Mrs. Linklater Does Haiku

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #127: Write a haiku saying farewell to summer. A haiku, as many of you know, is a poem of three lines, with five syllables in the first line, seven in the second and five again in the third. Simple and fun, and anyone can do 'em. You can do more than one if you want. As a bonus, technically speaking haiku are supposed to feature seasonal imagery, so we've got that going for us this time around.


Hay fever, sneezing all day
September is here
Anybody got Kleenex?

Ooops --

September is here
Hay fever, sneezing all day
Get me Kleenex, please

Extra Credit: A picture of a fun summer activity you're saying goodbye to for another year.

I follow my friends' kid's baseball and football teams. The picture shows the boys who made the all-star team at the 16 and under World Series in Colorado.

Starbucks Unionized?

Let's talk Starbuck's. Those ubiquitous shops, named for a character in Moby Dick, which specialize in highly caffeinated burnt coffee. How's that for a business plan?

I don't drink coffee very often, de-caf when I do, but there are times when I have a ten dollar bill in my pocket that I'm just dying to waste. So I 'll stop in for some of their absurdly overpriced lemonade or orange juice and one of the day old sandwiches in the cooler. I like sweets, but after several failed attempts to purchase one of their attractively displayed bakery items that wasn't dry or stale, I found that something wrapped or sealed was generally a more flavorful choice.

I never cease to be amazed that Starbuck's has been so successful. Burnt coffee taste and bad food can't be their only charms. Clearly they tapped into a powerful psychological urge that drives people to seek places where they can sit around and waste time without being arrested for loitering.

Starbuck's has filled a huge void and nobody else has really stepped up to compete with them, except the occasional Caribou Coffee shop around here.  And wasn't there once a Seattle's Best? 

It makes me wonder if anything can prevent them from taking over the world. Ooops, too late.

Especially now that Starbuck's is about to add 250 more stores around the Chicago area. It seems like there's already about a million here now. Unless you live in a minority neighborhood, where, it has been reported, there are none.

In fact, while most places that serve food around the Chicago metro area are staffed with Latinos these days, most of the people who work at any of the Starbuck's I have ever been to, in the city or the suburbs, look the same: predominantly white, predominantly young, predominantly attractive. They look collegiate and very hip, based on their hair, clothes and manner of speech.

No recruits from the neighborhoods or homeless shelters it would seem. 

There are always some notable exceptions of course. The very loud, unpleasant, and seriously unattractive woman at one store close to me, for instance. Her hair was so wild, woolly and gray that I thought I might find some of it floating in my cocoa last winter. EWWW.  That was when I began to notice who worked at those places.  And most of them look like they just stepped out of an Abercrombie ad. After putting their clothes on. 

Surprisingly, I even ran into one of my neighbors working behind the counter one day at the local Starbuck's here -- a married guy with a couple of kids and a mortgage.  He was "between jobs" as a trader and took advantage of the part-time hours with medical insurance until he got hired again.

Everyone I've talked to who has worked there raves about the medical insurance they offer even though most only work part-time. That seems like a huge perk. One of those things that get bargained away when you unionize. The hourly wage seems fairly competitive, considering that they are only making hot and cold liquids and pouring them into containers. Or sliding a cookie into a bag.

Why then, are Starbuck's employees, sorry baristas, unionizing? The company seems like an ideal place for a student or stay at home spouse looking for a part-time gig, especially with the medical insurance attached.

After reading that all the Starbucks in New York City have unionized, I think that the IWW -- International Workers of the World -- realized that the population employed by Starbuck's had reached a critical mass.  Mass being the operative word, since unions are about making huge sums of money, too -- and large numbers of people employed by the same company are crucial to achieving those goals. 

Apparently the baristas have demanded higher wages. A classic union request. Are they aware that they're only serving coffee? Did they forget they have medical insurance while only working part-time?

On the other hand is the IWW just using Starbuck's to practice for an assault on Wal-Mart employees?

The only comparison I can think of for the work baristas do would be the work of waitresses in diners who pour coffee all day long. [I believe you have to work in a restaurant to call yourself a server.]

But keeping the coffee coming is one tenth of what waitresses do. For those who may have forgotten, they also take orders for entire meals which require them to balance multiple plates along their arms, wipe the counter, and fend off smartass guys trying to free pie.  Literally and figuratively.

Baristas, on the other hand, get paid twice as much. For half the work. And more perks.

Plus, being called a barista has to be worth something. Whoever came up with that idea was a genius and stupid at the same time. Barista sounds like an important job. Unfortunately the moniker has given the people who perform that job [pouring coffee, remember?] a false sense of importance. Typical of a generation of young people who were given gold stars just for showing up at school. 

Also, according to union organizer demands, the baristas want a better chance to become fulltime employees. Why? Doing nothing but pouring coffee all day doesn't seem like much of a career move.  

Apparently there are safety issues, too. Huh? I can understand when you're working around machinery that can remove fingers and arms. But just what would the dangers of making coffee be? Coffee rings on their clothing? Caffeine jitters? Callouses from putting lids on the cups? Certainly nothing life threatening.  Or anything that should cause permanent disability.

I'm not getting it. 

Needless to say the union movement started in New York. Since then, a couple of things have happened.

Starbuck's is coming up with excuses to fire union organizers, which is illegal, but this stuff always happens.

And the union is actually gaining a foothold outside New York.

I predict that Starbuck's will go the way of the Teamsters, that bastion of sit around and get paid to do nothing employment.  Once unionized baristas will refuse to pour more than one cup of coffee every fifteen minutes.  There will be special people who do nothing but espressos and capppucinos.  The cocoa person won't be allowed to make frappuccinos, and there will be a person who does nothing but plug in the coffee machines.

Which brings me to the final union demand -- to end the understaffing.  What understaffing? Every time I've been to Starbuck's there are at least three and sometimes four people working beyond the counter.  How many people does it take to make a cup of coffee and take your money? 

I think what we have is a bunch of whiny thirty something slacker wannabes who haven't got a clue what real work is like. Now they want to unionize.

Be careful what you wish for. [Might as well kiss that medical coverage good bye.]

Your Favorite Blogs

I need some new blogs to read.  AOL journals. Blogger.  I don't care. A lot of the ones I used to read aren't posting very often lately.

So I'm asking the follks who read mine to tell me their favorites.  Leave me a link or a screenname.  Something.

Thanks. 

And We Thought Islam Was Extreme

This just in.

