Got Legs?

Yesterday I saw a man in a wheelchair wrestling with his keyring in the building where I work. Both of his legs had been amputated at the knee. As I walked behind him I glanced at his t-shirt. Poking above the top of the chair's seat was the image of a frog. The caption above?

That's right.

"Got legs?"

I. am. not. making. this. up.

I have secretly named him Mr. Beckett because he is clearly that kind of awesome.

And in completely unrelated news, your Moment of Zen, featuring break-dancing Russians who really love Sarah Palin (like really a lot):



Aaaand here's a direct link.

The Lovers, the Dreamers and a German in a Funny Hat

You may be under the impression that today's big headline is "Obama rocks it out at Invesco" or something to that effect. You are wrong.

Today's big headline is in fact this: "Crucified frog angers pope".

Furthermore, the frog is apparently holding a beer glass in one hand and an egg in the other. Having often found myself concurrently holding those very same objects, I think I'll have to side with the frog.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I feel compelled to report that during my eighth grade science class' frog dissection, my lab partner disregarded the teacher's instructions to pin the frog's legs in a spread-eagle fashion and in fact crucified our frog with T-pins. Our teacher then unwittingly held our frog up as an example of a well-pinned subject. No beer or eggs were involved.)

Road Rage

ATTN: Persons in sports cars who feel compelled to drive fewer than three feet away from my bumper on the freeway

RE: Structural innovations in transportation architecture

There are FOUR OTHER LANES on the freeway other than the one I am currently driving the speed limit it. Feel free to drive in one of them.

Cheers.

I Guess Squats Are Out

Today at the gym I saw an outfit almost identical to this (but the oh-so-tasteful thongotard was red):



As though time on the treadmill isn't unpleasant enough, I have to be subjected to this? It's not 1984. Your underpants need to be inside your clothes. Even if they are shiny and red.

Especially if they are shiny and red.

Chasing Trends

Yet again today I was confronted with the meaningless expression "40 is the new 30." I haven't even turned 30 yet and apparently it's not even cool any more.

Besides, I thought satin jumpsuits were the new 30. Or something.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...

...the moon. Yes, this past May someone in South Wales mistook the moon for a UFO. They even called 999 (the Welsh version of 911) about it.

Here's an excerpt from the transcript:

Caller: "If you've got a couple of minutes perhaps you could find out what it is? It's been there at least half an hour and it's still there."

Control: "It's been there for half an hour. Right. Is it actually on the mountain or in the sky?"

Caller: "It's in the air."

Control: "I will send someone up there now to check it out."

Well, we all get confused sometimes, no? Just the other day I though my nail clippers were an angry little man wearing a shiny, oblong hat.

The Inconveniences Attending Too Much Liberty

In 1783 William Pitt (the Prime Minister whose actions began the slow dismantling of the hideous British East India Company) stood on the floor of the House of Commons and argued the following:

"Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants. It is the creed of slaves."

Strong words from the man who would soon become the Prime Minister of Britain — a nation which had only recently lost one of its most profitable tentacles in a revolution spurred by accusations that Britain was indeed in the habit of making "the argument of tyrants" to attain its goals.

Today we celebrate that very event, blowing things to bits in the sky to honor our determination to be a nation of free men (yes, then, men) rather than the worker bees of a corrupt king. Reason and the public good were to be our guiding principles — not necessity. Human freedom was to be held sacrosanct, and its infringement was to be guarded against by the vigilance of a robust populace.

And so to me Independence Day is very much worth honoring, less with hot dogs and streamers than with reflection upon the radical language that led to the formation of our nation.

On July 4, 1776 Thomas Jefferson and 56 other men laid a series of charges at the feet of declared tyrant King George III, making the case that he was no longer fit to govern them. Two of the charges were these:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

King George, of course, disagreed.

History repeats itself, and we have had other King Georges, and other attempts to impinge upon self-evident human freedoms, and other rationales for why necessity trumps the right of humans to be free (or at least the right to argue one's case for freedom before a jury of one's peers).

Bush: Dangerous Gitmo Detainees Could Walk US Streets After Supreme Court Ruling

William Pitt: "Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants. It is the creed of slaves."

We've forgotten our roots. We have. Look:



One of our closest data twins is Iran. Iran. We, the descendants of men who would rather die standing than live on their knees, are now the ideological brothers of those whom we accuse of Islamo-fascism when it comes to humanity's most basic of civil liberties — the right not to be tortured.

Pass the celebratory hot dogs!

