terms of GPS coordinates or compass points. Say "over by that Maverik station," not "west on 500 South."
So as I was looking for reasons for the behavior in question, I checked some online references and found the following news story:
BALTIMORE -- Baltimore City police arrested a Virginia couple over the weekend after they asked an officer for directions. WBAL-TV 11 News I-Team reporter David Collins said Joshua Kelly and Llara Brook, of Chantilly, Va., got lost leaving an Orioles game on Saturday. Collins reported a city officer arrested them for trespassing on a public street while they were asking for directions…
Collins said somehow they ended up in the Cherry Hill section of south Baltimore. Hopelessly lost, relief melted away concerns after they spotted a police vehicle.
"I said, ‘Thank goodness, could you please get us to 95?" Kelly said.
"The first thing that she said to us was no -- you just ran that stop sign, pull over," Brook said. "It wasn’t a big deal. We’ll pay the stop sign violation, but can we have directions?"
"What she said was ‘You found your own way in here, you can find your own way out.’" Kelly said.
Collins said the couple spotted another police vehicle and flagged that officer down for directions. But Officer Natalie Preston, a six-year veteran of the force, intervened.
"…the officer screeched up behind us and got out of the car and asked me to step out. I obeyed," Kelly said. "I obeyed everything -- stepped out of the car, put my hands behind my back, and the next thing I know, I was getting arrested for trespassing."
"By this time, I was completely in tears," Brook said. "I said, ‘Ma’am, you know, we just need your help. We are not trying to cause you any trouble. I’m not leaving him here.’ What she did was walk over to my side of the car and said, ‘Ok, we are taking you downtown, too.’"
Okay, alright. Maybe I will have to rethink my strategy for finding places. Maybe the fear men have of asking for directions has a completely sensible underlying rationale: what they really fear is spending a night in jaul, with or without their wives or girlfriends. I can’t fault that.
Cooling heels in the well house
I have a friend who was widowed a year and a half ago. She has always been a pretty capable person. She can sing and dance, act, and play a musical instrument and do several other things that are above and beyond the call of duty. Additionally, she can cook and clean, and pay the bills on time. She is literally a soccer mom and she manages a household of mostly girls.
So since she has started checking a different marital status box on her medical and banking records, she has had to learn to do a little bit different set of chores around the house. Things like hang the Christmas lights, and run the snow blower.
To say the least I am proud of her self-sufficiency. She uses the snow blower to clean the driveway, and the tractor to hang the lights, and not the other way around. In fact she uses that tractor for all kinds of chores. Hey, she could teach tractor classes.
So the other day she went out to change the filter on the pump in her well house. I am impressed. Some of you out there don’t know whether you have a well house, let alone where it is. Well, she does and she has learned to change the filter.
But when her late husband built the well house, he didn’t have his wife’s capabilities in mind.
First, it is a huge stretch of the imagination to call this structure a well house—about the same stretch we use in calling the old outdoor toilet an outhouse. There isn’t much “house” about this well house. I don’t think it even has four walls. It is circular in shape, and I know it doesn’t have a roof.
I haven’t actually seen this well house. Unlike the visible portion of the outhouse, it is about six feet underground. And it can’t be seen from the road, the sidewalk, or the driveway
Well, in order to keep anyone from accidentally falling into the well house, my friend’s husband made a heavy round lid for the top of it. He made it so heavy that no mischievous child would be able up and edge and put a firecracker under it either. (I am picturing an extra heavy-duty manhole cover here.) Needless to say, it is too heavy for my friend, as well as eighty percent of the rest of the world’s population to lift.
And so a neighborhood handyman modified the lid so that with her tractor and a chain, my friend can lift the lid with the tractor’s bucket and then do whatever it is people do in well houses, in this case, change the filter.
So on the day in question, she got one end of the chain on the tractor and the other end on the lid which she raised with the bucket. Then she climbed the ladder down into the well house. She had barely put one foot on the well house floor when she heard the rattle of the chain slipping followed by the clang of the lid falling right into its appointed place.
That was when my friend departed from her normal self-sufficient character and did what women usually do when there is danger near. First she began to scream. Second she began to hyperventilate and scream which caused her heart rate to be a consideration.
Next she thought “My gosh, what am I doing? I have to quit screaming and hyperventilating, I am using up all of the oxygen. I am going to die down here if I don’t scream, but I am going to die sooner if I do.”
I am glad to say that her self-sufficient nature began to reassert itself in a short time and she was beginning to have a rational thought or two by the time help arrived, which was quickly.
But in the event that you think you might react the same way in this situation, assuming that you have an underground well house and you need to change your filter, just understand that her initial primitive reaction was very helpful.
Her screams woke one daughter and the clang of the “trap door” alerted the other. The one with skills of her own flew out the door, and after upending in a snow bank in her hurry, reattached the chain and raised the bucket in time to narrowly avert the occurrence of death by whatever means imaginable.
So since she has started checking a different marital status box on her medical and banking records, she has had to learn to do a little bit different set of chores around the house. Things like hang the Christmas lights, and run the snow blower.
To say the least I am proud of her self-sufficiency. She uses the snow blower to clean the driveway, and the tractor to hang the lights, and not the other way around. In fact she uses that tractor for all kinds of chores. Hey, she could teach tractor classes.
So the other day she went out to change the filter on the pump in her well house. I am impressed. Some of you out there don’t know whether you have a well house, let alone where it is. Well, she does and she has learned to change the filter.
But when her late husband built the well house, he didn’t have his wife’s capabilities in mind.
First, it is a huge stretch of the imagination to call this structure a well house—about the same stretch we use in calling the old outdoor toilet an outhouse. There isn’t much “house” about this well house. I don’t think it even has four walls. It is circular in shape, and I know it doesn’t have a roof.
I haven’t actually seen this well house. Unlike the visible portion of the outhouse, it is about six feet underground. And it can’t be seen from the road, the sidewalk, or the driveway
Well, in order to keep anyone from accidentally falling into the well house, my friend’s husband made a heavy round lid for the top of it. He made it so heavy that no mischievous child would be able up and edge and put a firecracker under it either. (I am picturing an extra heavy-duty manhole cover here.) Needless to say, it is too heavy for my friend, as well as eighty percent of the rest of the world’s population to lift.
And so a neighborhood handyman modified the lid so that with her tractor and a chain, my friend can lift the lid with the tractor’s bucket and then do whatever it is people do in well houses, in this case, change the filter.
So on the day in question, she got one end of the chain on the tractor and the other end on the lid which she raised with the bucket. Then she climbed the ladder down into the well house. She had barely put one foot on the well house floor when she heard the rattle of the chain slipping followed by the clang of the lid falling right into its appointed place.
That was when my friend departed from her normal self-sufficient character and did what women usually do when there is danger near. First she began to scream. Second she began to hyperventilate and scream which caused her heart rate to be a consideration.
Next she thought “My gosh, what am I doing? I have to quit screaming and hyperventilating, I am using up all of the oxygen. I am going to die down here if I don’t scream, but I am going to die sooner if I do.”
I am glad to say that her self-sufficient nature began to reassert itself in a short time and she was beginning to have a rational thought or two by the time help arrived, which was quickly.
But in the event that you think you might react the same way in this situation, assuming that you have an underground well house and you need to change your filter, just understand that her initial primitive reaction was very helpful.
Her screams woke one daughter and the clang of the “trap door” alerted the other. The one with skills of her own flew out the door, and after upending in a snow bank in her hurry, reattached the chain and raised the bucket in time to narrowly avert the occurrence of death by whatever means imaginable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)