The Vatican's Chief Exorcist has just announced that Hitler and Stalin were possessed by the devil.

Parchment at eleven.

Any news about those pedophile priests yet, Your Exorcist-ness?

Someone I know and respect who is Catholic suggested only yesterday that the church would probably sanction marriage for priests in the near future.

I told him I wouldn't hold my breath.

No doubt overcome by an ecumenical virus, he also felt that the time was coming when Christians would forget their differences to unite as one to overcome the influence of Islam.

Screw diversity, the game is ON.

In case anyone else thinks that the Vatican has entertained a notion of joining the twenty-first century, today's announcement from the Chief Exorcist should dispell any of those silly thoughts.

Because I was raised as an Episcopalian, which was horny Henry VIIIth's breakaway sect, I naively used to think that we basically had the same belief system as the Catholic Church.

Except, wait a minute, Episcopal priests can be married. They can be gay. They can be female. They can be gay AND female.  Women don't have to put bags over their heads, literally or figuratively, to buy birth control. Or suffer guilt for using it. Or confess to anyone about suffering guilt and for for using it. The Episcopal church took a pro-choice position on abortion. Nobody writes novels about the Episcopal church. Episcopalians don't have secret societies either, unless you count Skull and Bones.

That's just the superficial stuff. About the only thing the two have in common is celebrating Easter and Christmas on the same day.

Which brings me to Warren Jeffs, the polygamist Mormon cult leader who was just arrested and booked for forcing underage girls to marry older men. Way older men.  

Did John Marc Karr ever look into that group? He might have saved himself the airfare to Thailand.  

So many religions.  So little God.  

AOL GIVES JOB SEEKERS ADVICE

Mrs. Linklater hasn't been gainfully employed for sometime now. At least not in a work for a company kind of way. As her own boss, she enjoys a level of work satsifaction not often found in nature.  But she thinks she remembers what it was like to have clammy hands and a dry mouth during an interview. Anyway, AOL offered up these helpful hiring hints and she just couldn't keep her mouth shut.

Job seekers, beware. While you may be raring to ditch a demeaning employer, make sure you aren’t trading one problem workplace for another. There’s no crystal ball to tell you with certainty whether a prospective employer is toxic or terrific, but you do have the power to sniff out signs of negativity before you join a soul-crushing team. You can spot red flags to avoid joining a dreary workplace by using these simple investigative techniques and observational skills.

Mrs. Linklater:  Does this advice seem especially timely since AOL is dumping a couple of thousand people?

A picture is worth a thousand words and so are facial expressions. Arrive early to your interview and watch people coming and going from the office.

Mrs. Linklater:  If they have pained looks on their faces, don't try the free Slim Jims. 

Notice how visitors, yourself included, are announced. (“Mr. Jordan, your nine o’clock is here,” versus, “Sam! Get out here right now!”) The tone of the greeting can tell you a little about a company’s general personality.

Mrs. Linklater:  If the receptionist announces your presence with, "Mr. Jordan, that nice piece of ass from Friday is here," you may want to just take that as a compliment. Especially gay men or women over forty.

Don’t be shy; strike up a quick dialogue with company chatterboxes during your wait. Look for telltale signs of unhappiness or resentment, such as employees who refuse to answer questions clearly, avoid direct eye contact or blow you off completely.

Mrs Linklater:  On the other hand, they may just think you're creepy.

Although some might simply be having a bad day, this could be the kind of daily treatment you’ll receive here.

Mrs. Linklater:  Which would you prefer? A bunch of chatty Kathies you can never get rid of.  Or people who don't have to stop and talk to every time you pass in the hall?

Bewary if you see a number of people who seem overworked or stressed. You might witness hunched shoulders, tired faces and sluggish gaits. These traits probably signal discontent.

Mrs. Linklater:  Or they could be illegals. 

Ask for a tour of the facility. (If the prospective employer refuses your request without offering a good reason, run for the hills.) The common areas of any office are ripe with information for the job seeker. Pause at the water cooler, elevators and courtyard while you scrutinize body language and conversations. Are employees happily chatting about their families and hobbies? Are they mired in serious work discussions? Are they complaining about fellow coworkers? Are they marching solo without interaction?

Mrs. Linklater:  Don't overdo it, they'll think you're a narc.

During your walk through the office, look for telltale signs of mutiny such as people surfing the Internet, worried looks on the faces of employees, or less-than-cordial greetings to you.

Mrs. Linklater:  You might be interrupting the only free time they have to look at porn.

While you’re walking the halls, note whether the place seems like one where you’ll become inspired or depressed. After all, the personality of a company is often reflected in its visual elements. For example, walls barren of artwork could signify the place is run by penny pinchers who are either unwilling or unable to pay for simple decorations.

Mrs. Linklater:  Most office artwork sucks.  Look in the dumpster.  Somebody may have finally put it out there.

Observe the décor of cubicles and offices. Does every cube look pretty much the same, or are they personalized with photos, awards and mementoes? If you see a lot of pictures of kids and you have a brood of your own, it could indicate that you’ll have a great deal in common with your coworkers. Conversely, very few personal touches might indicate a general expectation of conformity.

Mrs. Linklater:  No personal touches may indicate unusual alternative lifestyles disguised as conformity.  This could be a good thing.

If the timing seems appropriate, ask specific questions of employees based on the items on their desks, such as, “I see your son plays soccer. Do you get to many games?” If the answer is a dejected, “No, I’m usually at work,” think twice. This workplace might foster a sweatshop labormentality.

Mrs. Linklater:   Or they're just getting it on with somebody at the office.

If your interview is scheduled after business hours or during lunch, be conscious of how many people are sticking around the office. If everyone is working through lunch or way beyond official closing time, ask your interviewer if this represents a typical workday.

Mrs. Linklater:   If there's nobody around at all, don't be surprised if the offer you get is a proposition.

Finally, note the cleanliness of the facility. Be especially cautious if the president or executive team has an updated suite of plush, decorated offices while the rest of the business resembles a run-down tenement. Check out the lavatory before or after your interview. Take a moment in the stall to listen for hot gossip. While you’re at it, note how clean it is; if the taps drip and the place appears dingy, the health and wellbeing of the employees might be undervalued.

Mrs. Linklater:  Stand up on the toilet so they can't see your feet -- a surefire way to hear lots of good dirt.  If you fall in, pretend you were trying not to touch the seat. 

