We Really Don't Want a Dollar Coin. Really.

Once again, a move is afoot in congress to replace the classic American dollar bill with yet another dollar coin. Only this time, the plan is to discontinue producing bills, thereby forcing Americans to adopt something they haven't willingly embraced since the 1930s, when a real silver dollar could feed a family of eight for a decade.

The reason Americans haven't embraced a dollar coin is two-fold:
1. They really, really, REALLY don't want one
2. The United States really, really, REALLY can't make a good one.

Oh, the mint has tried several times. First, there was the Eisenhower dollar which debuted in 1971. While the reverse of this coin was striking (a replica of the Apollo 11 patch showing an eagle with an olive branch landing on the moon) Americans chose not to actually use it in daily transactions. Mainly because three of them weighed enough to pull your pants off. No one would accept them as change.

The 2.5 Pound Eisenhower Dollar

After this, someone had the bright idea of making a dollar coin that was nearly the exact same size, composition and shape as a quarter. Only they put a picture of Granny Clampett on the front. The Susan B. Anthony dollar was a disaster that lasted only three years (four, if you count a re-issue in 1999 because Las Vegas finally ran out of them 18 years after the last one was minted). They slowed down transactions because store clerks thought they were quarters, then realizing it wasn't George Washington on the front, could not be convinced that the United States of America would produce such an ugly piece of pot metal.

Granny Clampett

In 2000, congress once again authorized a dollar coin, and the mint gave us the Sacagawea dollar. The mandate from congress was that the coin had to depict a woman, and Sacagawea seemed to be the perfect choice for two reasons:

1. She was apolitical
2. No one has any earthly idea what she actually looked like.

There obviously aren't any pictures of Sacagawea, given that she died in 1812. There aren't even any drawings of her. All anyone knows is that she was Shashone. But having no visual representation of her in existence assured that the mint wouldn't make the same mistake of producing a coin that could make a watch stop. And they succeeded. The Sacagawea dollar is actually a very striking coin.

At first.

Theoretically, Sacagawea

You see, this time around, the mint chose to make the coin golden in color with a smooth edge (as opposed to the reeded edge on all other coins bigger than a nickel). Of course, they were beaten to this inspired design breakthrough by Chuck E. Cheese, America's lone connection to a smooth-edged, golden-toned piece of pot metal. The "Golden Dollar," as the Mint called it, had one disadvantage compared to Chuck E. Cheese tokens, however. While Chuck E. Cheese tokens stay golden into perpetuity, the "Golden" dollar only stayed "Golden" for about 15 minutes. Then it quickly tarnished into "Crap Colored." The unique "manganese bronze" alloy was a metallurgical breakthrough, but government scientists failed to take into account the presence of oxygen in the earth's atmosphere. This oversight meant the "Golden Dollar" was only "Golden" in theory. In reality, it looked diseased.

Still, the Mint thought they had a winner on their hands and decided to promote the heck out of the coin with a marketing campaign that basically wiped out any savings realized over producing paper dollars. Believing that if Americans knew it was a real dollar and that vending machines accepted it, they were convinced that we'd abandon our greenbacks forever and embrace the new coin like it was truly made of gold.

What they failed to realize, however, is that Americans really, really, REALLY don't want a dollar coin. We really don't. So we didn't use it. At all.

But then, congress had an even better idea. Fresh off the financial windfall of the 50 state quarters program, they decided to create the Presidential Dollar Coin program. The thinking was that Americans loved commemorative coin programs, and because of this, we'd fully embrace a dollar coin if, just like the quarters program, five new ones were introduced every year. The logic was flawless: if American's don't want A dollar coin, that must mean they want 44 of them!

Chuck E. Jefferson

To add to this stoke of genius, they also decided to make the new coin look absolutely nothing like a coin. They moved the date, motto and "In God We Trust" to the EDGE of the coin, traded traditional presidential profiles for a straight-on full-face pose and completely confused the American public as to what exactly this new Crap Colored piece of pot metal was. To date, there's absolutely no evidence that one of the hundreds of millions of Presidential dollars minted has ever been used in an American financial transaction. Even President Obama, who literally has found absolutely nothing he won't waste someone else's money on, looked at this colossal failure of a program and decided to cut it short.

But now the Senate has an even better idea: force a dollar coin down our throats.

A bevy of senators have introduced legislation to replace the dollar bill with a dollar coin. The reason, they say, is that replacing a short-lived paper dollar with a long-lasting pot metal coin will save BILLIONS of dollars. There are two flaws with this thinking:

1. No it won't
2. We really, really, REALLY don't want a dollar coin, don't you get it, why don't you freaking get it.

To the first point, no government number is ever reliable because frankly, they don't know what the hell they're doing. Look at any cost/savings projection throughout American history. Every single one of them was wrong. By a lot. Squared.

But, OK, just for argument's sake, let's say that for the first time in our 236 year history, congress has actually gotten a financial projection correct. WE'RE $15 TRILLION IN DEBT. Those billions of dollars in savings will have been wiped out before you finish reading this sentence. To position this idea as a serious attempt to wrangle the debt is like throwing a brick in the air and saying you're making a serious attempt to reach earth's orbit.

To the second point, imagine this. Instead of getting four one dollar bills and two quarters in change, you get four one dollar coins and two quarters in change. For the rest of the day, your pants jingle like Santa's sleigh streaking through the midnight sky.

We prefer dollar bills because they're light, easy to carry and for the most part, are accepted by nearly every vending machine. Even taped, faded, wrinkly dollar bills work in machines these days. Plus, everyone recognizes a dollar bill, everyone accepts a dollar bill. Everyone PREFERS a dollar bill. Imagine a church usher trying to hold a basket weighed down with dollar coins. On the opposite end of the spectrum, imagine pole dancers. Where on earth are they going to...

You know what? I don't want to know the answer to that.

