January 2003 Archives

Even though Monica hooked the whole thing up, came up with the concept, and did most of the jokes, and then the other guy credited rewrote the piece and made it acceptable and funny and published, this here is the first step in Sean Keane's inevitable ascent to the top of the Comedy Pyramid and the featured role on Celebrity Mole 7: Electric Boogaloo that such a rise entails.

Props again to the lovely and talented Monica Padrick.

Inspired by recent efforts by fellow bloggers to point out prominent conspiracies, and in honor of Super Bowl Sunday, Zembla presents a look at one of the more suspicious professional sports moments of recent years. The "Music City Miracle" occurred in January of 2000, at the end of a playoff game between the Buffalo Bills and the eventual AFC Champion Tennessee Titans. The "miracle" in question was a 75-yard kickoff return for a touchdown, by Tennessee's Kevin Dyson, to win the game in the final seconds. It was a different sort of miracle that allowed Titan-supporting gamblers a chance to win at the last second as well.

This was the situation: Buffalo had kicked a field goal with only 16 seconds left on the clock to go ahead, 16-15. On the ensuing kickoff, Tennessee ran a trick play called "Home Run Throwback" in which tight end Frank Wycheck lateraled to Dyson, who ran untouched for the shocking go-ahead touchdown. There was a great deal of controversy over whether Wycheck had thrown a forward pass (which would have been illegal) or a backwards lateral. After a long review, the referees let the play stand, and Tennessee had a 21-16 lead. They tacked on an extra point to reach the final margin of 22-16.

There has been a lot of writing about this game, most of it focused on the amazingness of the play or the history of playoff heartbreak for the Buffalo Bills. Occasionally, the legality of Wycheck's "lateral" will be debated. Never have I heard anyone mention the bizarre strategy employed by Titans' Coach Jeff Fisher following the touchdown.

After scoring, NFL teams have two options. They may attempt an easy kick for one point, or try for a more difficult two-point conversion. The Titans had two choices: kick for the guaranteed six-point lead, or try for the two-point conversion and the seven-point lead. If the conversion failed, Tennessee would still lead by five. Either way, Buffalo was going to have to score an immediate touchdown on the next return.

Now, that touchdown would have been pretty unlikely. But, if it had occurred, that would have been a definite six points, and, given that NFL kickers convert 99% of their extra points, almost a definite seven points.

With the extra point, Tennessee led by six. In that game situation, a six-point lead is only incrementally better than a five-point lead; the only way it could help is if Buffalo got a touchdown, but blew the extra point. A seven-point lead, on the other hand, would have given Tennessee a certain trip to overtime as a worst-case scenario. It was a wild moment, true, but wouldn't one of the fifteen or so coaches on headsets tell Coach Fisher, "Hey, that extra point is useless - go for two!"? The answer lies with Las Vegas.

See, Tennessee was a 5�-point favorite over Buffalo. That meant, if you put money on the Titans, they had to win by six for you to collect. Was it coincidence that one of the most shocking and controversial plays in NFL history was followed by a spread-beating, otherwise-useless PAT (point after touchdown)? On that day, Tennessee fans celebrated, alongside Gamblo-Americans who Coach Fisher rewarded for their faith and gambling dollars. The Football Gods were not pleased. They like gritty comebacks, trick plays, and memorable moments, but They hate point-shaving. Is it a coincidence that later that postseason, the very same Kevin Dyson was tackled just inches away from scoring the game-tying touchdown in the Super Bowl? I think not.

By the way, the Raiders are favored by four points, so make sure to also keep the gambling scoreboard in mind while you enjoy the American footballing contest. Go Pirates!

Presented without revision - editorial commentary in italics

Note: Lists not actually funny

TOP TEN OTHER CAREERS FOR RONALD MCDONALD

10. President, Hair Club for Men
9. Pimp
8. Commisioner McCheese
7. Big Red Shoe Salesman
6. Shamrock Shake Machine Repairman
5. Dave Thomas's Bodyguard
4. Spokesman for American Heart Association
3. Assasin (sic) (so he can kill the Burger King guy.)
2. Friend of Bill
1. McBum

TOP TEN NICKNAMES FOR "BAN DONATO"
(note: despite appearances, list not actually supposed to be insulting)

10.
9. Dan Druff
8. CTLA
7. Dan the Man
6.
5. Fievel
4. Danny (His name is Dan!)
3. Ratboy
2. Boon (this was an elaborate reference to "Benny and Joon," since he was dating a girl named Jenni at the time, and so, Jenni and Boon...)
1.

TOP TEN REJECTED NAMES FOR METAL BANDS

10. Illiterate Wood Sprites
9. The Geraniums
8. Pink Lemonade
7. New Kids on the Block
6. The Scuzzy Long-Haired Guys In Black Who Don't Bathe a Helluva Lot
5. The Ballerinas
4. Satan's Petting Zoo
3. Crap
2. The Dropouts
1. The Gentle Fuzzy Rabbits... from Hell!