When you’re considering making a move to another employer, ask around about the company. Chances are you’ll uncover useful information via friends or acquaintances. If you’re really fortunate, you may even be able to connect with someone who is a current or former employee. Set up a telephone call or lunch date with that person and find out all there is to know before you accept the job. During your conversation, ask the person to describe the company culture and a characteristic day on the job.

Mrs. Linklater:  Good luck. In this day and age of wiretaps without warrants, they'll just assume you're bugged and they're being recorded. 

Once your reconnaissance mission is complete, evaluate your data with your head and gut. Ask yourself the basic question, “Does this seem like a place where I will be happy working?” If the answer is an obvious negative, stop wasting your time. Go in search of a company where mutual respect and satisfaction are everyday fundamentals.

Mrs. Linklater:  A company store, summer hours, casual Fridays, a cheap cafeteria, free parking -- there are many perks that make mutual respect and satisfaction worth giving up. 

The Old Man

This is his swan song. His last ride into the sunset. He's finally going to hang it up. Retirement is on the horizon beckoning him every morning. Age and infirmity have finally slowed him down too much. Now youth must be served. 

He is Andre Agassi, playing in his last US Open before ending his long career on the court.

He is 36.  Geez, if he's an old fart, what does that make me? That's a rhetorical question.

What's going on?

How did I get two entries of the same thing?  No sense looking, I deleted the duplicate entry.

While we're at it, let me show you what I get when I choose fonts:

Okay, this is Arial.

This is Arial Black.

This is Arial Narrow.

This is Comic Sans MS.

This is Courier New.

This is System.

This is Times New Roman.

This is Verdana.   All 14 pt. type.

Now I'm going to click SAVE.  * CLICK *

Okay, who fixed the fonts?  Usually Times New Roman defaults to something sans serif.  And just because I was going to demonstrate how it does that, it didn't.  I hate when they fix things before I can complain about them.

Mrs. Linklater's Football Column

Just what everybody's been waiting for. A chance to listen to me whine about football. High school football no less.

I'll try to make this short and sweet. I have an interest in my high school alma mater's season.  My friends' son is a junior running back on the varsity team. He ran for 2000 yards and 28 touchdowns as a sopohomore last year. He is playing behind a senior who had 1400 yards and 17 touchdowns last year. The senior is strong like my friends' son, but he doesn't have the acceleration or explosive second gear. 

PHOTO FROM LAST YEAR

The team is in a league where the schools are so big there are freshman A and B teams, a sophomore team, a junior varsity and a varsity team.  There are 90 players on the varsity.

This year's team is the school's best chance for a shot at a state championship -- ever. The seniors were undefeated as freshman and sophomores. The juniors were also undefeated as freshmen and sophomores. You'd think that would guarantee at least a league championship for the varsity. But a team that they both beat twice as underclassman is not only picked to win the league, they're ranked 3rd in the state.

The highest ranking I found for my team was 24th. That means nothing really, since the top twenty are the ones that count.

What's wrong?  Why weren't they given more consideration?

I found out. They just played their first game last weekend. Anon-conference game against a team ranked 9th among the big schools. They lost 14 to 8. The team was on the 17 yard line with four downs and two minutes to go and they couldn't get into the endzone.

In the last three series the coach didn't call one running play.

My friend's son has been relegated to kick off returns and special teams. The one ball kicked to him he returned for sixty yards, dragging people with him.  He had more yardage in that one play than the senior running back starting ahead of him had for the whole game.

Unless the players can overcome bad play calling and a strange choice of starting players, this season is already over. 
 
Too bad the varsity coach didn't plan to retire before this season started instead of when it ends.

When, not IF, a hurricane hits New Orleans again

The powers that be in New Orleans have new evacuation plans in place to get people out of town if there's a hurricane coming.

They sound very elaborate. FEMA and local and state officials plus transportation peeps are all involved. None of which bodes well for success.

There's no mention of installing a siren or some other warning device to let people know if and when the levees break. That would go a long way to helping people feel safer. In late May I talked to a cab driver who said he almost drowned because there was no warning and he woke up with water next to his bed. And he barely made it onto the roof of his house. 

A siren seems like a simple thing to do.

Lots of playing fields have lightning sirens to warn baseball, soccer, football, and lacrosse players and fans that a strike could be imminent. The siren sounds an all clear too.

A siren just to warn that the levees are being strained would come in handy. If the levees don't break, there could be an all clear.  At least a siren tells folks that things are getting dangerous. So they get out of town before the water starts climbing up the stairs to their houses.

Mayor Nagin made a disparaging comment about New York not re-building The Towers since 911. "Let's be fair," he said when some reporter challenged him about how much had been done in New Orleans since Katrina.

Here's the difference between New York and New Orleans:  New York was CLEANED UP very quickly. The buildings haven't been rebuilt yet, but the mess is long gone.

In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Mayor, New Orleans still has debris from destroyed houses all over the place. There were flooded and abandoned cars still sitting in highway underpasses when I was there in May. Once you get beyond the front porch -- the tourista spots -- the neighborhoods look like a tornado went through.

The Mayor was defensive because they haven't really started rebuilding the destroyed neighborhoods. But he ought to have his feet held to the fire. Because right now it isn't a matter of rebuilding the city.  It's a question of just getting the mess cleaned up from a yearago. And that still hasn't happened.

Not to mention the billions lost to fraud. Turns out FEMA didn't have a way to check identification. How about fingerprints so the prisoners who collected fraudulent paychecks could have been sorted out?

I FORGOT

It was J-Land's third anniversary a few weeks ago.  Ho-hum.

What's to celebrate?  That there are still people here?

All the movers and shakers who made this place great, with a few exceptions, are now writing "blogs."  And those blogs feel so different and distanced from their AOL journals.

Graphically for starters. There's a textbook feel to them. They've lost their bright, cheery, let's turn on some music and dance feel and assumed a somber, let's be serious, we're writing a blog tone. No matter that they're writing the same kind of stuff for the most part.

The blogs also feel distant, certainly less accessible, because commenting, adding pictures, etc., requires so much effort on Blogger. AOL for all its lame attempts to make you feel like this is a community actually remains more user-friendly. But only if you're on a PC.  Not for those of us on MACs.  One word:  Spellcheck. Not for Macs. Another word:  Firefox.  If I don't use Firefox I can't do anything but type in one size font. Forget links.

Meanwhile, AOL continues treating its paying members with their usual disdain -- now offering AOL service almost entirely FREE when you use another internet provider. Yep, they can do that because they have so much revenue from those banner ads on paying members' journals. 

