Calamari, Anyone?

I’m currently watching a webcam of a colossal squid thawing and dissection. I have to say, this is amazing. Imagine two guys in a pool of saltwater measuring the clawed tentacles of a thousand-pound squid with eyes the size of dinner plates and a foot-long beak. Did I mention I have a phobia of invertebrates? (Please, in all seriousness, if you were to play a practical joke on me by exploiting this fear, I would very likely stop being your friend. I am not joking.) But that just makes it that much cooler for me. It’s like sitting at the top of the first big hill on a rollercoaster—you’re pretty scared and the adrenaline is pumping, but at the same time, you’re excited about the rush, too. So what would the rush be? I’m waiting for the squid corpse to revive suddenly and grab a defenseless scientist, drag him under and eat him. That would be so scary-cool. That’s why I’m afraid of those things, I think. They’re slimy and a lot like the alien in Independence Day. (Poor Data.) I think I have too active of an imagination.

Anyway, if you want to see something freaky, check out the mighty colossal squid. And the next time you're swimming a half-mile below the surface of the Antarctic Ocean, just be careful, okay?

Athletes and Video Games

My friend Doug and I have discussed at some length the stupidity of professional athletes. Why is it that so many young athletes have gobs of money and are doing what they love, only to risk it all on dog fighting, riding motorcycles and DUIs? Doug and I agree that if we ever owned a professional team, it would be written into every player's contract that when not at practice or a game, he may sit in his house and play video games. That's it. And we figure if we're paying some guy millions of dollars a year, that's not too much to ask.

Well, lo and behold, I found out there is already an athlete doing this. Shot-putter Reese Hoffa trains and plays video games. That's it. This is because he loves skateboarding but realized a few years ago the risk he was taking with every ride. Rightly so, he didn't figure that a few jumps at the skate park was worth sacrificing an Olympic medal.

I say, good for Reese. Maybe his example will get other athletes thinking the same way. They'd better start soon, either way...I've got my eye on the Broncos. By the way, on an unrelated manner, does anyone have $500,000,000 I could borrow? I have to, uh, go to the store.

Grills

So, in a former life (read: before I got a full-time job), I used to enjoy writing song parodies. I thought I would post one I wrote in 2006. Below is a link to the real song, if you would like to sing along. Enjoy!


Grills
Parody of “Grillz” by Nelly
2006

Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill
Got a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal
Yo, we ‘bout to grill us up some chicken with this one
Yeah, I’m warming it up, so, so, so

I’m grillin’ dogs on the bottom, vegetables on the top
Such a wonderful smell, I’m drinkin’ Coke on the rocks
I got some mo’ on the table, gonna char me some brats
If you like chowin’ on meat, you gonna like this a lot
I got, like, butter and bread rolls, and Twinkies and Ho-
Hos, Grillin’ out “er” day, in rain or snow
I might be grillin’ on a nice day, drinkin’ iced tea
On my porch swing, in my wife-beat
Bring out the buns wit’, I can tell that they’re done wit’
You see, the restaurants all hate it, but my neighbors all love it
‘Cause when I (open up the grill I am divine
I’m the best that you will find)
I got a grill and meat tenderizer, you know what that means?
It looks like Applebee’s, Outback and Black-Eyed Pea
Are out of business forever, ‘cause I be grillin’ so good
So if you catch me in your city, grillin’ in your neighborhood, just say…

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

How you doin’, ladies, it’s the grill man DP*
I got my grill burnin’ hotter than infinity
I got my apron on, I’m ready—throw me a steak
If you think I’m lying, dude, you just made a mistake
Now I’m grillin’ some Zucchinis wrapped in aluminum foil
Never bakin’, fryin’, nukin’, God forbid that I should broil
I put my money where your mouth is and bought a grill
Twenty dogs, thirty steaks at once, you know I’m so for real
My motivation is the hungry stares I’m generatin’
I’m goin’ into the house, I’m stallin’ ‘cause they waitin’ (that’s right)
I got the ketchup, the mustard, the cheese I’m gratin’
But it’s my meat that’s got these onlookers spectatin’
My porkchops, make your tongue excited, the best imagined
Open up the fridge and put some mo’ carrots on that salad
My skills are mind-blowin’, keepin’ everybody filled
Screw that George Foreman, cause I’m cookin’ on a man’s grill

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

Yep, got the matches, got the charcoal, got the bread
Burgers so good make you woozy in your head
Have some seconds, ‘cause I know you want
Get addicted to my cheesy brats
‘Cause when you do, I know you, you’ll be back on the weekend
Never fear, you’ll bring the beer, drinkin’ Killian’s and feastin’
On what I’m heatin’, a pile of meat and much more food than we can eat and
Every cow is scared stiff and the sheep are all bleatin’
I ain’t dissin’ nobody, but let’s all agree on this
I am the best with a grill there is
The meat I’m grillin’, make your eyesight blurry
Takin’ every bite is a flavorful flurry
I got four different grills, it’s a wonderful thing
One white, one yellow, one black and one green
And on all of them, you know, I got my name in solid gold
and a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

Boy, how’d you learn to grill that way, and how long did it take?
Every time I see you, the first thing I want to say, is…

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

C’mon.