Here's an idea that would solve everyone's problem: MAKE A STRONGER DOLLAR BILL. Use Tyvek or some other indestructible fabric like burlap. Politicians will get at least a portion of their mythical savings. We'll get our lightweight paper dollar. And we won't be forced to use something against our collective will, like low-flush toilets or curly light bulbs or...

Ah. Come to think of it, force might be the biggest draw for politicians on this one.

George is doomed.

Team Spirit?

There’s a clear message staring terrorists in the face these days, and it’s prominently displayed on the chests of TSA agents nationwide. Or at least in Charlotte and Pittsburgh. It’s a list of three values that stand as a promise to terrorists that they can’t possibly succeed in their nefarious plans.

Those values, stitched in bright lettering, are Integrity, Innovation and … um… Team Spirit?

Yes, Team Spirit.

 

I did a double take after reading the patch, because I felt for sure that no adult charged with thwarting terrorism would be wearing the words “Team Spirit” on their official uniform. Actually, the only place I’d expect to see “Team Spirit” on a grown-up’s outerwear at all would be at a drug counselor’s group picnic. But there it was, written in bold, beautiful thread.

Somewhere in Washington, DC, there’s a committee that is insufferably proud of itself for having come up with that. That committee is a greater threat to the future of civilization than all of our enemies combined. And I have definitive proof of that. Know what it is? They put the words “Team Spirit” on the uniforms of security forces charged with thwarting terrorism.

Honestly, if I’m a TSA agent, and someone hands me a uniform with a patch that says “Team Spirit” on it, that person is tasered on the spot and wakes up asking the question, “What the hell am I doing in Gitmo?”

What must the terrorists be thinking when they read those words?

Integrity: “Crap. We can’t bribe them.”
Innovation: “Crap. That could be problematical.”
Team Spirit: “OMG!!! Zac Efron’s here?!?”

The only time you see “Team Spirit” on a patch is when the 7th place cheerleading squad goes to the podium to get their award. You never see it again because they all throw their patches out once they get home. Yet here are the men and women on the front line of domestic anti-terrorism, being forced to flash this Disney-esque platitude. “Team Spirit” doesn’t covey dedication and determination to stop our potential murderers. It suggests that there’s an elaborate plan in the works that will bring together the cool kids and the geeky kids to trap Al Qaeda in a dumpster using a Bunsen burner, shoulder pads and a banana.

Maybe the world’s most dangerous committee was going for the element of surprise. “Team Spirit” is something you’d expect at Chuck E. Cheese.  Its presence at the metal detectors of major airports is so astonishing that it could throw terrorists off their game.

“OK brothers, our holy act of vengeance is a go. We will be martyrs for the… whoa. Wait a sec. Team Spirit?!? What the… what’s… ABORT! ABORT!”

There are myriad other words or terms that would be more impressive than “Team Spirit.”

Vigilance.

Resolve.

Gang Tackling.

Brass Knuckles.

A Stick With A Nail In It.

I could even see “Teamwork.” It’s a little flaccid, but at least it suggests working together to thwart danger. “Team Spirit” suggests a group hug by the bonfire.

Come to think of it, that’s probably how the world’s most dangerous committee came up with it.

Ask Your Doctor About BUH-buh-buh.

From ED drugs to blood thinners, a clear trend has emerged in the global pharmaceutical industry: the rise of the three-syllable brand-name prescription. Turn on your TV and you’re bombarded with advertising for Viagra, Ambien, Uloric, Lipitor, Celebrex, Nexium and a thousand other BUH-buh-buh (or buh-BUH-buh in the case of Uloric) drugs designed to fix whatever ails you.

Clearly, a three-syllable name indicates cutting-edge, can’t miss medicine. You know your doctor is giving you the very best when he prescribes BUH-buh-buh. It tells you that the doctor thinks, 1) you can survive this medical ordeal and, 2) your insurance will cover it.

A two syllable prescription, on the other hand, means that your doctor is basically writing you off as a lost cause and is pretty much trying to just keep you comfortable and out of his hair while he doles out BUH-buh-buh to his patients with a fighting chance. On the bright side, BUH-buh usually only costs $4 at Wal-Mart.

Recently, my eldest daughter was diagnosed with pneumonia. We were pretty worried until her doctor prescribed not one but two BUH-buh-buhs, Pulmicort and Zithromax.

“Look — they have three syllables! You’re gonna live, honey! You’re gonna live!”

Good thing, too. Because if that scrip had said Trimox and Flovent, things would have gotten ugly in the doctor’s office.

“Listen you son of a bitch, that’s my daughter in there. Now you write her a three-syllable prescription right now! YOU HEAR ME!!!”

The three-syllable prescription phenomenon is actually a godsend to the general public. Since most of us have no idea how a toaster works much less a complex chemical compound like a basal-thingy something inhibitor, it clearly lets us know which of competing pharmaceuticals we should demand.  

Blood thinners? Coumadin: good. Plavix: bad.

Cholesterol meds? Lipitor: good. Zocor: bad.

Antidepressants? Celexa: good. Prozac: bad.

Of course, the ads for these meds generally feature 90 minutes of disclaimer, ranging from loss of appetite to sudden detonation, but you can pretty much ignore those. Every clinical trial involves a handful of weaklings who have adverse reactions that must be reported. But let’s be honest. Those people would never be prescribed BUH-buh-buh in the real world. The doctor would take one look at them and hand them a free sample cask of BUH-buh.

Of course, every once in a while you’ll see an ad for a four-syllable prescription. Ignore those. A four-syllable prescription is likely a placebo. Either that or it’s so highly experimental, they can’t figure out how to keep it from killing half the monkeys in the lab. Never, ever take a four-syllable drug.

Always demand three.

You Can't Keep a Good Hoax Down

What would a hot July day be without some global warming hysteria from USA Today?