The only nice piece of news from headquarters was hearing that some heads did roll over the member information screw up. Remember that heartwarming story? When half a million computer logs were handed over to nosy internet research types.

So, the third anniversary of AOL Journals arrived in July to considerable ennui. On my part at least.

The community was rent asunder last fall. The party ended. The VIVIs are gone. This place is a cemetery of dead journals. But it's home. 

Is A Female Wanker a WANKETTE?

I usually keep a camera in my car. Just for moments like these  -- when I see a license plate that somehow eluded the eagle eyed license plate police who spend their lives preventing people from having plates that say PENIS or VAGINA or any of their many euphemisms. 

There is no comparable word in American English for the British word WANKER.  Maybe someone at the Department of Motor Vehicles thought it was a last name or something. Or some prisoner making plates slipped one by the guard. Like an incarcerated inner city gang member would have a clue what WANKER means.

Sorry, but I don't feel obligated to provide a definition. If you don't know, trust me, it's not ready for imprinting on a license plate. Look it up yourself. 

The Most Interesting Thing About Where I Live

cyclingnews.com
THE VELODROME

John Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #126: What is the most interesting thing about where you live? "Thing" in this case would be a famous landmark, a famous current celebrity or historical personage from your home town or county, a notable celebration or sports event -- basically, anything that makes where you're from interesting and unique.

Many people think I live in the city of Chicago. So a velodrome seems kind of lame as a unique place. You can tell from one comment in particular that somebody thinks I could have come up with something, anything, more interesting.

That's one of Lance Armstrong's teammates in the picture at a charity race in my town, by the way. So, it's a pretty high class velodrome, not one of those namby pamby places.

Meanwhile, back to why I picked the velodrome. I do work in Chicago and consider myself a Chicagoan, but I really live in a town OUTSIDE the city.

So, all things considered, I think the velodrome is pretty unique. Most towns my size are lucky to have a village green and a McDonald's. The Drome is not much to look at when there aren't any bikes racing around it, because it's just a circular quarter mile track. But in the summer there are races every week. And big crowds gather hoping to see accidents and crazy spills. Wouldn't you?

Our town also has Jim McMahon and Gale Sayers if you're into famous retired athletes who show up at the grocery store occasionally. A couple of speedskating Olympians grew up here, too. Speedskating and  shorttrack bike racing are complementary sports, often used for cross training. So when you're good at one, you're often good at the other. 

Director John Hughes [Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, Breakfast Club] grew up here. He and his wife also stopped in at the grocery store one day. Years ago, he shot parts of Ferris Bueller's Day Off at the high school.  For several weeks the huge water tower that looks down on our shopping area and train station also had "SAVE FERRIS" painted on it, which only served to confuse people who had no idea what, or who, a FERRIS was.

Hmmmm, I don't know how long that Googled picture of our velodrome is going to last so I better get out and take one of my own. Maybe I'll run into Jim McMahon at White Hen Pantry. Again.

OKAY ALREADY -- HERE'S A CHICAGO LANDMARK THAT'S KINDA COOL.  AND ONE THAT'S BECOMING MORE AND MORE FAMOUS.  NOT FOR IT'S REAL NAME, CLOUDSCAPE OR SOMETHING, BUT FOR THE NAME CHICAGOANS GAVE IT, "THE BEAN."  HAPPY NOW, BOSOX?

Google Images  ucchicago.edu

 

Late Easter Lily

Nobody told this lily that it was too late to party. 

When Bird Dogs Have Imaginary Friends

Ollie loves his new toy. He's not my dog. He belongs to a friend of mine. But we keep in touch. Ollie is a Spinone. Or, as I call him, a Spumoni  I took this picture over the Fourth of July.

Pluto -- You're Fired!

How can they just get rid of a planet?  Especially one with such a friendly, Disneyesque name?  For those of us who took pride in learning the names of the nine orbs spinning around the sun during our formative years, reading that Pluto has been demoted to a planetary putz is a great disappointment.

Apparently Pluto never even deserved to have a name like the REAL planets, because it was just a big ball of ice and mud. Even worse, it didn't have a good orbit. Well, excuuuuse me.

That means Pluto is no longer worthy of having astronauts land a probe on its surface or drive a rover up and down its hills.  What an ignominious end.

It's like finding out your favorite teacher was robbing 7-11s at night. But Pluto didn't do anything wrong actually. We were the ones that said -- Hey, you're a planet, come on down!!! 

Pluto was just spinning around trying not to hit anything and we were the ones that gave it the big idea that it was something special. It's not like Pluto came knocking at our door trying to pass itself off as something it wasn't.

So, if there's any blame to go around for this huge mistake, it belongs to the astrophysicists who think they know everything and we don't.

The problem began because Pluto was so far away you had to squint to see it, which probably contributed to the confusion.  At least we were finally able to send the Hubble out there along with all those other cosmic dohinkies that give us a more up close and personal view. 

Turns out what we thought was there wasn't what we thought was there.

I, for one, am happy that other balls of ice and mud won't suffer the same fate. When I first saw how planets were discovered I wondered why more mistakes hadn't been made.

Basically, you take pictures of all the stars in the sky at night. Do this every ten minutes for years. Afterward you get to look at huge black and white photos of thousands and thousands of white dots.  Then, specially trained people who got their degrees in counting white dots compare the distances between all the dots until they notice that one of them has moved a couple of millimeters to the left or right. Next, this movement has to be confirmed by brilliant scientists.

Finally after years of waiting, one of them decides, "That's a planet."  Like I said, because this important work is done by astrophysicists, nobody dares to ask, "Are you sure?"  Since they'd just laugh in our faces.

So this poor, unassuming ball of mud and ice named Pluto was thrust into the spotlight, where it enjoyed planetary fame for over seventy-five years. And never abused the privilege I might add.

Then at this last meeting of the Interplantary Nerds and Geeks, they voted to impeach it. Not for any infractions. But, because, like most bureaucracies, they've changed the rules about what can and what cannot be a planet.

What do they say when they dump a planet? 

"Okay, all you planets revolving around the sun -- step forward.  Uh, not so fast, Pluto."

The tiny little planet I loved from childhood is gone.

So long my friend.

Fat Bugs

The following was part of a comprehensive article about microbes causing obesity, which ran in the August 13, 2006 issue of the New York Times Magazine.