When someone tells us that giving prisoners the right to a trial means that they'll inevitably strangle us in our beds, we believe them. In a pique of textbook fear-mongering, White House spokeswoman Dana Perino disingenuously frets, "The judge might say to the United States, 'You don't have enough evidence to hold this person.' And then what do we do? ... Is he allowed to leave?" (The implication clearly being "Because if he does, he'll garrote your sons and deflower your daughters.") And we sagely nod along.

Am I missing something here? If a judge might reasonably say "You don't have enough evidence to hold this person," then why are we holding this person? If we know that someone is a terrorist, why not try him or her as such, attain a conviction, and carry on? How can we possibly deny the right of prisoners to a fair trial in one breath and celebrate the Declaration of Independence in the next?

You know, this Declaration of Independence:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

Like it our not, we live in a nation whose greatest linguistic architect was prone to saying things like this: "I would rather be exposed to the inconveniences attending too much liberty than to those attending too small a degree of it."

Hear, hear.

I'm not against fire works and hot dogs. (Well, actually, I am against hot dogs, but that's a separate issue.) I just think we ought to know why we're eating them. (The hot dogs, not the fire works.)

Happy Independence Day, readers. I wish you happy meditations upon self-evident truths.

Still on Vacation, But.

Some people look life in the face and make excuses for why they don't have to be as good as they could be.

Other people look like in the face and say, "I feel like a million bucks. I think I'll do that again tomorrow."

Senator Ted Kennedy falls into the latter category.

(And yes, blah blah Chappaquidick he deserves cancer blah blah. But let's have an intelligent conversation about your 40-year-old sins before we start espousing right-wing talking points regarding a man whose flesh is digesting itself, shall we?)

Gone Fishing

Laughter Shrapnel is on vacation through June 11 while I'm out of town grading scads of A.P. World History essays.

Cheers!

Bigfoot Sightings

In honor of Earth Day on April 22, I will be devoting several of this week's posts to environmental issues. Today I'd like to talk about your shoes. No, not the fact that you've chosen to wear charcoal grey slacks with brown dress-tennies (although that's also a problem). Rather, I'd like to talk about your footprint — your carbon footprint.

Your carbon footprint measures the extent of the adverse impact you have on the environment merely through virtue of your existence in a modern industrial society. The measurement is based on the estimated amount of CO2 emissions you produce each day. The less "green" your lifestyle, the greater your carbon footprint.

The Environmental Protection Agency offers one of many Carbon Footprint Calculators (although they call theirs a Personal Emissions Calculator because if they used the parlance of the people their collective head would explode). According to the EPA, the average two-person household produces about 41,500 pounds of carbon emissions over the course of the year. My husband and I came in at an estimated 33,500. That's better than average, but given the consumption averages of the stereotypical American, that's like saying we're funnier than Jamie Kennedy.

Another fun calculator is at Carbon Footprint. Their calculator allows for more detailed information in terms of dietary habits, travel habits and so forth. My carbon footprint there came out to 7.654. That just a little over one-third of the average American's carbon footprint (20), about two-thirds of the average First-Worlder (11), but almost twice as much as that produced by the average human worldwide (4). I suppose for an imperialist swine I'm doing pretty well (I suspect not eating meat has a lot do with it), but given the worldwide target of 2...

My feet hurt.

But the news isn't all tragic! According to the EPA, if my husband and I replaced six light bulbs in our home with energy-efficient bulbs, it would reduce our annual carbon shoe size by two percent. Done and done.

Click here to see what you can do to quit kicking the planet in the face.

Retrieved a Nothing

In what I consider to be an unqualified success of a day, I spent the afternoon consuming, cover-to-cover, a full four of the 25 heretofore unread magazines decorating my coffee table. I read one each of Harper's, The Nation, NEA Today and California Educator.

Of the many excellent paragraphs I read today, the most fabulous by far was located in the "Findings" section of Harper's:

"A sex hormone was found in the drinking water of San Francisco, and anti-anxiety medications were found in the drinking water of Southern California. Prozac was revealed not to work, researchers demonstrated that placebos are more effective if the drugs for which they stand in are said to be more expensive, and a Scottish study determined that roughly half of a person's happiness is due to genetics. Physicists stored and retrieved a nothing."

Let There Be Bosons!

Scientists believe they are on the brink of discovering the intriguingly monikered "god particle" through a process of smashing atoms to bits with Mike Tyson's fists a very large machine. While the prospect of finally bringing to light what makes light, well, light, is indeed fascinating, I can't help but wonder if the millions of dollars allocated to the project might not have been better spent creating a machine that would bring to light socks that disappear in the dryer.

I'm just saying.

Death by Domesticity

Today's favorite headline: "Men Create More Housework for Women". According to the article, married women today spend an average of seven more hours per week on housework than single women. Conversely, married men spend an average of one hour less per week on housework than their single counterparts (although apparently they do more housework than they did in 1976 — hurrah).