*Close personal friend Doug P.

Bravo's Infamous Plan B.

I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.

I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.

“Really,” I responded.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”

In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine.
“My patrons have pulled their funds.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.

He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”

He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”

“No.”

“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.

“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”

At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.

I didn't sleep for a week.

Stop--Grammar Time!

I have been noticing a disturbing trend. It seems that grammar, punctuation and spelling are on the decline in print. It seems as if in every book I read, I find a missing period or a misspelled word. I find typos in newspaper articles all the time. Today I saw a headline reading “Snowmobilers Go Father” instead of “Snowmobilers Go Farther”.

I’m not saying that everything always has to be in the Queen’s English. I understand that personal emails and even blog entries might have the occasional error, and that’s okay with me. There are people who make money writing and proofreading, though, and I think that they should have to be pretty good at what they do. I have to be good at what I do if I want to keep my job. They could at least reread their work, or run a spell-checking program (although this isn’t perfect).

So why are these violations of language slipping past? Are these people overworked? Are they lazy? Is there just too much information being published? Am I just too anal? (Please, no one answer that—it’s rhetorical.)

I only raise this issue because I have a “bad grammar” radar lodged in my brain. (I think it may have replaced my hypothalamus.) My wife can verify that anytime I come across an English mistake, it may as well be in big, bold red letters, underlined thrice and packing heat. I am not exaggerating. It seriously trips me up when I am reading, as if I were interrupted by fingernails on a chalkboard. It is almost a painful experience for me. Don’t blame me for my ranting, then: I am a victim of this disease. I’m sure I’ll track down a name for it sometime.

In the meantime, I think some federal funding is in order. I obviously can’t work under these conditions. I deserve free money!

The Continuing Adventures of Bravo de la Tromeo.

That monkey was worth millions. It would soon be ours.

Bravo had learned of it from one of his countless, nameless sources. A pure jade monkey statuette, carved some 1200 years prior. It was made with such intricacy that archaeologists still had no idea how the artist had done it. It must have taken a lifetime of dedication to complete.

It was now housed in the Smithsonian, which is where we were. We stood before it. It was behind two layers of bullet-proof glass and a laser-beam security system. Two armed guards stood watch, night and day. I thought it was a lost cause--there was simply no way to get it. I glanced at Bravo. He had that twinkle in his eye. We left silently. I wondered what his plan was.

As usual, he didn't tell me what he was going to do. He only told me that I would wait outside.

We would steal the monkey the following day. We had learned that every evening at 6:10 PM, right after close, the museum switched its electricity from the power plant to a generator they owned. They ran the generator until opening the next day. During each of these switches, the power went down for 10 seconds. This was our window of opportunity.

The next evening, we entered the museum thirty minutes before it closed. Bravo slipped into a janitor's closest. I visited the monkey, reported back to Bravo and left the building. I bought a hot dog from a vendor outside and waited.

At precisely 6:12 PM, Bravo calmly walked out of the museum, a book bag slung over his shoulder. He signaled to me. I fell in line behind him. We approached a grey Ford Mustang. In fifteen seconds, Bravo had broken in an hot-wired it. We were a mile from the scene before the police were alerted.

Back at the hotel, we watched the ten o'clock news. The lead story, of course, was the theft of the jade monkey. Two security guards had been killed. There were no visible marks on them. The empty case bore no marks on it, not even a fingerprint. The monkey had simply disappeared, and the lives of the security guards with it.

I was stunned. I turned and looked at Bravo. He did not look at me. He seemed bored with the news. He turned off the television and picked up a book. I turned away from him and tried to sleep, wondering.

Hail, Educators!

National Teachers' Day isn't until May 6, but as I was writing up a post on Dr. Reeves' new book, I began to think about all of the teachers and professors who have influenced me over the years, the ones who made a profound difference in my life. I present them to you now (in no particular order), as a way of saying thanks.

Dr. Douglas Groothuis - Although I don't always agree with him, he single-handedly reinvented the way I think and opened up my eyes to the wonderful world of philosophy (in which I am still quite the neophyte). He also challenged me to increase my vocabulary by his own example.

Drs. Rodney Reeves and Bing Bayer - They taught me Greek and Hebrew, respectively. They also taught me to get excited about the Bible.

Richard Irby - Mr. Irby was my senior English teacher. Everything I know about grammar I learned from him. His may be the most valuable class I have ever taken.

Vic Noordhoek - He was my junior-high and high-school cross-country coach. He got me started down the path of running, and coached me to all-State honors my junior year.

Mark Misch - He was my college cross-country/track coach. He took me as a 17:00 5K runner and turned me into a 15:00 5K runner, and reignited my passion for the sport in the process.

There are many others who have influenced me, but these would have to be on the top of the list. (No offense to those who didn't make the list; you're still important to me, too!) Where would I be without such people willing to pour themselves into a skinny white kid? I don't know, and I don't want to know. How does one repay this debt? I suppose by pouring himself into others.

I hope I do them proud.