I thought it was fascinating, since my mother and one of her sisters were slim, but the third sister was obese. Of course, after reading the entire article, I discovered that the only recommendations they came up with for people who are obese AND have the antibodies for a fat virus were:  Eat less and exercise more.  Haaaaaaaaa.
 

. . .The idea of infectobesity dates to 1988, when Nikhil Dhurandhar was a young physician studying for his doctorate in biochemistry at the University of Bombay. He was having tea with his father, also a physician and the head of an obesity clinic, and an old family friend, S. M. Ajinkya, a pathologist at Bombay Veterinary College. Ajinkya was describing a plague that was killing thousands of chickens throughout India, caused by a new poultry virus that he had discovered and named with his own and a colleague’s initials, SMAM-1. On autopsy, the vet said, chickens infected with SMAM-1 revealed pale and enlarged livers and kidneys, an atrophied thymus and excess fat in the abdomen.

The finding of abdominal fat intrigued Dhurandhar. “If a chicken died of infection, having wasted away, it should be less fat, not more,” he remembered thinking at the time. He asked permission to conduct a small experiment at the vet school.

Working with about 20 chickens, Dhurandhar, then 28, infected half of them with SMAM-1. He fed them all the same amount of food, but only the infected chickens became obese. Strangely, despite their excess fat, the infected obese chickens had low levels of cholesterol and triglycerides in their blood — just the opposite of what was thought to happen in humans, whose cholesterol and triglyceride levels generally increase as their weight increases. After his pilot study in 1988, Dhurandhar conducted a larger one with 100 chickens. It confirmed his finding that SMAM-1 caused obesity in chickens.

But what about humans? With a built-in patient population from his clinic, Dhurandhar collected blood samples from 52 overweight patients. Ten of them, nearly 20 percent, showed antibody evidence of prior exposure to the SMAM-1 virus, which was a chicken virus not previously thought to have infected humans. Moreover, the once-infected patients weighed an average of 33 pounds more than those who were never infected and, most surprisingly, had lower cholesterol and triglyceride levels — the same paradoxical finding as in the chickens.

The findings violated three pieces of conventional wisdom, Dhurandhar said recently: “The first is that viruses don’t cause obesity. The second is that obesity leads to high cholesterol and triglycerides. The third is that avian viruses don’t infect humans.”

Needless to say, there is a lot of controversy surrounding a microbe theory for fatness.  It should be pointed out that eating too much used to be considered the only reason for fatness.  So fat people were assumed to be weak willed and somehow morally inadequate.  This was followed by the discovery that along with eating too much, genetics can play a part. Think Pima Indians.

Now there's a third option.  Which is being met with great skepticism, needless to say. Because the status quo has been upset.

The writer of the article pointed out that the Australian researchers, who discovered that almost all ulcers are caused by a microbial infection, had to wait a long time for their proof to receive acceptance, too, despite all the evidence. 

A Meme That's All About MEMEMEMEMEMEME

I've been meme'd by Dr. Guy with questions about books. While you wait for me to get into a mood to create a link to his blog out there in internet-land, you can find him lurking in my Other Journals area -- look for his link under JudithHeartsong's blog -- New Journal Discoveries or something like that.  Check out some of the other links I put there, too.

1. A book that changed your life

There are two, actually -- Last Exit to Brooklyn and Neuroses.  

I read Last Exit during a sub zero February weekend in 1966, while trying to keep warm in a charming, but unheated cabin. Divided into six novellas, the book grabs you by the throat and forces its hot, whiskey-soaked, unfiltered cigarette breath up your nostrils. Reading Hubert Selby’s prose was like watching the point of a very sharp knife begin to slice through skin and muscle, leaving a bloody wake as it probed for the bone.   

Tralala was the most dramatic story of the deadend lives illuminated by Selby in the half shadows of streetlights just off The Last Exit. Her gruesome death was so graphically portrayed that Susan Brownmiller quoted it in her book Against Our Will:  Men, Women, and Rape. Tralala was also made into a movie, but I knew it would feel like an abridged or glamorized Hollywood version, so I never saw it.

Sitting by the fire forty years ago, wrapped up in layers of blankets, turning the pages with gloved hands, I was left bereft and shocked by her life and death the same way I was affected by JFK’s assassination. Nothing anyone could see on the outside.  But I changed immeasurably on the inside.

Neuroses, on the other hand, was one of the many psych tomes my father had on hand, him being a psychoanalyst and all. There were at least 800 pages of cases, an edited compilation of crazy behaviors, shortened into synopses of just a few hundred words apiece. They were as tasty to me as eating a box of chocolates. I absorbed the lessons learned from these troubled people like a sorcerer’s apprentice.  Haaaa.  I love that analogy.       

2. One book you have read more than once

There are so many. Not because of my desire to read wonderful stories again, but because I forget that I’ve read them before.
 
However, I feel the need to re-read Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen, the way some women have an urge to start spring cleaning.  I am entranced by the lilt of Karen Blixen’s Danish inflected English.  You can hear it on the page.  Mostly I sense a strong, independent woman’s lifelong melancholy over the choices she’s made.  Particularly the philandering, syphilitic husband she married and the tragic end to her long love affair with Robert Redford.  Sorry, I meant Denys Finch Hatton.  

3. One book you would want on a desert island

Dave Barry. Or Molly Ivins.  Give me a collection of their columns.  If I’m stuck on a desert island I’m going to need some laughs.

4. One book that made you laugh

Keep in mind that my favorite genre is nonfiction, especially about serial killers. So with all due respect to a billion dollar industry, the one romance novel I started made me laugh for the wrong reasons, I'm afraid. After about five pages I had to stop because I was shaking my head and smiling, then reading the words out loud because they were sooooo treacly.  I couldn’t believe they weren’t kidding. No I don't remember the name of the book.  Does it matter?

5. One book that made you cry

Tuesdays with Morrie. It made me miss my mom. 

6. One book you wish you had written.

I want to be realistic here. For instance there's no way I could pass for the next Margaret Atwood. Or Joyce Carol Oates. But Janet Evanovich? Let's talk. What number is she up to now, twelve?  Twelve adventures of Stephanie Plum -- the New Jersey Nancy Drew. I wish I had just some of Ms. Evanovich's sheckels.

7. One book you wish had never been written

The Bible. More evil has been invoked while quoting the Bible than any other book except, possibly, the Koran.

8. One book you are currently reading

Well, I read the New York Times Book Review yesterday -- does that count? Other than that the most recent book I read was while on vacation this past week. It was, uh, Marley and Me. Did I mention that most of the time I was WORKING? Okay, telecommuting? Yeah, really. When I wasn't working I was eating.