TOP TEN THINGS I DO IN MY SPARE TIME

10. Eat my weight in Apple Jacks
9. Lust after Wilford Brimley
8. Play Peter, Paul, and Mary albums backwards to decipher hidden messages
7. Two words: chipmunk lacrosse
6. Count to 100 in Swahili
5. Invent new uses for Sweet N Low
4. Play Peter, Paul, and Mary albums forward to decipher hidden messages
3. Hibernate
2. Teach Molly to fetch (This is mean for no good reason at all. I retroactively apologize for this joke)
1. Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat.

Reminder: Jokes are written by 14 year old Sean; thus, not funny.

Presented without revision or editorial alteration.

7/18/93
8:27 PM

Well, today, I had planned to do stuff. In my mind, I thought I would get up, deliver my papers, make pancakes, get a haircut, and then go to the movies. It didn't quite work. First, our sink was clogged because some idiot (my mom [sorry Mom {like you'll read this}]) put pork fat down the garbage disposal. I really thought that was a constructive use of $56. Nobody could go to the movies, and my parents went shopping.

So I went to a sort of picnic lunch with Adrienne, Sarah, and Kelly. All we really did was eat lousy Safeway sandwiches, cut on other members of the swim team (esp. Tom) and bury a yellow jacket. I trapped it in a Snapple bottle, so we buried the whole container. Suffocate, damn insect. After I spent a fascinating half-hour of sweating like a pig and mowing the front lawn, my parents finally returned. My dad took me to get a haircut.

Being the purveyors of high fashion that we are, we backed up the Toyota and headed for...Pro-Cuts! I ended up being assigned to a hairdresser named Tery. She had an advantage over most Pro Cuts personnel in that she had decent body odor, didn't look like a prostitute, and had a refreshing absence of open sores on her armpits and face. Tery sat me down in my comfortable plastic chair and tied a tiny toilet paper-ish thing around my neck. The Procutters think that a little piece of pair (sic) will keep the little hairs from falling down your shirt. I guess that explains why they're working at Procuts.

Anyway, she raised the chair and asked me what kind of haircut I wanted. Since I am not among the privileged few fluent in Hairsalonese, I wasn't sure how to describe it. I tried kind of tracing my ideal cut, and Tery said, "Oh, you mean the step." Yeah. Got it. So she worked on my "step cut." First I was asked what number I wanted.

"Um, one haircut?" I asked-said.
"No, the razor size," she clarified.
"I don't understand."
"One, two, three, four, or five?"
"And five would be...?"
"Look, how long do you want your hair?"
"Um, short."
"Not bald?"
"No."
"Then you want number 2," she said, like a preschool teacher explaining why paste is not for nice little boys to eat.

So, eventually I got a haircut I was happy with and left the "salon" reasonably unscathed.

It was an innocent game of ¡UNO! when it began. The five of us were assembled around the kitchen table, armed with a tray of Jell-O shots and a pack of cards. And when the first game ended, amid a flurry of color changes and ill-played Draw Twos, we all marveled that the match had lasted nearly fifteen cutthroat minutes.

But then came Game 2. From the start, the round had a different sort of character. Players focused purely on thwarting the people next to them, with a total disregard for how many cards they might have to draw. No cards were too many, if it meant the possibility of laying down a Draw Four Wild on the girl next to you with only three cards. If anyone announced they had uno card remaining, faces hardened with steely resolve not to let that person go out, no matter what the cost.

After the first hour had passed, many pretenses of fairness went out the window. Cards were concealed in their stacks, or held underneath the table. Players openly speculated on how many cards others had, and what colors they were. At first, it took the form of veiled references to Joseph McCarthy (for red) or Eiffel 65 (for blue), but eventually players were openly advocating the use of specific colors against a player approaching UNO!

Now, ¡UNO! is a fun card game, but not really a game that one willingly commits multiple hours to. After a while, the only keeping the drunk and fatigued players in the game at all was pure stubbornness, the unwillingness to simply give up after two hours, with nothing to show for it. A victory would at least provide a hollow justification for wasting 1/8 of a day on a single hand of a children's card game. A defeat is unimaginably disappointing.

Aaron Vinson put it best, comparing the length of our ¡UNO! struggle to that of another popular game: "At least in RISK, we'd play for a few hours, and then we'd finally get some resolution. 'It looks like my approach to challenge his supremacy in Asia by way of Kamchatka was successful.' Instead, we're going to get to the end of the game and the revelation will simply be, 'Heh. I had red.'"

