Salt of the Earth... and Pepper of the Vulcan?

StarTrek.com occasionally sends me an email "newsletter", actually a pitch for assorted Trekkie merchandise from the online store. No doubt this is a remnant of the days of yore, when said online store was operated by my erstwhile employer, aka The Company. Lord knows I haven't knowingly given StarTrek.com any reason to think I might order from them, at least not in the past 10 years or so.

Be that as it may, the proffered merchandise seems to get a bit more bizarre with each edition of the "newsletter". I mean, sure, T-shirts are ever-popular (but you'll note that, while Klingons and Starfleet are always in evidence, they never have a Romulan theme), and certainly you expect things like tricorders and phasers to turn up with regularity.

But I have to confess that it had not hitherto occurred to me that I might season my dinner from porcelain Spock and Captain Kirk Salt and Pepper Shakers, which, according to the newsletter, will "complete any table". I don't know about that, but they sure would be a pair of conversation pieces. Though I'm not sure the topics of conversation they might provoke would be appropriate for the dinner table. I keep wanting to apply captions:

Kirk: "Scotty, I asked you to beam us down next to those strange white rock formations, not on them!"

Spock: "Fascinating."

Perhaps, all in all, the Spock Cookie Jar would be a safer choice. Of course, removing Spock's head to grab a couple of chocolate chip cookies does seem a tad callous, especially when he appears to be stuck in quickstand up to his armpits. But I suppose that's preferable to having a large white cone in such a, well, uncomfortable location as evidenced in those salt & pepper shakers.

Never mind. I think I'll just keep storing my cookies (and my salt and pepper) in Tupperware.

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To scale or not to scale?

According to the local Sunday paper, the Great Southern Brood of 13-year cicadas, aka Brood XIX, is crawling out of the ground, even as we type. From the looks of the map included with the article, it doesn't look like the inch-and-a-half long bugs (said to be akin to "flying chicken nuggets" to dogs, birds, and squirrels) frequent the Hampton Roads area much.

But what did catch my eye in the article was this graphic comparing the sound level of the cicada's mating call (from a distance of 20 inches, though I don't know why you would be getting that cozy with a cicada, unless you are another cicada) to an assortment of common (?) noise sources, placing it at 105 decibels – between city traffic's 80 decibels (from the sidewalk) and a 110-decibel jackhammer (at arm's length).

The caption text points out that the decibel scale is exponential, making the cicada "hundreds of times louder than city traffic". OK, I get exponential scales. But I was flummoxed by the curious and confusing note (in the red ellipse which I added for emphasis, and enlarged below for clarity) explaining, if you want to call it that, that the "Decibel scale is not to scale".

 

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How sunny is the inside of your garage?

The Northern Tool & Equipment flyer had this item advertised today. Good thing that it "works in low light...conditions", considering that it's "for indoor use only"!

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Not-so-delayed dreaming

Some time ago, I mentioned here that "I never dream about a workplace while I'm working there -- the dreams only surface months after I've left that place." But in recent years, I've found the dreams coming sooner after each departure (perhaps because there have been more departures?), and now they've finally caught up with me.

Recently I've dreamed several times about people I currently work with, and the most recent such dream was set in my workplace. Granted, it didn't look anything like my workplace – in the dream, I had an office with a door, while the reality is a cubicle – but in the dream, it very definitely was supposed to be my current workplace and one of my current coworkers was there.

At this rate, I should now logically progress to dreaming about my next workplace while I'm still employed at the current one.

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How do I get on these mailing lists?

My forays into fence-building and plastic shed assembly notwithstanding, I can't say I would think of my home improvement efforts as "construction". But evidently someone out there must, if I am to judge by the magazine subscription offer that arrived in the mail yesterday.

Yes, I have received a "Contractor Discount Offer" for a 1-year subscription to the Journal of Light Construction, at the "lowest preferred contractor rate" of just $14.99, representing 75% off the cover price. This offer is only for "qualified readers in the construction trades", mind you, which begs the question of how in heck I got on this particular mailing list.

Now, I have purchased a number of books from Taunton Press in the past, some of which relate to remodeling, but that hardly seems reason enough for the Journal of Light Construction to seize on me as a likely "preferred contractor". I mean, I don't even subscribe to Taunton's Fine Homebuilding magazine, and I've probably bought more books from them on woodworking and landscaping than remodeling. And while I've spent enough over the last six years at the big-box home improvement stores that it feels like I should get a contractor discount there, I doubt that they sell customer information to the Journal of Light Construction. That leaves my subscriptions to Family Handyman and This Old House. Maybe one of them sold a mailing list with my name on it.