Today, America’s newspaper attempts to paint a nightmare scenario in that natural gem, Yellowstone National Park.

“Increasing waves of severe fires fed by climate change could shift much of the iconic forests of Yellowstone to scrub or grasslands by the end of this century, scientists say.”

Oh heavens no! Hopefully, the melting polar ice caps will move the Pacific Coast close enough to Yellowstone by then that the sea mist will prevent such a calamity.

USA Today’s article is laughable. The myth of global warming has been blown out of the water. Yet, they found some scientists who still toe the line, saying that global warming will destroy our nation’s favorite park.

Well, of course they say this. Because now, having said this, the government will hand them a Hefty 3-ply garbage bag full of money to continue studying the situation in the hopes that it will result in a recommendation for greater government control over what we drive and what light bulbs we buy.

“They ran various climate projections through computer models and got three scenarios — mild, medium and severe — of how increasing warming could impact the area's fire patterns.

OK, this might be a good time to remind everyone that to date, the number of climate change computer models that have actually proven out is the exact same number of plywood interstellar space craft I’ve launched. That would be ZERO. None of these ridiculous, garbage-in models have ever predicted anything that’s actually happened.

Ever.

None.

Not one.

EVER.

The story continues…

"Frankly, the results really surprised us," says Monica Turner, a professor of landscape ecology at the University of Wisconsin Madison and one of the authors of the paper. The researchers found ‘more fire and a more rapid rate of change than any of us had anticipated.’"

Oh puh-leeze! Yeah, the results of this garbage-in model surprised you. “Hey, let’s construct a model based on the myth of global warming that says the earth is going to get REALLY hot and way drier. Now let’s say that this heat and drought happens over a widely forested region that’s prone to lightning. Now lets say it resides inside the world’s largest caldera. Let’s see what the computer spits out here… (DING!) Fires?!? FIRES?!? UNBELIEVABLE!!!”

Hey next, let’s build a model based on an average temperature of 124 degrees Fahrenheit at the North Pole. (DING!) What?!? The ice melts?!? Holy crap! I didn’t see THAT coming!

“…cooler, wetter times seem to be going away, says paper co-author Anthony Leroy Westerling, who studies climate and wildfire interactions at the University of California-Merced.”

And if he didn’t say this, how much money do you think he’d get to continue studying “climate change?” Anthony Leroy Westerling has a vested financial interest in imagining cataclysmic climactic scenarios. If he came out and said, “You know, everything seems really pretty stable and relatively cyclical based on solar activity,” he’d have to get a real job. Aside from studying climate and wildfire interactions, I mean. He’s probably the guy who came up with the Nobel-prize winning equation:

Ignition Source + Dry Vegetation = Fire

Not to mention its wildly controversial sister equation:

Wet Vegetation + Ignition Source = No Fire

“Some climate change calculations for the greater Yellowstone area predict temperatures 8.1 to 9.9 degrees higher in the spring and summer by 2099.”

Let’s step into the Way Back machine. Hmm. Some climate change calculations said that Florida would be under water by 2010. Some climate change calculations said the polar ice caps would be virtually gone by now. Some climate change calculations said the oceans would be devoid of seafood by now. Some climate change calculations said that New York, LA, Boston and Philadelphia would be relegated to the murky depths of the greater Atlantis area.

None of these ridiculous, garbage-in models have ever predicted anything that’s actually happened. Ever.

None.

Not one.

EVER.

"’Yellowstone is fairly close to the tipping point,’ Westerling says. ‘There's no analog for this within the past 10,000 years.’"

There’s no analog within the past 10,000 years for anything as laughably ridiculous as your borderline-insane prediction of 8.1 to 9.9 degrees of warming. Because prior to the rise of the ecomarxists, you’d have been drubbed out of the scientific community for malpractice. You’d have been roundly ridiculed for being a complete joke. But today, you’re pulling a university salary.

And you wonder why more and more young men choose not to go to college. This could be one reason.

 “In 1988, Yellowstone experienced one of its most devastating fire seasons, a hot, dry year in which 36% of the park burned.”

Yeah, you know why? Because the government decided not to fight the fire and let the park go through a NATURAL PROCESS OF CATCHING FIRE EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE. I guess USA Today assumes no one remembers that particular controversy.

 “By 2075, all three models begin to falter, simply because so much of the forest would have been recently burned.” 

Well, all of these panicky models falter because their parameters are established by unscientific opportunists who profit from panic, either financially or politically. That is abundantly clear by now. 

After the humiliation of Climategate, the revelation that NOAA pulled temperature monitoring stations out of cooler climates and the resignation of Harold Lewis from the American Physical Society (calling global warming, “the greatest and most successful pseudoscientific fraud I have seen in my long life”), you’d think that these exposed scoundrels would shut up, pack up and go away. But no. They just keep going. They seem to be clinging desperately to the philosophy that “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” 

They’ve built an entire industry on the mad rantings of Joseph Goebbels.

But hey, it seems to be working for them. We won’t be allowed to buy 100 watt bulbs come January 1. Good thing, too. Those babies get hot enough to burn down Yellowstone.

Are You Ready For Some Football?!?

Well the blessed news just arrived over Twitter that the NFL players and owners have reached an agreement, thereby avoiding a badly needed shutdown of America's most gaudy five-shows-a-week television program. From today (which featured an NWS Extreme Heat Warning) until the second week of February (which will feature an NWS Blizzard Warning), we can look forward to endless coverage of the season to come, the season that is, and the season that was. This will be followed by the free agency season, combine season, draft season, spring voluntary (or you're fired) workout season and training camp season, interspersed with run-in-with-the-law season, FBI investigation season, serious allegations of (INSERT FELONY HERE) season and "marvelous story of redemption after prison" season.