The game was an emotional roller coaster. I had just one card for nearly five minutes at one point, thanks to fortuitous draws from the pile and a steady stream of Skip cards from my right. I declared "Uno!" at least three separate times, and had as many as twenty cards on two other occasions. Heroic deeds and last-minute Reverses went hand-in-hand. Players boasted of "taking responsibility for the problem" when their neighbors got low on cards, and unleashed unholy assaults of Draw Twos. I began to doubt whether victory would ever come for me, but remained steadfast that no one next to me would go out.

My personal highlight when Khurram devoted nearly ten minutes to choosing between a green or blue card to play to Kristina, who waited, poised, with her final card at the ready. After much buildup, he put down... a Draw Four Wild card.

Finally, at 3:12 am, Aaron finally went out. The rest of us collapsed at the table, sobbing and cursing quietly to ourselves. Khurram was immediately hooked up to an IV. Kati was carried out of the apartment on a stretcher. ¡UNO! had ended, but at what cost? We'd recover superficially, but much like Joe Frazier after his 1971 victory over Muhammad Ali, we would never truly be the same again. And, much like Joe Frazier, I consider Aaron Vinson to be merely the White Man's Champ.

And, for the record, he had green. Heh.

Aaron Vinson is not pleased with the way alphabetical order has affected his life. As a man with a "V" last name, he spent much of his public school career at the back of the alphabetically-determined line, called on last when roll was taken, his picture relegated to that last half-page of the yearbook along with W-Z and "camera-shy." Understandably, Mr. Vinson does not want his children to grow up victims of the same alphabetical prejudice he had to endure. And since reversing the institutional bias against end-of-alphabet last names would take years, if not centuries, Mr. Vinson is left with little recourse outside of a name change.

Potential name #1: Vincent Aaron

People invariably mistake his last name for "Vincent" anyway, so why not change the spelling and reverse the first and last names? The double "a" ensures that any Vins... er, Aaron children will be first in nearly any alphabetical arrangement imaginable. The downside to this is that Aaron is hesitant to have his children be first in line, with the inevitable pressure that comes with that position. Though not nearly the disadvantage of a "v " name, the surname "Aaron" is still less than ideal.

Potential name #2: Aaron Cavin

"Aaron Cavin" is a great name. It conjures up images of gentle guitar melodies, long flowing beard hair, and the occasional interpetive dance to Tom Waits' "Jockey Full of Bourbon." Aaron Vinson has in fact claimed to be Aaron Cavin on at least one notable occasion. The "c" last name means that offspring would be near the front of the line in elementary school, but not so far forward as to be self-conscious. A "c" name is like a B+ grade, a Golden Globe nomination, Milky Way bars, or the city of Phoenix: consistently above-average, but not so much that it stands out.

The drawback here is that Aaron Cavin himself still has a claim to the name. And it's not like Mr. Vinson's social group is lacking for name confusion as is, with more people named Josh, Ch/Kris, Kati/e than is really manageable, to say nothing of the multiple Aarons. Still, the name does have a certain ring to it, which leads to...

Potential name #3: Aaron Cavinson

This name has it all. It retains the alphabetical value of "Cavin," while making a homage to the original Vinson name. Potential Cavinson children need not fear name confusion, nor alphabetic prejudice. The Vinson signature can be easily modified to become the Cavinson signature.

We are still left with the problem of first name confusion. Just on Ward Street alone, the excess of Aarons often led to miscommunication and inefficiency. Ideally, Mr. Vinson-nee-Cavinson would have a more unique appellation than "Aaron." "Bin" was suggested, for brevity's sake, although "Go" and "Yes" were also considered.

One unique element of the original name, "Aaron Lloyd Vinson," is that the first and middle name start with double letters. It seems a shame to lose that. Kristina Almquist hit on a compromise name that would certainly be striking, and retain the Lloyd factor:

Potential name #4: Bin Lloyden Cavinson

Or BLC for short.

The above was spoken by Mike Barnett shortly before the Raiders' dismantling of the New York Jets in their recent playoff game. Chad Pennington is the New York quarterback, failing miserably in the contest, and the line references the instructions given to Indiana Jones in the climactic final moments of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade."

The game continued, the Raiders kept amassing points and rushing yardage, and our conversation turned naturally to the subject of Indiana Jones. Much like the Raiders, Indy is an unstoppable force. And also like the Raiders, Indy is getting up there in years. In fact, the final sequence in "Last Crusade" seems designed to disguise Harrison Ford's advancing age (he was 47) and lack of mobility. He passes the first challenge by remembering, "Only the penitent man shall pass," and then kneeling down. The second challenge is solved by spelling the name of God in Greek. His supposed "leap from the lion's head" involves Indy simply falling and landing on an invisible bridge. All told, these stunts could have been performed by Harrison Ford, ex-president Gerald Ford, or ex-Beatle George Harrison without much decline in effectiveness.

After completing these "challenges," Indy is given a task that only a sufficiently cultured, middle-aged man can do properly - pick out wine glasses. No young man would have the patience and experience to select the true Grail. Plus, Harrison Ford doesn't have to run or jump.