I shall probably never know how I came to their attention. The only question is, should I take them up on the offer? According to the subscription form, I have to check off a couple of boxes to indicate my primary occupation and job title, presumably so they can gauge whether I am in fact worthy of preferred contractor status. Well, I could legitimately check "Subcontractor" as my primary occupation (though it's not quite the type of subcontracting they're thinking of), but job title might be the sticking point: I'd have to check "Other" and write in Technical Writer. That'd probably puzzle them. I wonder if they'd still honor the offer?

The sample table of contents page they thoughtfully included with the offer promises such fascinating tidbits as "Custom Door Trim on an MDF Budget", building a hidden stair hatch, a Q&A department with answers to questions about mudsills and out-of-level foundations, and product information about the Milwaukee M12 Hackzall. That last intrigues me. A "Hackzall" sounds like an eminently useful tool, don't you think?

Still, I probably should turn down the offer. I get too many magazines now (I think the count is around nine at the moment; it fluctuates as I get irritated with the relentless renewal offers and let subscriptions lapse out of sheer spite), so I think I'll leave well enough alone.

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Solution in search of a problem

The food section of the local paper recently carried news of this culinary breakthrough: Land O Lakes half sticks of butter. According to the article, the new "half stick packaging allows you to unwrap a quarter cup of butter at a time -- convenient for baking and other uses where only a small amount is needed." Or, in Land O Lakes' own words:

Introducing one pound NEW LAND O LAKES® Butter in Half Sticks. It's the same butter you love, now in a size convenient for recipes that call for ¼ cup butter! Also available in ½ pound package.

• Quick & easy to use
• No cutting
• No re-wrapping

It's comforting to know that the food industry is looking out for the welfare of cooks everywhere by eliminating the arduous task of cutting a stick of butter in half and rewrapping the unused portion. (I, personally, am embarrassed to admit that at times I have avoided the onerous rewrapping task by placing the unused half stick directly on a butter dish for table use.) And I'm sure they will charge no more than a 75% premium for saving you the trouble.

But the real question is, will they take the next logical step and introduce Butter in Quarter Sticks? There must be numerous recipes out there that call for 1/8 cup of butter. The cooks using such recipes deserve the same level of relief as the 1/4 cup butter recipe cooks! We will settle for no less.

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Hoppin' down the Elmo trail

Sometime in the past few years, while I wasn't paying attention, Easter baskets seem to have undergone a sea change. When I was a child (back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth), the modest Easter baskets we received consisted of, well, a basket, woven of chipboard and stuffed with some green fake grass sporting a bunch of jelly beans, maybe a plastic egg or two (filled with more jelly beans), and the obligatory cellophane-wrapped chocolate rabbit. How quaint, says the child of today, no doubt.

Today the store fliers are filled with a panoply of vaguely Easter-themed products to rival the offerings seen at Christmas (albeit for a shorter time span). One discount chain displays a line of "baskets" in such bizarre shapes as a soccer ball, a pink tutu, Elmo's head (see above), and what looks like a camouflage tote bin. Presumably they hope you will fill them with some of the advertised "toys for Easter giving" that include a Hannah Montana doll and a NERF N-Strike Recon CS-6 blaster (batteries sold separately). No doubt the latter would pair well with the camo tote bin.

Another major retailer touts the "over 100 filled baskets" you can choose from, including this charming ensemble with an 18-inch fire engine for its centerpiece. At least it's actually a more or less traditional basket, which is more than you can say for the miniature wagon laden with a porcelain Mini Dining Set, a Starlet Collection Beauty Set, a large plush rabbit, and, oh yes, a handful of candy and a package of marshmallow Peeps bunnies.

Give me a good old-fashioned Easter basket any day. No Easter basket is worthy of the name unless it has, as its centerpiece, a chocolate rabbit to bite the ears off of.

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Mmm, pizza

In an era when supermarkets fill prescriptions, drugstores carry electronics, KMart hawks Craftsman tools, and WalMart stocks damned near everything, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the news that Dunkin Donuts is adding personal pizzas, flatbread sandwichs, and "hash brown snacks" to a menu hitherto pretty much limited to, well, donuts (and the coffee to dunk'em in).

Oh, granted, they long since branched out into other pastry-type stuff like muffins and croissants. But... pizza? I mean, I don't have anything against pizza; I've been known to frequent plenty of pizza purveyors. But the point is, when I want pizza, I go to Papa John's, and when I want donuts, I go to Dunkin Donuts.

Next thing you know, we'll be buying groceries at gas stations.