Thankfully, we needn't worry another minute that our late summer, entire fall and three-fourths of winter will be devoid of life-enriching fare the likes of ESPN's NFL Prime Time (ten time winner of the Emmy Award for Outstanding Achievement in Jackassery). Cities like Pittsburgh, that desperately need revenue to fund vital graft, will reap the benefits of ticket sales, merchandise sales, parking taxes and public urination fines. And the makers of impotence drugs and impotent beers will once again find a forum to raise public awareness during the three-hour commercial marathons known as NFL telecasts.

Cue the exploding helmets! The gladiator music! The FOX dancing robot! Celebrate the storied rivalries such as Carolina vs. Atlanta, played on 100 yards of plastic and ground up tires under an inflated roof, just like Johnny Unitas and Bart Starr used to do! Savor the drama of waiting four minutes for a referee to decide whether the video replay conclusively shows that, a) that really was a catch or, b) that the receiver bobbled the ball upon landing out of bounds, even though both feet were clearly in bounds, because after all, he didn't make a "football move," aside from having control of the ball while both feet were in bounds, and even though the ground can't cause a fumble, it certainly can cause an incompletion, even if that ground is out of bounds. (It's clearly spelled out on page 964 of the official NFL rule book.)

So get ready to once again cheer the action, the collisions, the blind-side sacks, the bone-jarring, ball-loosening hits! And don't forget to join the NFL in observing a moment of silence for (INSERT FORMER PLAYER HERE) who succumbed to pugilistic dementia at the age of 43.

It's time for Air Force fly-overs, smoke machines, indoor pyrotechnics, and the National Anthem performed by a teeny bopper who doesn't know the words and is only vaguely familiar with the tune. Get ready for a halftime extravaganza featuring the animated corpse of Jimmy Page, followed by the insightful analysis of Shannon "What The Hell Did He Say?" Sharpe. And be sure to check Twitter after the game to see who's gonna wake and bake tomorrow morning!

Yes, the NFL is back, baby. And it's never going away.

Never, ever, ever.

The Idiot-Proof Cash Register

During high school, I worked in a neighborhood corner store called Paul’s Market. It was a great little store, one of the last non-cookie-cutter convenience stores in Altoona, back in the days when virtually every middle class neighborhood featured a couple of homes that were converted into little businesses. A far cry from today when you can count on middle class neighborhoods with a couple of homes converted into meth labs. Both are entrepreneurial, yet hardly interchangeable.

Paul’s had a cash register that pretty much left change-making up to the cashier. After ringing up the item and taking the cash, some quick math in the head told you the change the customer received. Even though I’ve never been a mathematical wizard, only once or twice did I miscount. But these were the days when customers could do math in their heads too, so mistakes were quickly corrected and followed by accusations of attempted grand larceny.

One day, someone must have decided that mental math was too much to ask of the average cashier, and such registers were replaced with machines that tell you how much change a customer receives. No more thinking required. Just tell the machine what something costs, tell it how much money the customer gave you, and voila! It tells you exactly how much money to give back. How simple can you get? These new registers were 100% idiot-proof.

It appears I underestimated idiots.

Which brings me to Busy Beaver.

Actually, what brought me to Busy Beaver was a never-stop toilet that needed a new whatever that thing is called that makes a toilet flush and refill. After finding it, I made my way to the cashier, paid with a $20 bill and waited for my change.

I chanced a glance at the electronic register/supercomputer that most stores have now and noticed that it not only told the nice cashier what my change should be. It actually told her which coins and bills were required to make up that change:

1 — $5

1 — 5¢

2 — 1¢

Now, the only thing one can surmise from this is that somewhere along the line, there was an epidemic of cashiers who couldn’t convert a monetary figure into actual money.

“Your change is five dollars and seven cents. Um… OK… wait… so… here’s 12 of these guys with white wigs… and here’s a tube of nickels.”

Either that, or they just stood there looking blankly in the drawer for a few minutes before saying, “You know what? Why don’t reach in there and get it yourself.”

Are there really people who can’t convert “$5.07” into five actual dollars and seven actual cents? And if so, why are they in charge of money? Shouldn’t you have them outside sweeping the sidewalk? Or better yet, traveling the world looking for landmines with their toes? These are people who probably shouldn’t be working inside a building that’s stuffed to the rafters with hack saws, razor blades, power tools and some of the most lethal chemicals known to man. 

You know why? 

BECAUSE THEY’RE DUMB.

But in Busy Beaver's defense, they can't be the only ones encountering this level of dumbth in their prospective employee pool. There must be demand for these cash registers or no one would be building them.

When you think about it, that's not a comforting thought. After spending hundreds of billions of dollars on education over the last 20 years, our schools are turning out graduates who have to be given the recipe for change. 

No Courtroom Drama

I’m no lawyer. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Perry Mason, LA Law, Boston Legal and Edgar Snyder commercials, it’s that lawyers love going to court. That’s where they ply their trade. That’s where the excitement is and reputations are made. Where all those years of research and studying and practicing will manifest themselves in brilliant oratory and reasoned argument that sways the hearts, minds and opinions of judge and jury in headline-grabbing triumph.

Except, apparently, most of the “corporate lawyers” I’ve had to deal with in my career.

No, unfortunately these folks will do anything humanly possible to avoid ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. I’m not sure what they think happens there, but it can’t be good. Maybe they think courtrooms are filled with large bears and swiftly rotating knives. Maybe they saw The Execution of Private Slovic and they think that’s what’ll happen to them if they lose a case. I don’t know. All I know is that they never want any part of a trial. Ever.

They may be great people. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met any of these banes of my existence in person. It’s always through some intermediary bearing tidings of great disappointment in the form of the phrase, “We can’t say that.”

I know why. But I always ask anyway.

“Why?”

“Someone might take us to court.”