Plans are reportedly in the works for a fourth Indiana Jones movie. Right now, Harrison Ford is 60 years old. The action sequences are going to have to be scaled down a great deal to accomodate his age and infirmity.

Young Nubile Adventureress: Indy, the Nazis have flown the ancient relic back to Germany! How are we going to find the cash to pay for our plane tickets?
Indy: I can cash in my IRA. By the way, it's much better to begin a Roth IRA when you're young, so you can avoid many income tax penalties.
Young Nubile Adventuress: Kiss me.

Sallah: What's wrong, Indy?
Indy: (clutches chest) Having... heart attack... need...my pills...
Sallah: They're right over there, Indy. Behind that nest of snakes.
Indy: (gasping) I... hate... snakes. And... saturated...fat.

Short Round: No time for another trip to the restroom, Doctor Jones! We gotta move!
Indy: My greatest challenge is ahead of me now, Short Round.
Short Round: What is it? We gotta fly rickety biplane over mountains? Fight a troop of Gestapo soldiers using bare hands? Ride pushcart through elaborate mine?
Indy: Tougher than that. I have to find where I left my car keys.

CUTE

Way back in October, on the opening day of our elephant exhibit, a couple came in with their two-year-old son. To honor the pachyderms, the little boy was wearing a miniature elephant costume, complete with ears and trunk. It was so cute that visitors and employees alike were actually taking pictures next to the little boy, as if he were part of the exhibit itself. When college-age female staffers looked at the elephant boy, you could actually hear their biological clocks begin to tick. Though I am no elephant, I will not soon forget the boy and his cuteness.

STRANGE

Sunday was the very last day for our museum's exhibit on elephants. On Saturday, a middle-aged elephant enthusiast came in. He was also dressed in a handmade elephant garment. He had a floppy hat with elephant ears, a gray jacket with attached tail, and stuffed elephants dangling from his belt. Gray greasepaint covered his face and arms.

Probably, this guy was 40, 45 years old. He came in at 11:30 am, and had to be shooed out ten minutes after the museum closed, at 5 pm. He asked about what museums the elephant exhibit was moving to next, in hopes of following it, like some kind of perverse pachyderm verison of a Deadhead.

Our museum often hires experts in a field to come into the museum. Costumed adults are not an uncommon sight, given the frequency of guest lectures and small theatrical events. Just in the past month, we have had jugglers on stilts, dancers in traditional South Asian costumes, and clowns in full makeup. Still, by some primitive instinct, even the smallest children knew that this man was not to be approached. Nobody took pictures of him. No one even made eye contact.

I wonder what dark path led this man to become what he is today. I imagine long rides on the school bus, sitting alone reading Kipling, the Just So Stories his only comfort from the other children's disdain. Home alone after school, eating peanuts and watching "Dumbo" over and over, weeping uncontrollably during the "Baby of Mine" song. Later in life, lonely strolls around the zoo, alternately frightening and confusing female visitors with awkward double entendres about trunks. Finally one day deciding to sew a tail on his favorite gray jacket, "just to see how it would look in the mirror."

He's had sex in that elephant outfit. You know, I know it, and Gunther Gebel-Williams probably knew it, too.

Now that the holidays are over and my haul of coal-free gifts is safely ensconced in my bedroom, I think it's time to bring up the dark secret behind Christmas that no one likes to talk about. Simply put, Santa Claus is God-For-Kids. All this rooftop-and-reindeer business is naught but subterfuge. Jolly old St. Nick is to God Almighty as a plastic Big Wheel is to a regular bicycle: a training aid that lets children adjust to an intimidating and occasionally scary adult concept.

Let's look at the parallels:

God lets you ask for your dog to come out of surgery safely, by kneeling down and praying. Santa lets you request a new X Box by sitting on his lap.

God has many songs written in His praise, called hymns. Santa has plenty of songs of praise, but they're called carols instead.

God has priests to do His will. Santa has elves to make His toys.

God, by way of the church, demands tithing. Santa Claus demands you leave out cookies and milk, or, at the Keane house, beer and pretzels, on Christmas Eve.

God punishes for bad behavior with the threat of Hell, an eternity of fire and brimstone. Santa threatens coal, not sulfur, but otherwise the comparison is apt. After all, wouldn't most five year-olds choose an infinitude of torment over a toyless Christmas?

God had a secretary named Kennedy. Santa Claus had a secretary named Lincoln.

Eventually, kids learn that Santa Claus isn't real. It's a traumatic, world-shaking event to find out that what you previously considered to be the embodiment of all that is good about the world is merely an illusion. No one is there to see when you're sleeping, know when you're awake, or know when you've been bad or good. Luckily, there's God, Lord of heaven and Earth, creator of all that is seen and unseen, to fill the void. Whatever doubts a kid might have about the creation of the world in seven days, or Jesus turning water into wine, neither is as unlikely as one man delivering loads of free toys to children all around the world in one night.