9. One book you have been meaning to read

Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose. I’ve arrived late to an interest in American History, despite some excellent courses in college. However, I got on the American history bandwagon a few years ago, when I learned that Thomas Jefferson and John Adams both died on the same day – the fourth of July. [How the heck did I ever miss that?]  Yo, Dude, dying on the same day and it was the fourth of Julyl?!!! THAT is totally cosmic.

Jefferson’s vision for a country from coast to coast was ridiculed and scorned when he wanted to spend money for the Louisiana purchase, but he sure persevered.  Sending Lewis and Clark to check out the neighborhood was inspired. Even the sad end of Merriwether Lewis, committing suicide following some personal setbacks, after completing one of the most remarkable feats of exploration ever, is stuff I want to read about.  And it's all beautifully written.

10. Now I'm supposed to tag five people. Gimme a minute. You're all dreading this aren't you? 

Why don't we make tagging voluntary?  If you want to particpate you can answer as many questions as you want in COMMENTS or take the questions back to your own blog.

Re-hab

I haven't been able to post very often for the past week or so.  Like Mel Gibson, I've been recovering from my excesses.  Unlike Mel Gibson, they didn't involve motor vehicles or police officers, but it would have been nice if someone had held a gun to my head and suggested that I STEP AWAY FROM THE FOOD!!!!!!!!  Which I list in no particular order since I am in denial that any of this happened.

However, I do confess to going on vacation and witnessing the following foods being eaten: chicken breasts browned in pure butter with white rice, all covered in a rich and buttery [can you ever have too much?] lemon sauce, chips and dip, cantaloupe, corn, tomatoes, birthday cake, carne alotta asada, grilled chicken fajitas, homemade refried beans, fresh tortillas, hand carried from this little place in New York that makes them fresh every day, more corn, tomatoes, homemade guacamole, hot cheese dip, mango cheese, hot pepper cheese, more cheese, artichoke dip, which if you'll recall has plenty of mayo AND parmesan cheese, chips, crackers, more chips, birthday ice cream cake -- different birthday, fresh baked crumb cake, homemade cinnamon buns, homemade apple cake, lasagne, garlic bread made with whipped butter, garbage salad, tomatoes, corn, more corn, tomato sandwiches, leftover hot cheese dip with chips, chocolate chip cookies, mozzarella and tomato salad, corn, chicken something with mushrooms, apple, candied nut, spinach, blue cheese salad, pie, key lime pie, homemade brownies, garlic bread with real garlic not garlic salt, so it stays on your breath longer, iced tea, tea, tea, a margarita that knocked me on my ass because I don't usually drink, homemade fruit cobbler, homemade pound cake with fresh strawberries, deviled eggs, homemade peach salsa, chips, bean dip, steak, corn, tomatoes, Irish oatmeal with maple syrup, pizza, leftover pizza, chocolate chip cookies and milk at least a couple of times more, cantaloupe, orange juice. . .sorry, it's time for my Zantac. 

The Funniest Person I know

It's weekend assignment time again and one of my suggestions was picked.  Greatness is thrust upon me, what can I say? So, who's the funniest person you know? A person from your real life, not a comedian or an actor.  Unless, as Scalzi points out, you actually KNOW a comedian or actor who's funny.

Currently some of the funniest people I know have journals on AOL or Blogger.  You can find them scattered all over my OTHER JOURNALS area.  Just discovering them would make it worth your while to click on some of the links.

But they aren't real in the sense that I actually spend time with them face to face.  So sorry, Remo, Anna, Root, Dr. Guy, Chris, Bosox, Mary et al, love ya, but from a distance.

I've known very funny people. Dated them. Worked with them. Roomed with them in college. Watched them go on to have careers writing for funny shows. Met them when they married my friends. Or grew up as the children of friends. But most of the big laughs these days come from one of my brothers, whose daughter, [see picture to prove the point] didn't fall too far from the tree.

Dave is a Jonathon Swift for the 21st century. Biting, ironic satire is his forte. But he can do slapstick. All the pee in your pants funny stuff gets pulled out of his bag. And, as you can see, it runs in the family.    

SHEESH

Remember last Thursday?  Or as I call it, Why Did You Decide To Fly Today Of All Days?  

I got to the airport with my gel-free, lotionless carry-ons like a good little passenger [I did check another bag with my toothpaste, hair do stuff, even nail polish remover without so much as a strip search] only to discover that my FLIGHT WAS CANCELLED!!!

Not to worry -- we'll put you on this next flight instead. 

SUCKA!

I smelled a rat.  I made a bet with the guy sitting next me at the gate, before boarding, that we would leave the gate and drive to a tarmac somewhere and park.  He laughed derisively and laid down a buck.

We got on the plane.  We left the gate.  We taxied to the edge of the runway.  We continued to taxi past the runway.  We taxied some more.  We taxied and taxied and taxied.  Then we stopped.

And parked.

For FIVE HOURS.  I collected on my bet. He laughed derisively again.

Then we took off finally.  Everybody clapped.  And we flew for a couple of more hours.

Then we circled for a little bit.  Forty five minutes is a little bit in the larger scheme of this trip.

We finally landed in the middle of the night and sat waiting and waiting and waiting by the gate until the ground crew got out of bed to guide the plane to the jetway.

By this time nobody was clapping.  

 

 

 

 

It's That Time Again

Mrs. L takes on a new advice maven over at her blogspot spot.

http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/

AOL RELEASES SEARCH LOGS FOR 500,000 MEMBERS

AOL always finds a way to screw up. 

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=aol+releases+data

That link gets you to all the Google links.

Here's the one I read:

http://www.ugcs.caltech.edu/~dangelo/aol-search-query-logs/

Stick This In Your Pipeline and Smoke It

There is a machine that can be used to go through an oil pipeline, like the one up in Prudhoe Bay that has just been shut down.

This machine can tell when the walls of the pipeline are becoming compromised. 

This machine can act as an early warning system.  So that shut downs like the one that just happened don't have to happen.

A machine exactly like this machine has been parked up in Prudhoe Bay for years. 

Parked is the operative word.

The last time it was used to inspect the inside of the pipeline up there wasn't last year. It wasn't the year before that, either.

It wasn't even five years ago.  Or six.

It was last used to check the safety of the pipeline in 1999.