Yeah. Yeah, they might. AND THEN YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BEAT THEM. Isn’t that what lawyers went to law school for? To WIN cases? Didn’t they do dozens of practice trials at school? What happens? Do corporations only get the students that lost?

It would be like a guy going through football practice day after day, lifting weights, doing agility drills, studying film and then flat out refusing to play a game.

“Jackson! You’re in!”

“Whoa! I’m not going in there! There could be giant bears and swiftly rotating knives!”

Awhile back, we had a great tagline for a product. I mean, it was perfect. It was beautiful. It was only two words yet it captured the very essence of the brand and the psyche of the target audience. This baby was a rallying cry and unlike anything the category had ever seen. Then it went to the lawyers. Turns out there’s a wee little company, probably 1/1000 the size of our client, whose name uses variations of the two words in our tagline. Only in reverse order. And one is spelled wrong. And the one that’s spelled wrong is a noun. In our tagline, it was a verb. And spelled correctly. Combined, the words in their company name and our tagline meant completely different things. And believe me, whoever was buying from the little company was NOT in the market for what our client was selling. They’d have probably been brought to tears by it.

And of course, the lawyer agreed with all of the above. It made perfect sense.

“But you can’t use it.”

“Why?”

“They might take us to court.”

Uh huh. Uh huh. You’re right. They might just do that. AND THEN YOUR JOB IS TO BEAT THEM.

No. Apparently, their job is to run that white flag up the pole so fast that the rope smolders from the friction of their panicked yanking before any threatening move of any kind is made by any party anywhere.

I can just see that guy flopping, exhausted, in his extraordinarily expensive leather chair after work that night while his wife hands him a scotch and soda.

“I dodged a bullet today, Millie.”

Yeah. You did. It’s called VICTORY.

Mmm, Mmm, Carp.

Last week, the Pittsburgh Tribune Review reported:

"Recreational fishers can safely eat carp from the Monongahela and Ohio rivers once a month, according to the state Department of Environmental Protection."

The good news is that our rivers are getting cleaner by the day. The bad news is that this announcement indicates that someone actually pulled a carp out of the Mon and said, “Hey, can I eat this?”

Um… What?!?

I don’t care if this thing tested negative for every toxin known to man, the answer should have been an emphatic, “NO.” First of all, it’s the Mon. Second of all, that’s a CARP. In case you’ve never seen a carp in the wild, head on down to the Mon and look for a pile of floating cigarette butts. That’s generally where carp congregate.

Over at the entrance to the Gateway Clipper Fleet, there’s a swarm of carp staring up at the bridge to the dock, the mouths on their grotesque faces flapping up and down mooching crumbs, just like giant aquatic pigeons. If you’re having trouble sticking to your New Year’s weight-loss resolution, just picture that sickening lump of living dreck on a plate.

The only way the state should OK eating carp is if the person making the request meets the following criteria:

1. You’re starving
2. You’re literally moments from death
3. You ran out of skunk

Otherwise, we run the risk of being labeled a bunch of carp-eating psychos. How would that play next time the CVB takes a call about a convention looking into our town?

“Pittsburgh is a beautiful place for a convention. Lots of greenery, lots to do, and lots of friendly, carp-eating residents who… hello? Hello?”

But again, I guess the bigger story is that our rivers are now so clean, so free of industrial waste that you can actually eat the most disgusting creatures that call them home. Maybe that should be our new slogan: “Pittsburgh — so clean, you can eat the carp. You know… if you’re desperate.”

The Great Spending Dilemma of 2011

I’m extremely hesitant to spend money on myself, mainly because I’m the only person in a house full of five people that earns any of it. That and I have always been convinced that five seconds after I pay a lot of money for something, so-and-so will buy the exact same thing for 94% less than I paid. 

But this year, I promised to make two purchases of items I dearly want but don’t really need: a second-generation iPad (fun!) and a Thompson Center .50 caliber Hawken muzzleloader (used but funner!). I say used because for some reason, a new Thompson Center .50 caliber Hawken muzzleloader is surprisingly expensive. Upwards of $750. That may not sound like a lot, but did you ever hear the expression “lock, stock and barrel?” Well, that’s all a Hawken rifle is: a primitive lock mechanism that was designed in the 17^th Century, a stock of wood and a thick iron pipe. It’s the most basic of basic firearms. But for some reason, $8 worth of wood and iron becomes, when assembled, $750 worth of retail flintlock. At least when it’s made in New England. So, I opted to look for a good one used.

I saved up throughout 2010 and came into 2011 excited for my two new toys. But, you know what they say: Life is prone to snapping off a slider when you’re sittin’ heat.

They do say that. I heard them.

Anyhow, that slider comes in the form of Sir Elton John.

On Friday, two colleagues at work emailed me the news that Elton John is coming to Pittsburgh on March 23. (As an aside, that’s two days before his birthday. I wonder if he checked the calendar.) And the problem is, tickets to an Elton John concert are really, really expensive. You’d think that a 63-year old dude who has earned eight bucks shy of half a trillion dollars wouldn’t need to charge $125 for a floor seat. But he does. Because there’s always some idiot out there willing to pay it. Me, for instance.

That wouldn’t be bad if it were just me and the missus. But it won’t be. You might think that three girls aged 11, nine and seven would have no interest whatsoever in going with mommy and daddy to see a 63-year-old Elton John in concert. Well, you’d be wrong. Because daddy plays a lot of Elton John music in his car and occasionally on his piano and his girls love it. (At least in the car.) They even request it. (Again, in the car.)

So now, with parking and the requisite souvenir and concessions, I was looking at a third major purchase in a two-major-purchase budget.

Like a lot of Elton John fans, I was torn between the concert, the iPad and the Hawken rifle. One of them would have to go. It was exactly like Sophie’s Choice. Only harder.