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Rabbit Redux

Almost two months ago I made note here of a white rabbit sighting in my front yard. Now, I know you all thought the Major had a) finally gone completely round the bend; b) been listening to too much Jefferson Airplane; or c) gotten into the magic brownies. Herewith, photographic evidence of d) none of the above. (Indeed, I went round the bend years ago, so it couldn't have been a. And, sadly, I haven't a clue where my Jefferson Airplane albums have got to.)

The bunny's still around, still very white, and still munching on my vegetation, having raised his (or her, as the case may be) culinary sights from clover to my pansies, dammit. She (or he) even put in an appearance at my recent yard sale, when I was startled by some browsers suddenly exclaiming, "Oh, is that your pet bunny?" after spotting the little bugger under the privet.

I haven't seen him/her for a couple of weeks, but I'm sure she/he is still lurking around, probably in the hayfield that I call my back yard. Anyway, now you (and I) know I wasn't hallucinating.

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Things I never knew I needed

New!
Motion Activated Pig
Lot No. 91392
$9.99
Regular Price $12.99
Save 23%

Oscar Oinker's "unique electronic motion sensor makes [him] oink whenever anyone comes near", with "near" being defined as within the 9-foot activation range. The vendor's website helpfully suggests you might "use him to guard the refrigerator or welcome guests to your home or garden."

I don't know about you, but I can state with certainty that the presence of a motion activated molded polystyrene pig would certainly be effective at deterring me from raiding the refrigerator. I'm less sure about his efficacy as a welcoming committee, unless your purpose is to keep guests away from your home or garden, in which case I imagine he'd do a bang-up job.

Batteries not included, a lack that is surely more than offset by the "cute red and white checkered scarf" that is included.

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Go ask Alice...

So, the other day I go out to fetch my newspaper off the driveway, and something catches my eye under one of the junipers. It's a rabbit. Not your run-of-the mill nondescript brownish-gray rabbit. No, this is a white rabbit. Sitting there, as rabbits do, believing that if it stays perfectly still, it'll be invisible.

Now, I could be wrong, but I'm fairly certain that wild rabbits don't come in white. What the heck is this white rabbit doing in my yard? Maybe I'll just take my paper inside and pretend I didn't see any rabbit.

A few days later, I've almost convinced myself I imagined it. Until, on my trek for the paper one day, I spot the little bugger nibbling away on a patch of clover that's taking over my front lawn. It's still white. OK, it's welcome to the damned clover. I still wonder what it's doing here. White rabbits should be in a hutch in someone's back yard, not hopping around loose in my yard.

This morning when I go out to the car to go to work, it's near the mailbox, probably getting ready to make a salad of my pansies. Or waiting for the mail carrier. I get in my car and leave before it starts fretting about the mail being late.

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A fork in the road

Having worked as a chemist for around 30 years, with a year and a half of that being in a paper mill, I have seen plenty of both forklifts and flammables storage cabinets. Until last week, however, I had never seen a forklift trundling a flammables cabinet around. Now such a sight, in itself, still isn't what one might call particularly unusual -- except that said forklift was driving down a city street, Viking Drive to be precise. That little piece of Viking Drive pictured, to be even more precise, which happens to be just a few feet north of the Avenger/Viking intersection.

Granted, it's not a terribly busy street... and I would guess the forklift was only traversing the short interval between the buildings of a company that has two facilities, one on each side of Viking. But forklifts... street-legal? Who knew?

The cabinet blocked the driver's view, so he had to peek around it to see where he was going. Unlike the illustrated cabinet, the one on the forklift had its door closed, so unfortunately I couldn't tell if it actually contained any flammables.

On second thought, I don't really want to know.

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Shoe harassment

If you are a shirt -- or a pair of shoes -- beware. Go near a Farm Fresh, and you may be dragged inside kicking (well, shoes anyway, but I don't think shirts can kick) and screaming. Because, you see, this sign says you are REQUIRED to enter the store. Whether you want to or not.

Which is blatantly discriminatory, because apparently pants don't have to enter the store.

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Ice (on the) rocks

Are you concerned about the purity of your ice cubes? Do you dread the onerous chore of filling ice cube trays? Is shoving a mug under the chute of your fridge's ice dispenser just too much of a hassle?

Good news! A revolutionary product hitherto sold only in France, ICE ROCKS®, will soon be available in the U.S. to solve all your ice cube woes.

What the !@#$% are Ice Rocks. you say?