As I sit here typing this, I am looking at not one but two empty glasses and a half-consumed can of Coke left scattered on the coffee table by either malicious gnomes or my husband.

Being liberated sure is awesome.

Spin Me Right Round

Today NBC announced that The Office is going to have a spin-off. I decided I'd like to have a spin-off of my life. It could star my dogs, my husband, and a bunch of random people he works with. Or whatever. The point is that when my life became too odious to bear, I could randomly drop into the spin-off and play a bit part in some story entitled "Cole and the Mystery of the Misplaced Sheet Music".

Someone, make this happen.

Chicken Dinner

Having recently seen 21, I have decided to formally declare my intention to become a card shark forthwith through perfection of the art and science of the counting of cards.

I will, however, refrain from buying ugly white Gucci suits.

Funereal

It struck me today that flowers start to look more beautiful when they begin to die a little.

Creepy.

Myriad-Minded

When I was small, my parents, in their (I have come to increasingly realize) great wisdom enrolled me in a wide variety of extracurricular activities ranging from clarinet to karate, from riding horses to rowing canoes. One of these activities was acting, and I remember spending one summer taking classes from the fine thespians at San Diego's Old Globe Theatre.

The only problem with taking acting lessons from actual actors is that you're taking acting lessons from actual actors. I assume anyone who has ever met an actual actor will take my point. One day in improv class (the sort of painful activity in which a room full of 12-year-olds pretend to be donkeys and CEO's) our instructor burst into an utterly unsolicited monologue (or was it some sort of schizophrenic soliloquy?) in which he bemoaned the lack of soul, soul, in our performances and decried the shallow, materialistic culture that was clearly responsible for superficial and desultory acting.

Midway through what was probably the first nervous breakdown I'd witnessed, our poor instructor cried out "Have any of you even read any Shakespeare?!?!" Painfully geeky, painfully honest, it never occurred to me to do anything other than pathetically raise my hand and assure the poor man that I'd read Julius Caesar out of curiosity when I was 10. Tears literally sprang to the man's eyes, at which point he spun himself into some sort of fit involving shouts of "Children in Africa are starving to death and only one of you has ever read Shakespeare! Oh the HUMANITY!" Predictably, the 20 other children in the room stared at me as though I'd suddenly spouted an extra head (the contents of which they perhaps would have required to successfully crack a tome of the bard, but that's neither here nor there).

The lesson I took from all of this is that unashamed intelligence, while occasionally appealing to the acutely insane, or the insanely acute, to the well-socialized it is off-putting at best. And that I didn't want to be an actor.

Actually, the classes were pretty great once I got a Romulan cloaking device for the second head (and if American electoral politics teach us nothing else, Americans have very short memories). But some days I think I'd recommend canoeing.

An Evening in Movements

An evening at the La Jolla Symphony last night offered a fascinating cross-section of the denizens of San Diego:

Directly in front of me sat two sparsely-washed college students sporting matching yarn beanies (and matching earnest attention to the music).

Clockwise, to my right, sat a 60-something-year-old Asian man who spent the entire show beating out the melody on his shoe with his fingers.

Behind me was a woman in a business suit whose tap-tap-tapping into her cell phone keypad let up only during intermission, when she pulled out her laptop and, I don't know, traded futures or something.

And lastly, to my left, sat my husband, who spent the entire post-intermission portion of the event attempting to remove a chocolate chip cookie from its wax paper wrapping without making any noise.

Oh, and the music was pretty awesome too.

Perspective

Sometimes I feel bad about myself and my life. Then I watch Intervention.

(Or more appropriately, my husband watches Intervention while I'm in the room.)

That usually solves the problem.

Here's my new daily affirmation: At least I'm not a former Olympic athlete sitting in the back of a 1980-something Volvo shooting meth into my arm while my parents tell me if I'd just give up being gay and find God that my life would be peaches and parakeets.

I'll Throw the Golden Gate in Free

Today in the shower as I stood patiently waiting for the recommended three minutes of hair conditioning time to elapse, I decided to entertain myself by reading the back of my Cherry Blossom Creamy Body Wash bottle. I learned that as part of the product's "daily beauty ritual" patrons can expect to enjoy "naturally pampering ingredients" such as moisturizing oat protein (as opposed, one presumes, to the more commonly known salinating oat protein), skin-smoothing silk protein and "conditioning milk amino acids."

Conditioning acids? Conditioning acids?

Surprisingly, the methylchloroisothiazolinone was omitted from the "naturally pampering ingredients" list and relegated to the smaller-fonted and ignominiously monikered "ingredients" list further down the bottle. I think the Bath and Body Works P.R. folks missed a real opportunity there.