Oh well, I thought. I won’t be able to use the muzzleloader until December anyhow, and I haven’t found a reasonably priced used one in good shape yet, so I’ll put off the Hawken. But later, on the exact same day that my colleagues informed me of the upcoming Elton John concert, I got an email from my brother. A shop in Hollidaysburg had exactly the Hawken I was looking for. And it was less than any used Hawken I’d found online. 

So I went to see it.

It was beautiful.

And now, it’s mine.

So now my splurge budget is down to either an evening listening to a 63-year-old entertainer whose voice irrevocably changed in 1986 or the absolute latest in amazing tablet computer technology.

It’s no contest.

You lose, iPad.

That’s OK. There will be a third generation of iPad, but who knows if my wife and kids and I will ever have the chance to see the great Elton John in concert again. He’s not getting any younger. And besides, with that Hawken rifle, I could get an iPad any time I want. 

The Most Important Story of 2010

There's a good chance many Americans aren't familiar with the most important story of 2010. The big-government-friendly media ignored it. The President, clearly, continues to pretend it didn't happen. And science teachers have never heard of it, as evidenced by their continued adherence to alarmist orthodoxy.  

The story is perhaps not only the most important of this passing year, but of this century's first decade. It consists of one resignation letter: that of Harold "Hal" Lewis, Emeritus Professor of Physics, University of California, Santa Barbara. In this letter he exposes "the greatest and most successful pseudoscientific fraud" of his lifetime, and the machinations behind keeping that fraud alive. He also puts the lie to the claim that those who have not fallen for this fraud are know-nothings. Clearly, Hal Lewis knows his science.

Happy New Year.

http://thegwpf.org/ipcc-news/1670-hal-lewis-my-resignation-from-the-american-physical-society.html

Dioramas

Forget computers, books and blackboards. Today’s educational tool of choice, by all appearances, is that three-dimensional quasi-artistic monument to household upheaval called the diorama.

You can't pass a school today without seeing at least a handful of kids carting their creations up to the school doors. In theory, these dioramas gave the kids a greater understanding of and appreciation for a tiny corner of our world. In reality, all they did was give these kids' parents a good idea of what the world would look like if God were a fourth grade surrealist. Rabbits would be the size of Kilimanjaro, grass would be 90 feet high, alligators and polar bears would live in the same trees, the hills would be covered with glitter and Selena Gomez would hover overhead beside the sun. Which is shaped like an eggplant.

Popular though they may be, I have the sneaking suspicion that dioramas are basically useless. Since when do kids have to build dioramas to learn something? Do you think anyone associated with the Apollo Program built dioramas in grade school? How about Einstein? Oppenheimer? Edison? Can you just see young George Patton building a diorama of the Brazilian rainforest? And those fellows did OK for themselves. Yet for some reason, there's always a diorama under construction in our three-schoolgirl home. They're building a habitat for an Aye Aye (a Madagascar lemur that's about as relevant to my kids as SETI is to the skunk in my yard). Building one of the Stations of the Cross. Building a grassland. Building -- as God is my witness -- a Mexican burial altar, complete with a plastic elephant, a picture of Bach, a chocolate-covered pretzel, a Gryffindor badge and a sugar skull.

Yes that's right. A sugar skull. What is a sugar skull? It’s a skull made of sugar. A human skull. With a patch of shiny foil on top. It’s about the size of a plum. And it cost me five damned dollars. I could have bought two five-pound bags of sugar for five damned dollars. Instead, I got one goofy plum-sized freaky-looking sugar skull that could have come from the world's tackiest Satanism superstore. I’m told they’re all the rage in Mexico. That would help to explain something else that's all the rage in Mexico: drug-gang massacres. How about a diorama of that?

Teachers that assign dioramas assume several things:

1. Parents have spare shoeboxes sitting around at all times just waiting to be desecrated
2. We have crap laying around that we wouldn’t mind hot-gluing to a shoebox
3. We have hot glue guns
4. We have children with artistic ability
5. We have spare fabric
6. We budgeted $5 This month for a goofy damned sugar skull

Note to teachers: you're wrong.

“Well,” teachers might say, “kids have fun with them.” Well of course they have fun with them. They’ve basically just been ordered by the primary authority figures in their lives to do something they love more than life itself: make the house look like a Mardi Gras float exploded in it.

In our house, one diorama — just one — completely ransacks three rooms. There’s the den, where the art supplies are kept and which must be thoroughly scattered so as to find the right foam, construction paper, twigs, cotton balls and walnut shells. There’s the dining room, where all that crap has to be meticulously disorganized into 35 individual piles, half of which are on the floor. Then there’s the kitchen, where everything comes together to create a darling display, which as it sits there all finished and shiny and colorful, looks a lot like an FTD Pick-Me-Up Bouquet in the middle of war-torn Baghdad.

It's not like they're learning a valuable life skill that will help them in their career some day. "Jim, the Mayo Clinic folks are coming in on Wednesday. I'd like you to build a diorama of an operating room that shows our new imaging tool in action. I think it'll seal the deal."

The worst part about dioramas is that after the kids take them to school, they eventually bring them back home again. What the hell am I supposed to do with it now? Yeah, I want to put that Mexican burial altar with its freaking $5 voodoo-shop sugar skull on my mantle. Yet you can't throw it away because, "Oh daddy I like it and I worked so hard on it." No, all you can do is leave it low to the ground and hope that someone breaks it eventually. Then you can pretend it's a darned shame as you carry it out to the garbage laughing quietly to yourself while sipping the iced tea you sweetened with that now-fractured sugar skull.

So please, teachers. No more dioramas. But if you must, here’s the deal: they’re coming to your house to make it. And then you get to keep it.

Enjoy.

Phenomenal Federal Food Drive

This photo was taken on October 21, 2010.

It was taken by a friend who works for a massive government agency. I won’t say which one, since I don’t want to get him in trouble for pointing out this particular absurdity. But trust me. It’s loaded with people.