According to the company web site, they are "secured ice cubes made from spring water and ready to be frozen." To elaborate, the product "is sold in its unfrozen state (liquid)" -- thus saving the delivery costs of refrigerated trucks -- and is "hermetically packaged in disposable, recyclable containers".

Let's see, now. Harking back to my college chemistry, I seem to recall that "ice" in its unfrozen state (liquid) is... water. The term "ice", in fact, applies only to the frozen state (solid) of water. So these so-called "secured ice cubes" aren't ice at all. What you're buying, it would seem, is a disposable ice cube tray with water sealed into its compartments. And according to the latest issue of Consumer Reports, a pack that will make 48 ice cubes (after you freeze them) will go for about $3.99.

Man, at a buck a dozen, my fridge turns out a fortune in ice cubes every day!

But wait, there's more! If ordinary, everyday Ice Rocks aren't good enough for you, the company also produces SCOTCH ROCKS® secured ice cubes for the luxury market. Since they're also made from spring water, I can't quite grasp how they're more luxurious than plain Ice Rocks, but they've been tested as an advertising tool in a co-branding pilot project with Chivas Regal, involving a "kit" of a bottle of Chivas and four (4) secured ice cubes.

Last but not least, the company is "exploring the possibility" of a product called ICE KIDS, which will be brightly colored by virtue of containing "natural fruit extracts". Whereas Scotch Rocks target the luxury market, Ice Kids will target (naturally) the kiddie market. No word on what that'll cost, but one would assume it would be even more than the Ice Rocks meant for the grownups.

Somehow this all reminds me of the old gag gift that consisted of an empty bottle labelled "Instant Water - Just Add H2O!"

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A new meaning to "watching your back"

A recent ad offering a free CD of "Relaxing Spa Sounds" with purchase of a ladies' epilator directed you to "See back of coupon or salesperson for details." I can just picture the interaction in the store:

Salesperson: "Can I help you?"
Customer: "Yes, could you please turn around so I can see your back?"
Salesperson calls security.

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What goes around...

In the wake of last year's Series of Unfortunate Events, I spent more time than I care to think about visiting the Virginia Beach office of the VEC (Virginia Employment Commission). Hell, even one visit would have been one too many, but as it happened I was there at least five times to jump through one stupid hoop or another in connection with collecting unemployment.

As luck (?) would have it, about a month after I finally found a job and the unemployment checks stopped, the state closed down that VEC office, consolidating its functions with the Norfolk office. Good riddance, I thought, and breathed a silent sigh of relief that I wouldn't be going back to that office on Viking Drive ever again .

Hah, said the universe. That's what you think.

When I started my current job, I knew vaguely that the company was tight on office space. The local staff was divided between two inadequate office spaces a mile or so apart; they had been hunting, unsuccessfully, for a single suitable building for maybe a year, and had just reluctantly renewed their lease on the rented space. (I'm located in the building they own-- the one with the dolphin.) Since then, they've continued looking, though, and last week finally signed a lease on a building that has two and a half times the square footage of our current two spaces combined. And wonder of wonders, when we move in July, it will cut my 30-mile round trip commute to just 16, because the building's on Viking Drive.

The former VEC building.

Thankfully, it's undergoing extensive renovations (the mile-long counter and the "holding pen" in the front are gone already), and since I'll probably be parking in back and coming in through the back entrance, I can hope it won't hold any bad vibes for me. Still, it has to be one of the weirdest coincidences I've met up with yet.

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Would you donate your face for a transplant?

If you saw the Star Trek: Voyager episode Faces, where the Vidiian researcher Sulan helps himself to the face of a hapless -- and definitely unwilling -- captive Voyager crewmember, you will understand why I found the recent headlines about the first partial face transplant a little, well, disquieting.

As expected, the ethics of this situation are being debated world-wide, from the question of whether it is possible to obtain true "informed consent" from the patient for a procedure with such unknown risks and benefits, to how one finds suitable "willing donors", to what kind of medical situation warrants such a solution. And it's all further complicated by the disclosure that the recipient of the transplant -- and her doctors -- had signed a contract for a film three months before the surgery.

Just because the technology exists, does that mean we should use it? As noted here,

Even if the science is up to speed, ... transplant surgery is not possible without willing donors.

Of course, that statement assumes a certain ethical standard, one which the Vidiians lacked. (Readers of Larry Niven's "known space" stories may recall the problems that society encountered with "organ-legging" and the selling of organs from executed criminals for transplants to extend the lives of the rich, leading to the application of capital punishment to an ever-increasing number of more and more innocuous "crimes".)