And, like the Santa Claus myth, the God story is passed down from generation to generation. Sure, there's a few exceptions. There's the son who marries a Jewish woman, and stops getting a Christmas tree. There's the daughter who reads Nietzsche in a junior college humantities class, and decides that God is dead. But for the most part, belief in the Big Guy and the Big Fat Guy go hand-in-hand. Now, if there were only some kind of self-sacrifice, or dying for the sins of the North Pole community in the Rudolph story, then those clever Christians might really be onto something.

For the good of the permanent public record, and expose the unreliability of human memories that aren't mine, I will be presenting a series of "How We Met" tales about various prominent figures in my life. The second in this series is about Dustin "Lucky Boy" Reed. (Read the first "How We Met" here)

I met Dustin a long while before we officially became "friends." We were teammates on the Paddock Bowl baseball team in the Pleasant Hill Baseball Association during the summer of 1990. This was in the era before teams were named after real professional teams, with matching logos and uniforms. In the years before Paddock Bowl, I played for Oakmont Memorial, Sunvalley Urgent Care Center (try fitting that name into the "two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?" cheer), IPM Health Plan, ABM Security, and McCaffery Construction. Though I faced them many times, never did I play for Produce King, VFW Post, or Lou's Giant Chef Burger.

When I first began playing baseball, I was a pretty solid player. I was never much of a hitter, but that mattered less in the era of hitting off tees, or having coaches pitch to you. My main talent in those early years was knowledge of the game. Because I knew what a force play was, I was head and shoulders above most seven year-old second basemen. Often, I would turn unassisted double plays when more confused players ran to the wrong base, or continued to run on fly balls. Less often, I would hit the ball out of the infield.

As I got older, everyone else slowly began to match my ability to catch pop flies and throw to the correct base. My continued inability to hit, and my struggles with making throws from third base meant that I spent a great deal of time on the bench. It was there that I first bonded with Dustin. Dugout smartassery and on-field suckery proved to be the foundation for a long friendship.

We had probably met and talked at practice before, but the first strong memory I have of Dustin came when we were both seated on the bench one game. Our team only had eleven kids that day, but Dustin and I were still too big of a risk to have on defense for more than our minimum requirement of innings. For a few minutes, we amused ourselves with rhymes about pitchers and belly-itchers, until the opposing team's coach gave us something far more interesting to focus on.

Opposing Coach was one of those really loud coaches, constantly yelling at his players from the third-base coaching box (located right in front of our dugout). The guy was about twenty pounds overweight, and gave me the impression of being an overgrown kid. He yelled at umps, yelled at opposing coaches, and yelled at his own kids. It wasn't like he was overly confrontational; he just talked really loudly and obnoxiously, as if he were trying to impress the team parents sitting in the bleachers with his wit.

This day, Opposing Coach was focusing his attentions on "Mike," a player on his team who had drawn a walk. Through an elaborate series of hand gestures, he gave Mike a message. Mike apparently misread it, and took off for second on the very first pitch. Although Mike stole the base successfully, Opposing Coach was incredulous.

"Mike!?! Mike!?!" he exclaimed, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "Gosh, Mike! I told you not to steal!"

He may have gone on longer than that, but the above is the portion that stands out in my memory. Mainly, because we repeated it twenty or thirty times that inning. We were both making each other laugh, so we just kept going, talking in whiny voices, pretending to cry while yelling, "I told you not to steal!" over and over. Opposing Coach was really not pleased by this, since we were only about fifteen feet away from him. I think he tried to say something about it a few times, but we were laughing pretty hard. Plus, it's difficult to yell, "Stop making fun of me!" at two eleven year-olds in front of their parents and everyone.

This went on for the remainder of the game. There'd be a pause, and then Dustin would say, voice breaking, "Gawsh, Mike!" and we'd immediately crack up. Opposing Coach seethed. Mike himself looked perturbed. We didn't care. Whether we were sitting on the bench, standing in left field, or walking back to the dugout after a strikeout, Dustin and I kept up our "Mike!" routine going.

We literally did this all season long, whether we were playing that team or not, whether anyone was actually forbidden to steal or not. Precedents were set, both for incompetence and beating jokes into the ground, that are still core elements of our friendship today. I wonder if Dustin and I would be so close today had Mike simply listened to Opposing Coach and kept his ass on first base. My first liver might have lasted a lot longer, that's for damn sure.

Though the Mike incident didn't launch us immediately into friendship, it did establish a fraternity of funny voices and teasing. When I transferred to Valley View in seventh grade, we eventually became pals. I went to his fourteenth birthday party and his dog took a bite out of my shirt. Later that year, mere days before Dustin moved to Fall River Mills, we went and saw a movie together at the Capri Theater (or, if you were hip, the "Crap-ee" Theater). Our inspired choice was "Weekend at Bernie's 2," a movie that would foreshadow many elements of our later college careers. My last memory of Dustin, before his triumphant return to the Bay Area, was of walking dejectedly outside the theater, our spirits broken by the horrible film. His mom picked him up, and we exchanged a cursory goodbye.