You’ll note that the date of the food drive was June 1-17, 2010. So you may be asking yourself:

• Why is the donation box still there FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FOOD DRIVE ENDED?

• How effing cheap are federal government employees that the best they could do was a box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce?

• And what’s with all the hands holding up the planet? It’s the “Capital Area Foodbank” not the “United Nations Foodbank.” I got news for you: if you plan on feeding the world with one box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce, you’d better be Jesus, and you’d better have something better up your sleeve than whatever you pulled out to feed 5,000 people with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread.

This is the federal government. They can’t even pull off a half-assed food drive, yet they’re convinced they can run the nation’s health care system, power the whole country with windmills and coerce auto manufacturers into building electric cars that appeal to people with testicles.

The world’s longest, least-generous food drive should be predictive of how all of that will turn out. 

Typing with the iPad

So im sitting here with the iPad pt ... Aw crap. Trying to use e keyboard to actually type something of length. This fantastic little device, I just ear, is the... No not ear, i just read is the most quickly adopted piece of electronic equipment ever pcreated. The only problem is its really hard to get used to typing on itl i mean, on it, i can't rest my fingers on the keypad, like i should do thwith a regu lar keypad. Bad things happen. And there aren't characters readi
Y avail... How the hell did I get down here now? Oh. The l is right beside the return key. Anyhow, characters like the apostrophe aren
T on the... Aw son of a bitch. See? Where the apostrophe should be is whe the return key is, i think I type too fart too because some of the letters don
T get typed shit! There
S that dammit!

Qwheee was I?

Oh right, I type too fast sometimes and it just guesses what word I was trying to type. That doesn
T Keats you bastard. That doesn't always work out too well. Where the hell did Keats come from? That was supposed to by "always."

Still, it
S a remarkable piece of technology, except for that cork sucking apostrophe pain in the ass thing I can not get used to. Maybe one of the advantages of that will be that we eliminate contractions from the English language and we shall start sounding rather formal again. But I digress.

What I will likely do, should I buy one of these for myself instead of Bogarting he one from the office, is get thoe wireless keyboard. Provided it isn
T this touch screen you miserable piece of peckerwood.I am on another line again.

Clearly, ,anyone who wants to buy an iPad and use it for writing purposes is going to have to relearn h qwerty keypad and alter their typing technique. It might be worth it. The portability and versatility of the iPad is truly remarkable -- which mite account for sales projections of over 12 million this year. But I can
T help but think that aw the hell with this.

The Battle of Raleigh

At the Raleigh Airport today, a young woman sat several seats away from me and began an intense, animated, 10-minute battle with her badly misbehaving left breast. She was wearing a sun dress, and as she sat down, ol’ Lefty made a break for it. She started wrestling with it, trying to stuff it back in its nest, pulling up her strap with her left hand while pushing her breast down with her right, like a magician trying to stuff a stubborn white rabbit back into an undersized top hat. Just when it seemed like the situation was under control, she bent down for her laptop and, seeing a fresh opportunity to escape and nothing but unimpeded floor beneath it, her bosom ran to daylight once more.  The battle began afresh, the lady’s elbows flailing like a faith healer trying to hold down a possessed teenager. She grabbed at it with authority and with a look on her face that clearly expressed what she was thinking: “I’ve had about enough of you, young lady! Now you settle down and stay in your room and don’t let me see you again!” After several more minutes of pushing, squeezing, strap-yanking and adjusting, Lefty was back in place. Temporarily. As she sat there, it began creeping back out. Like a kid trying to sneak down the steps without getting caught, Lefty was on the brink of another jump and run when the young lady caught it. This time, she gave it one good, authoritative push, reached into a bag and pulled out a denim jacket which she buttoned up to her throat. “There. I locked your door. You’re not going anywhere!”

NOAA's Threepeat of Deceit

Having just returned from a beach vacation, I’m happy to report that the ocean is still within its boundaries. The beachfront hotel remains… well, beachfront. This is good news, given that global warming alarmists have been warning for years about rising waters that would leave the Island Vista several miles out to sea by now.

You would think that this admittedly unscientific observation technique (looking at something) might be the kind of thing that would make the global warming geniuses stop and say, “Hmm. Wait a minute. This isn’t rolling the way we thought it would.” But no, they’re still at it. Now they’re claiming that June was the “warmest on record.”

Well of course it was. And here’s why:

NOAA's cut back on recording temperatures in colder parts of the planet.

Back in January, Joseph D’Aleo (the first director of meteorology and co-founder of the now-decidedly ecomarxist Weather Channel) and a colleague reported that NOAA has pulled weather stations out of cooler locations around the world.

That’s right. NOAA has removed temperature-measuring weather stations from the world’s coolest locations. Lots and lots and lots of them. Since 1990 they’ve slashed the number of cooler-location weather stations from over 6,000 to less than 1,500.

And… Surprise! Their remaining weather stations, skewed heavily in warmer regions, indicate higher global temperatures.

This is the “sound science” of global warming. Do not question it.

If this isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

NOAA says that this past June was the warmest on record, primarily because of how warm it was in the Arctic region. They got this data from the Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS).

A note here about GISS: Even though they say this warming was driven by high temperatures in the Arctic region, guess what? THEY DO NOT HAVE A SINGLE THERMOMETER IN THE ARCTIC REGION.

No, they simply extrapolate the numbers from a thermometer south of the Arctic region, a technique that is highly susceptible to personal bias. In other words, it’s a SWAG (Scientific Wild-Assed Guess). Maybe they think we shouldn’t question scientists who are so brilliant they can measure exact temperatures without a thermometer, but who in their right mind wouldn’t when billions of dollars and a slew of individual liberties are at stake?