Anyway, assuming the ethical standards are functioning... would you donate your face? Would you allow the donation of your loved one's face? Is it really any different from donating your corneas, spleen, kidney, lungs, heart? If you've listed yourself as an organ donor on your driver's license, you might end up "donating" any or all of those organs... and now, maybe your face, too.

As if we didn't have enough to think about when renewing our driver's licenses.

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E-mail, snail mail... ant mail?

So, I get home from work today and check the mailbox as usual. I had hopes for more than just bills and junk, partly because there was no mail yesterday (Columbus Day), and partly because I just joined Netflix and it was possible my first DVDs would show up today.

I pulled out the stack of mail and was going to close the box... when I noticed something odd inside the box. Something moving. Crawling all over the inside of the box and the door.

There was more in there than bills and junk, all right. Ants. Hundreds of tiny ants. This picture was not taken of my mailbox, but it's about what it looked like. Only there were a lot more ants in my mailbox than in this one. (And mine is black, not silver.)


(As an aside, I'm absolutely astounded at what you can find pictures of on Google Images. I just searched for 'ants mailbox', not expecting to get any hits for anything so bizarre. But this was one of four hits, the others all showing ants on the ground beside a mailbox post.)

Well, a few squirts of Raid Ant & Roach Killer later, the ants were no longer swarming, and I swabbed out the mailbox with several wads of paper towels. It's now airing out overnight so hopefully tomorrow my mail won't smell of insecticides.

But what I really want to know is, where the hell did they come from? I simply can't believe I wouldn't have noticed them the last time I picked up the mail -- on Saturday -- which means they must have taken up residence sometime between then and now. I think maybe I'd better take the box off the post this weekend and see if maybe the wood post has a nest in it.

Oh, yeah... the mail did include my Netflix DVDs, as well as my AARP bulletin, a coupon for a free JCPenney fall catalog, and a couple other pieces of junk. Wonder what the folks at Netflix would think if they got back DVDs with ants in the envelopes?

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Read all instructions carefully

So, I decided to cook a Hot Pockets Soft Bread Sub for lunch. You ever read the instructions on the crisping sleeve for one of those things? Sheesh.

1. Place one sandwich in sleeve.
   [Italics added for emphasis. The cellophane wrap contains one sleeve and one sandwich. The other sandwich in the box has its own sleeve inside its cellophane wrapper. Can it be that some jerk, somewhere, would try to stuff both sandwiches into one sleeve? "Damn, it's hard to get these into the sleeve! Hm, I wonder what the other sleeve is for?"]
2. See package for cooking instructions.
   [Cook on high for 2 minutes for one sandwich.]
3. Let stand for 2 minutes.

And now the kicker, the most important instruction (it must be, it's in bold all caps in a box):

---

THIS SIDE UP
CAUTION: SANDWICH WILL BE HOT

---

Hm, let's see... I nuked this for two minutes on high, inside a foil-lined cardboard sleeve. You s'pose it's hot? Nah, couldn't be. I'll just take a big bite and AAAAGGGHHH!!! I'll sue! Why didn't they warn me?!

P.S. The sleeve is called a Qwik Crisp and it possesses no fewer than three patents. I can't imagine how such an unassuming piece of cardboard could possibly merit three patents.

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Glory Be

A sample from my favorite Newfoundlander folk and comedy group, Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellers. These guys are a hoot. I mean, where else could you find a song called "Peein' in the Snow"? Or "Arsos"? (Yes, it means just what you think it does.) Or "Gotta Get Me Moose, B'y"?

GLORY BE
Kevin Blackmore 1988

Chorus:
Glory halleluiah, don't that put the screws right to ya
The government and the wife drove me insane!
The wife wanted her patio and the old outhouse it had to go,
Cause the government likes to keep all crap contained!

Verse 1.
So I commenced the excavation, blew my garden to damnation,
Put a crater where my veggies grew!
Now no more turnips and potatoes, goodbye scare-crows, picnic tables,
Goodbye plastic pink flamingos too!

Verse 2.
So then the leeching field was added, Folks around said I was mad for
digging up all my fertile land!
Well then I took the building fit with the patio lights and the barbecue pit
To please my wife who's got the upper hand!

Chorus:


Verse 3.
I added on a brand new crapper, drains and plugs and things that matter,
percolating water through the lines!
A lot of cursed smell and racket, and a mortgage in the high class bracket,
meaning I'll be poor for quite some time.

Verse 4.
So here I sit b-b- barbecuin', wondering what the hell I'm doing,
we moved up in society of course!
But I can't help and think we've strayed, it's more primitive in ways,
We cook outside but now we crap indoors.

Chorus:

Repeat Chorus:

End

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