What should have happened next is clear. As he rolled down his window, I should have shouted, "Gosh, Dustin! I told you not to see such a terrible movie!" And Opposing Coach, driving out of the parking lot after lunch at Emil Villa's Hickory Pit, should have overheard and swerved angrily into a parked car.

Instead, the car just drove away. As I watched the van disappear down the road, I thought to myself, would I ever see Dustin again?

(Yes.)

The recent release of the three-movie DVD set of "Back to the Future" series offers us a chance to look back fondly on the adventures of young Martin McFly and his eccentric mentor Emmett Brown. However, as correspondent Monica Fitzpadrick points out, there are still some unsettling, or simply bizarre aspects of the film.

First, Miss Fitzpadrick points out her favorite discovery of the re-release, namely, the depiction of the Libyan nationalists from whom Doc Brown purchases plutonium. These Libyans are swarthy. They have dark hair, and some sort of face paint. One of them wears a turban-headband thing. Even though they're dealing in weapons-grade radioactive material, they nonetheless travel around in a decrepit VW bus, with a sun roof. (Keane family note: We owned nearly this same vehicle, a blue-and-white marvel named "Huey" that maxed out at about 75 MPH, 45 if driving uphill. My parents opted for the sun roof instead of air conditioning, a decision that would haunt us every summer, when we were forced to choose between stifling heat and mini-tornados whipping down from the open sun roof.) For whatever reason, this crude Middle Eastern stereotype had not registered with Miss Fitzpadrick until a recent viewing, but once it did, it has become virtually all she can talk about.

Other Libyan-related questions raised relate to the VW's ability to race a DeLorean, or that a case full of shiny pinball machine parts would deceive even the most simple-minded terrorists. One imagines a series of 1985 public service ads about how when you travel through time, you're really funding the murder of a judge in South America.

Another interesting scene in "Back to the Future," from a 2003 perspective, comes when Marty McFly visits a shop and tries to order a soda. Contemporary viewers of the film are likely to be just as confused as the 1955 drugstore owner was upon hearing McFly request a "Tab." One can imagine a kid today, too young to remember the soda hubris of the mid-80s, catching one the thrice-weekly USA network airings of the film and confusedly responding, "Why is he asking for a tab? He hasn't ordered anything! Why does he think he can get a Pepsi for free? Just because people think he's in the Coast Guard?" The joke has boomeranged, culturally, exposing the fragility and transience of pop culture, especially as it pertains to sugar water.

Finally, one cannot discuss "Back to the Future" without going over the greatest example of poor judgment in the film, which I call the "ten-minute fallacy." Before leaving 1955 and returning to the future, McFly attempts to warn Doc Brown of his impending death at the hands of the Libyan nationalists. Once Doc tears up the letter, McFly wonders aloud how he might save his friend:

"Dammit, Doc, why did you have to tear up that letter? If only I had more time. Wait a minute, I got all the time I want. I got a time machine! I'll just go back and warn him."

The audience nods along with McFly, following this train of thought. With the time machine, McFly need not remain a victim of temporality. Instead, McFly could go back to a few hours before he met Doc Brown at the Twin Pines Mall, and try to change the rendezvous. He could go back to a full day before he left, allowing himself time to save Doc Brown, try again at the musical audition, or even avoid his fourth tardy in a row and subsequent confrontation with slacker-hating Principal Strickland.

Instead, McFly utters the fateful words, "Ten minutes oughtta do it." Ten minutes! That's his entire cushion? It has to have taken almost five minutes just to drive to the Twin Pines Mall from downtown, since it took McFly ten minutes to sprint there. For McFly, "all the time I want" translates to roughly the length of one side of a Weezer album. One wonders what McFly was going to do to thwart the Libyans in five minutes, once he arrived on the scene - trick them into driving into yet another Fotomat? Maybe they'd have collapsed under the sheer weight of their own stereotypes.

Still, "Back to the Future" is a fine film, and a fine movie franchise (although making two entire films hinge on McFly's unwillingness to be called "chicken" was perhaps not the strongest dramatic choice). In fact, once I get a chance to peruse the entire three-movie set, I will no doubt have a blog entry effusive with praise for Messrs. Zemeckis, Lloyd, and J. Fox. I'll just have to set aside a little time to compose and edit the entry. Ten minutes oughtta do it.