If that isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

Seems there’s a NOAA satellite that detected temperatures in northern Lake Michigan of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

(Oh, and look how precise their satellite is: it has a key for "Probably Cloudy.")

After this was revealed, NOAA denied it. Then admitted it. Then said it was no problem. Then admitted the satellite’s readings were degraded and would no longer be used for temperatures. After, of course, they were used to help bolster the myth that the globe is getting hotter by the second. Full story here:

http://www.climatechangefraud.com/climate-reports/7479-us-government-in-massive-new-global-warming-scandal-noaa-disgraced

Again, this is the sound science that none of us are supposed to question in the slightest.

Every time NOAA has been caught cheating the numbers, they simply move on to promote the next set of false data. And their "findings" are echoed and amplified by the lazy and/or complicit left-leaning media.

Which might explain why fewer people are taking either very seriously. 

Headstoned

One of the drawbacks of growing older is finding yourself in graveyards more and more often. This, of course, beats the alternative of finding yourself in a graveyard permanently, but still… it’s not a terribly pleasant part of the aging process to visit increasing numbers of your all-time favorite people in such places.

If these visits weren’t bad enough, there’s now something else that makes them even more unpleasant:

The appalling trends in modern headstone design.

These things are atrocious. What once were simple markers of the last mortal remains of our fellow human beings have been transformed into mind-boggling orgies of poor taste: gaudy displays of tackiness shaped like teardrops, hearts, books, flames, angels holding hearts, mountains, wings and animated ogres. Think I’m kidding?

But it's not just the shape that's changed. It used to be that the copy on a headstone was limited to the name and lifespan of the deceased. But this has tragically morphed into a verbose screed that features several lamentations and a list of unofficial titles that all start with the word “beloved:” Son, dad, cousin, brother, nephew, uncle, neighbor, hunting partner, business associate, tipper, drinking buddy…

They read less like headstones and more like resumes for passage into heaven.

“Says here on your stone you were a square dancer and avid fisherman who was beloved by everyone. No kidding, everyone? Dang. You’re in.”

In fact, according to modern headstones, everyone who’s died this year was a humanitarian who would have put Mother Theresa to shame. Just once, I’d like to come across a stone that indicates the interred was a miserable bastard. Or a grump. Or a lazy, cheap-beer-swilling, do-nothing, two-timing louse whose lone contribution to the betterment of this world was the departing of it. But I guess if that were true, they’d just list his name and lifespan.

Worse than the verbose headstones are the ones that take advantage of the latest visual reproduction technology. 

These are stones that feature a laser-engraved collage of what the deceased enjoyed in life, such as ocean scenes, motorcycles, fishing ponds, airplanes, and even tree stands for deer hunting. You can just imagine a nightly herd of deer laughing at that. “You don’t look so bad now, do you Mister Buckmaster.”

Yet another trend is to include actual photographs of the dearly departed, presumably to let future generations know where their ugly gene came from.

Frankly, I don’t want someone a hundred years from now knowing what I looked like. I want them to see my headstone and think, “That there was the handsomest sonofabitch that ever lived.” Which is why my stone will look like this:

Handsomest AND happiest. 

No mas.

I know there’s a lot of debate out there about Spanish. One side says there are umpteen million Spanish-speaking people in this country and we should accommodate them. The other side says that if you want to create a permanent underclass, make it easy for immigrants to not learn English. One side says Spanish has become part of the American culture, the other says it splits that culture in two, like French does to Canada. But neither side is addressing the real issue with incorporating Spanish into every package, sign, ad and TV’s closed-captioning software:

It’s waaaaaaayyyy too long.

I first came to this realization when we translated a radio script for a client. In English, it was a well-paced 60 seconds. In Spanish, it was 75, even though the announcer was reading it faster than a disclaimer for a used car lot’s 0% financing event. We were cutting out complete sentences just to get it close to 60, and finally were left to eliminating all pauses after periods. Then time compressing it by 10%. You’d have to have a blue whale’s lungs to say that much that fast.

Brands, advertisers and politicians (of course) think they’re currying favor with Spanish-speaking people in the U.S. by accommodating, promoting and using their native language. But did anyone ever bother to ask just why these folks left their Spanish-speaking country? Maybe, just maybe, they were desperate to escape Spanish.

Look how long it takes to say things:

“50% more fiber!” is just seven syllables. But in Spanish (Cincuenta por ciento de fibra más!) it’s 11. That’s 57% more syllables to tell me I get 50% more fiber.

“Officer! That man took my baby!” (9 syllables) translates into the 14-syllable-long, “Oficial! Ese hombre tomó a mi bebé!”  I got news for you: ese hombre is half-way to the next county by the time you spit that out.

In the sign above, telling employees that they must wash their hands takes a mere six syllables in English. In Spanish, 14. By the time you’ve read that in Spanish, the guy who read it in English has finished blow drying his hands with one of those heatless, earth-friendly dryers and is at the bar with your date, who was impatiently wondering what was taking you so long but is now agreeing to go check out this dude’s F150 king cab. The only thing waiting for you at the bar is the tab.

English is also much simpler because it’s flexible enough to slam words together and still have them make sense. Look how long it takes to tell someone in English that the 3 oz. Dixie Cups they’re buying are for use in the average bathroom: “Bath Cups.” That’s it. “Bath Cups.” You get it. You know they’re cups for the bathroom. Now look at the Spanish: “Vasos para el bano.” Four words, seven syllables to say “Bath Cups.” Even if you just say “Bano Vasos” it’s twice as long syllable-wise.

The Spanish version of “War and Peace” must be nearly six hundred billion pages long.

This isn’t to disparage the Spanish language. I recognize the lyrical quality to Spanish. It’s a beautiful language. But that’s no excuse for loquaciousness. English can be beautiful, too. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?,” “Do not go gentle into that good night,” “Kirk to Enterprise, three to beam up.” See? Gorgeous. And brief.