Prudhoe Bay is in an isolated part of the world. There isn't much of anything for anyone to do there except take care of the pipeline. Wipe off the blood of the animals that run into it.  Paint over the rust.  Get out the pipe inspection machine parked out back and take it for a ride inside the pipe.

Every seven years.

The designated hitter from BP called a press conference yesterday when the pipeline had to be closed for repairs.

He regretted the inconvenience to the public. He couldn't have seemed more sorry. I believe I almost saw a tear. When asked why basic maintenance had not been implemented for all this time, he said what every good senior officer of an unregulated, profit sucking multi national conglomerate says when his ass is in a sling, "I forgot."

We're Number Two!!!

Here are the finalists [i.e. second place] in the 16 and under World Series held in Colorado a week or so ago. Not bad for a bunch of kids from my old high school outside Chicago, who played against all star teams from all over the country. Okay they also picked up four players from other schools, after the varsity coach took three of theirs for his summer team. That will happen when two varsity kids get kicked off the team for buying booze with a fake i.d.

Anywho, they lost the championship 2-0 to a great team from Texas with a fantastic pitcher. Not that I'm biased, but since the manager doesn't read my journal, I can feel free to say that I KNOW if he'd done a better job of coaching, they could have won. Seriously. I've watched them come back on their own from six and seven runs down in late innings. A little small ball.  Some bunts. Some steals. They coulda woulda shoulda won.

Next life I'm coming back as Billy Martin. 

 

 

The Upside and the Downside

The upside of the Floyd Landis illegal testosterone story is that the French may have spiked his pee.

The downside is that it makes all those accusations [by the French, of course] about Lance Armstrong's years of doping seem more plausible.

The upside of Mel Gibson's anti-semitic tirade is that he has been asked by a rabbi in Hollywood to speak to the rabbi's congregation at temple during Yom Kippur. Since my Jewish friends often complain about the cost of services on the high holidays -- just to get a seat -- I'm wondering if this rabbi is offering Mr. Gibson a chance for atonement or he's come up with a new way to increase attendance.

The downside of Mel Gibson's anti-semitic tirade is that apparently he thinks he can convince the rest of us that alcohol makes you say things you don't believe. 

The upside of 85-year old John Glenn's recent trip to the hospital with his wife, following a minor car accident, is finding out that he can still drive.

The downside is that he was cited by the cops for turning in front of an oncoming car so that may be a moot point.

The upside of Peter Cook cheating on Christy Brinkley is that 52-year old women across America don't feel so bad now.

The downside is that she might take him back. 

The upside of this latest crisis in the middle east is getting to see what Condi Rice is wearing when she gets off all those planes to Lebanon and Israel. 

The downside is that she doesn't seem to be doing much more than changing outfits. 

The upside about all those commercials for erectile dysfunction is that there's hope for all the impotent old men in the world who long to do that to you one more time.

The downside is being married to them.

The upside of global warming is a longer growing season and reduced heating costs.

The downside is pumping all the melting glacier water out of the basement.

The upside of the secret O.J. tapes is finding out that he has to wait for the bus just like the rest of us.

The downside is that he has the freedom to wait for a bus just like the rest of us.

The upside of this journal is that it keeps me from going to the funny farm.

The downside is that I may already be there.

Susan Butcher

Chances are you have no idea who Susan Butcher is. Most people in the lower forty-eight don't keep up with women who live in Alaska in remote cabins and train dogs to pull sleds. 

I first heard about her in the early eighties. She was a musher in Alaska who seemed like she would become the first female to win the Iditarod dog sled race. This was back before anybody had heard of the Iditarod except in the bars of Anchorage.

I first read about the race and Susan Butcher's chances to win it in a Sports Illustrated article which, along with People magazine, is one of two periodicals I use to keep abreast of what's happening in the real world.

In 1984 I was at one of Quaker Oats' ad agencies writing on dog food. After reading about the race, I thought the Iditarod would be a perfect opportunity for Ken-L Ration canned to re-launch itself in the face of inroads made by Purina's bags of dry stuff. Out in the wilderness it would perform well as a product so nourishing it could help a dog sled team win an 1100 mile endurance race.  Especially if Ken-L Ration also made the smart move to sponsor the team of the first woman musher who was going to win the race. And bought rounds of drinks for everybody before and after.
 
The eleven hundred mile race commemorates a dog sled relay that took place in 1925 when diphtheria broke out in an isolated town on the Bering Sea. The only way to get lifesaving serum to the sick people there was by dog sled in weather that was often fifty below. Twenty or so teams passed the serum from one musher to another and covered the distance in just over five days. That's around 220 miles per day.

The modern race is also 1100 miles long. But there is no relay.  It's one musher and his or her dogs against the elements and the sound of other mushers gaining on them. The teams usually run more than 100 miles a day.

With all the history, plus the possibility of a female winner, I thought this would be a great story for both PR and advertising reasons.  I wrote commercials to prove my point, with the idea of shooting Susan and the dogs all along the race. Not an inexpensive undertaking, needless to say.

But we would capture the drama, the excitement, the pain, the hardship, the heroics, and mostly the hungry dogs scarfing up the Ken-L Ration. Keep in mind that mushers have secret recipes for energizing food that often include wildlife creature parts like raccoon paws and bear's liver, so convincing any of them, let alone the singleminded, opinionated Susan Butcher, that Ken-L Ration would be a good substitute was not going to be easy. That wasn't my biggest problem, it would turn out.

At that time she lived alone out in the wilderness in a cabin with her dogs.  I was also told by people who subsequently went to interview her following the article in SI that she smelled like she lived alone out in the wilderness in a cabin with her dogs.

But I didn't care about that. I saw OPPORTUNITY for an old dog food to re-invent itself. I could make Susan Butcher a household word. A legend in her own time.

The problem was my boss was a 5'4" dead ringer for Sylvester Stallone. He wore cowboy boots, a toupee and smelled of expensive cologne. Later he would own not one, but two Ferraris. So the concept of sponsoring a female musher in a dog sled race in Alaska was not ever going to be on his radar. If it couldn't be shot in LA, I was SOL.

And, it turned out, despite the hype, Susan Butcher was not the first woman to win the Iditarod.  Surprisingly, some lesser known babe beat  her. Susan had to withdraw from the race everyone expected her to win. My boss couldn't wait to say, "Na na na na na."  He was that kind of guy.

Her team was attacked by an angry moose, which killed or maimed most of the dogs. But she is the woman race aficionados think of when the Iditarod is mentioned. Following that debacle, she went on to win the race four times, a feat equal to winning the Indy 500 four times. And those guys and occasional lady only have to drive in a circle for a couple of hours.