1. Elephants and Continents

Last Sunday, December 29, I was working at the Front Desk of a local science museum. As has become the custom here at our museum, a guy didn't show up for work monitoring the Elephant exhibit, so I went back to relieve his co-worker for her lunch break. I told one story, and then hung around for questions. Normally there are some children, particularly boys aged 4-6, that have a lot to get off their chests about elephants, or lions, or that they really did know there was a giraffe in the bag but they just didn't say it and they knew it in their minds. Today, however, an adult had a burning question.

He came up to me with a worried expression. "Hey, do you work here?" he asked. When I told him I did, he got right down to business.

"OK. I heard this from someone, and I want to know if it's true. I heard that African elephants have ears shaped like Africa, and Indian elephants have ears shaped like India. You know, because of where they're from. Is that true?"

No, I told him.

"They kinda look like the continent."

I said it didn't seem to make sense, this idea that the ear shape was due to the continent the elephants lived on.

"Well, OK, maybe not. Hey, are Asian elephants smarter than African elephants?"

I was tempted to tell him that Asian elephants were better at math, but that the SAT was specially biased against African elephants. I refrained. Then he told me about a circus elephant that went mad. And another elephant in a zoo that attacked a zookeeper once.

I was telling him about how much food elephants consumed on an average day when the man's young son approached. "OK, OK, you told us enough!" he shouted, pulling at his father's arm. It actually hurt my feelings a little.

2. Sweatpants and peanut butter cups

A few weeks ago, one of our many employees named Sally approached me and asked if we had information on volunteering at the Hall. A few minutes later, she returned, this time requesting employment information on behalf of a visitor.

I thought little of it until half an hour later, when I went to check the doors at closing time. I found Sally looking vaguely terrified, trapped in conversation with an enormous woman clutching a can of root beer and a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups. The woman's eye twitched as she rambled on about her love of elephants and children, and her desire to get a job where she could have kids do arts and crafts. Every 45 seconds or so, she unwrapped another peanut butter cup and tossed it into her mouth, without a pause.

I tried to explain the hiring process for museum employment, and gently guide her towards the exit, but she would have none of that. She became very agitated when I told her that many jobs were designated for Cal students, spraying root beer and flecks of chocolate out of the side of her mouth. The rage faded quickly, and she spent the next few minutes outlining her plan for a storytelling station in the shape of an elephant that she would build and maintain near the lobby. Repeatedly, she affirmed her fervent love for elephants, and her dismay that the exhibit would close in early January.

After ten minutes, and 15-20 peanut butter cups, she was nearly out the door. I had turned to resume my sweep, when she let out a cry.

"Hey! Hey!"

I spun back to face her.

She pointed to my khaki pants. "Do you have to wear those to work here? Because, I have a little bit of a tummy," she said, chuckling. "It'd be ok if I wore sweatpants sometimes, right?"

I nodded weakly, and ushered her through the door. According to my co-worker, she waved at the wooly mammoth in the lobby for a few minutes before finally shuffling away.

3. Thaumatropes for Christ

At the Idea Lab , visitors are given the opportunity to try out a variety of science-related activities, from making tops out of plastic lids, to using tangrams, to making tiny helicopters out of paper. One such activity, called thaumatropes, involves drawing on two index cards, then taping them together with a straw in between. When spun, the two pictures seem to combine and become one image. For example, one display model has a goldish on one side, and an empty fishbowl on the other. Spin it, and the fish is inside the bowl. It works due to a phenomenon called "persistence of vision" where your brain retains an after-image temporarily - basically the same effect that make flip books work.

On Wednesday, there was a group visit from the Valley Christian School. At the Ideal Lab, one instructor made a thaumatrope that had "I God" on one side, and a large heart on the other. She was showing her creation to whoever would pay attention, and loudly exclaiming that she'd found the perfect low-cost Sunday School activity. When the school group was leaving, the teacher was clutching another one which appeared at a glance to have Jesus on one side, and a cross on the other. Spin the thaumatrope and see the crucifixion! The only way that could be topped is if Jonathan Edwards himself came to the museum, drew sinners on one card, and the open hand of an angry God on the other.

Ward Street used to be a strange, cooperative, co-dependent apartment, where the lives of all were intertwined. We'd return from class, or work, or a twelve-hour slumber, and meet in the living room. Sometimes we'd share a meal, sometimes we'd just watch basketball and drink forties. Our primary social group was each other, as we each amused one another far more than anyone else did.

Slowly, over the past six months, this little world has changed. Jigar moving out wasn't a big deal, since he was the most independent of the four of us anyway, and he'd left before. Also, he went on trips a lot. It wasn't uncommon for him to spend three weeks following a family of disabled children across the country, or fly to Los Angeles on Bigar Maaf business. Aaron H.'s one or two nights a week at home seemed like a natural filling of the ghost roommate slot.

It was different when Docta V moved out. Gene came in and immediately started painting. And cleaning. And repairing. It was as if it took an outsider like Gene to hold up the mirror to Ward Street D, and show us what we'd become. Maybe it was a bad idea to let the heater go unrepaired for half a year. Perhaps we should have actually rearranged furniture for the first time, rather than simply talking about potential layouts for the living room. The question constantly asked was, "What happens when you do things?" The answer was, "They get done."