In fact, she won four times in the next five years, coming in second the time she lost. Not many men have achieved as much in either race, let alone a woman. So I was vindicated.

She also met a guy who had similar interests -- who knew?  They got married and had two children, moved to a larger cabin in the wilderness, and continued to raise and race their dogs. 

I recently learned she had contracted leukemia, despite being so far away from people, pollution and packages of junk food.

This week when she passed awayat 51, she had become important enough to be mentioned on George Stephanopoulos' show.

Somehow she managed to become a legend without any help from me. I was very sorry to hear she died.

Malibu Embraces Mr. Gibson

Right near where the cops stopped Mel Gibson for speeding and something he drank turned him into a raging anti-semite there is a sign for Malibu.  Someone has changed it.  Thought you might find as amusing as I did.

When Is A Sub Not A Sandwich?

Over the years I have had a lot of dreams about houses.  Someone once told me they are the outer reflections of our inner selves. In short, we are the houses. And the state our house is in is a good barometer of current conditions.  Armed with this knowledge, I was alarmed many years ago when I dreamed that I was running around in a panic from room to empty room of a giant old Victorian house that had lots of open doors and windows, but no people or things.

A few years later, I was feeling pretty smug and full of myself the morning after I had a dream about a cozy, well-appointed house with many rooms, all of which were filled with colorful flowers. 

With those two dreams as prologue, I wondered what to think about the one I just had a couple of nights ago. Where I was tooling around in a submarine so large it could swamp an entire city when it surfaced.

This was the kind of brobdinagdian [FYI: Macs don't have spellcheck on AOL] sub you see depicted in architectural drawings where the tiny buglike specks in the foreground are actually people, who have only been put there to give you an astonishing sense of perspective.

You should have been up there on the coning tower taking that baby on a test drive with me. Like most dreams, any number of people and things can show up without much explanation. So there was a guy from West Point there, for some reason missing a front tooth. I remember thinking, "Shouldn't he be a Navy man?" We weren't alone. One of my former college roommates was there too. She has a Martha Stewart side so she was there with a stack of Oreo cookie-like confections that she wanted me to arrange attractively on a plate. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.

Meanwhile I wanted to see what would happen when I turned the winglike extensions on the front. Aha, they create a huge turbulence as they rotate. I also noticed fairly quickly that when the wings rotated, I did too. I have no memory of operating any specific controls. But I did have control. It was my dream after all.

After having fun driving the sub around, I actually woke up from this dream laughing to myself.  Mostly because after a second or two thinking houses and subs might be related, I realized that, in this instance, they had as much in common as fish and feathers. 

We'll leave it at that.

Cats or Dogs. Which One Would Jesus Choose?

One of the things that sophisticated bloggers [i.e, NEVER CAUGHT DEAD KEEPING A JOURNAL ON AOL] don't appreciate about AOL is the tireless work of our fearless and surely well paid blogmeister, John Scalzi, who makes a concerted weekly effort to keep members of J-Land entertained. [See By the Way in my Other Journals area].

Once again he reaches deep into his bucket of thought provoking topics to regale us amateurs [by World Wide Web standards] with yet another weekend assignment.

Today's conundrum is one of four [one of the remaining three is MINE] he chose from a bunch of subjects submitted by AOL journalers who were attempting to curry favor with management -- if being the social chairman on the cruiseship AOL qualifies as management. The other three will be presented each week during August. When it's my topic's turn, I'll be sure to let you know.

Matt Drudge [Drudge Report] and his ilk may have their cult followings, but have they ever written an original thought on the weekend about choosing between cats and dogs?  Of course not. They're too busy making the world safe for Donald Rumsfeld. 

The Scalzi Weekend Assignment is only one of the reasons we stick around here.

I'm sure there's another.

Weekend Assignment #123:  Dogs. Cats. There can be only one! Choose which you prefer and tell us why. No weaseling out, people -- you can't say "oh, I like them both." You must choose! Don't worry: In real life all the cats or dogs won't disappear if you choose the other species. Honestly, as long as you keep to food coming, everything will be groovy with your pets. So pick one, already. We promise we won't tell. And pets can't read.

Extra credit: Isn't it obvious? Cat pictures! Dog pictures! Go nuts!


The main reason I prefer cats over dogs is because cats don't need to be walked. They can also peep and poop without me having to make sure I see where stuff lands so I can clean up behind them.  And then transport their precious do-dahs in my pocket, albeit in a plastic bag.  Twice a day. In rain sleet or snow. I'm not that anal retentive.  Although I wish they were.

Not to mention that dogs always want treats and praise afterwards. Did widdle Sparky make a BIIIG poo today? Wadda goood boy!!!

I don't think so.

Cats, on the other hand, can be trained to use the toilet.  And flush it.  I've seen the videos on TV.

And they don't hump your leg. But those are the only reasons.

Pictures to come. Oh, wait, I'll post my picture of BEANS temporarily, while you wait for cutesy cat photos. 

Smackdown in the heat!!

Let's talk some heat.

Let's talk about the difference between my heat and the heat you mopes who live with lizards and cactuses think is hot. The kind I'm sick and tired of hearing you brag about in Arizona, Nevada, Utah, and New Mexico. THE DRY HEAT.

* YAWN *

You want heat?  I'll give you heat.

Come to the midwest. Spread your sandy nostrils and slam down a suck of REAL heat. The kind those of us who live with slimy pond slugs from Mississippi to Minnesota call HOT.

Next to ours your heat is like a walk in the springtime. Yeah. That's right. Springtime.

Our heat is way WORSE than YOUR HEAT.  Because, unlike you people, who whine about frying your fingers on the steering wheels of your cars when it gets a little hot outside, our heat will boil your lungs from the inside.

We don't just have high heat. We have HIGH HUMIDITY. An alien life form to people who have to catch their water from the sweat glands of bats in a mine shaft.

Sure, your air can toast sandwiches. *HO HUM.* Our air can defrost and boil a pig faster than you can put that cardboard windshield thing on your dashboard.

Your air is hot. Our air is like mainlining steam out of radiator.

So I'll see your 114 degrees at dawn and raise you 95 hot ones at noon with 94 per cent humidity.

Take a deep breath of desert air and I might need a sip of water.

One slap in the face of our heat and humidity and you'll be fricassee for supper.  With a side order of mold.

So there.  Na na na na na.