Mike had been moving things out gradually for the past month, but by last Sunday, the last of his possessions was gone. There was something profoundly unsettling about looking into his empty room, stark walls and windows standing unadorned. Walking into the room devoid of Mike on Monday afternoon was the first time the extremeness of these changes first hit home. Things had been metamorphosing for a long time, but I think I'd just been distracted by other concerns. Mike and Aaron had places, with girls. The wicker was soon to be flaming ashes in a fratboy firepit. Newcomers and oldtimers had both passed judgement on my living conditions, and found them wanting.

It reminded me of coming back to my parents' house in Pleasant Hill. Even now, after five years of college and not-college, it's hard not to think of the small room that currently holds quilting books and sewing supplies as my room. Of course, the old contents of that room ended up in my Ward Street room, and the bed is always covered in too much stuff to be sleep-worthy, so that helps with the separation. Still, I can remember coming in one day, probably some time in early 2000, where I had the sudden sensation of not really living there anymore. It might have been a new teddy bear, or tossing my keys to a spot where a coffee table no longer was, but it was a very sudden and distinct feeling.

Tonight, I walked in to find the living room and kitchen in a completely different state. Couches in new places, cabinets in different rooms. The furniture and roommates are both able to operate independently now, it seems. I don't know if the new living room is good or bad; right now, it's just unsettling. My only solace is that the principles of feng shui may finally be working in my favor. Or so the souls of my ancestors would hope.

1. Cows sitting down.

I helped my younger sister to move some stuff from Rohnert Park yesterday. On my drive up through Marin, I saw many cows, all appearing to kneel or sit in their pastures. The first group was at least a hundred cows, none of which were standing. I thought they were injured at first, but it seemed to be the trend. I noticed at least twice as many sitting/kneeling cows as I did standing bovines.

Why was this? Were the cows sad? Were they hung over from an exhausting New Year's celebration, and random frantic milkings at midnight? Perhaps they were Muslim cows, performing one of their five-times-daily obligations to Mecca. Muslim cows aren't swayed by the desperate, fawning attentions of the Hindus, knowing in their hearts that Pakistan is and will always be the true owner of Khalistan.

All of the lambs I saw were standing, even the babies.

2. Pink Floyd on the radio

Ever since New Year's Eve, Dark Side of the Moon has been on the radio constantly. KFOG played the whole album a few times, "Us and Them" has been in heavy rotation on The Bone, and I've heard "Money" on The Drive. There's a possibility I'm unaware of the local Pink Floyd airplay, since in Berkeley I mostly listen to KALX. But, the Floyd has been so omnipresent that I've been checking to see if there was a recent death in the band or something. Of course, given that I haven't heard The Clash on the radio at all since Joe Strummer passed, that might not have been reason enough anyway.

So, what is it? The album is 30 years old, but it doesn't seem like that's enough reason for the huge airplay it's been getting. If Gene is correct, maybe it's a Mormon conspiracy. All I'm saying is, I don't want to hear any of that Wizard of Oz bullshit, OK?

3. This weird humming noise outside our apartment, not that loud but clearly audible, centered under the stairwell, which kinda goes on and off randomly with no discernible pattern, and kinda freaks me out a little.

It's ghosts. Definitely angry ghosts. Ghosts that are listening to "On the Run," but don't know the words. That's my guess.

The New Year was rung in, and rung in with authority. I had no inkling that the crowds would be as large and insane as they turned out to be, but the combination of drunken hippies, naked anarchist poets, computer-savvy BBS-era alumni, and Dustin proved to be a winning combination.

A regular narrative doesn't do justice to a party of this caliber and temperment, so I will hereby present a few notable happenings and/or quotes., to creat a sort of "action portrait" of the night, just like a drunken Jackson Pollock pissing and cursing and throwing paint off a metaphorical balcony onto a literal canvas, only in word form.

Snapshot 1: I arrive. Many, many people are there. Everyone is excited to see me. I feel proud. I am the party star. I am popular. Then I realize the enthusiasm is due to the six rolls of toilet paper I am carrying in my backpack.

Snapshot 2: Kristen's friend Maggie is recounting her confrontation with a rageaholic man earlier in the party. She pokes my shoulder with her index finger to punctuate the crucial points of why she didn't want to finish the man's cup of Jungle Juice. "And, I said, 'No. I don't want to drink it. That's just sugar and your spit."

Snapshot 3: Danny Dawson takes my glass of water out of my hand and begins drinking it himself. Due in part to Dustin's coercing, I decide to fire a warning shot at Mr. Dawson, by tossing a new glass of water about six inches away from his head. A few minutes later, Dustin and I refill our glasses and return. Not with further vengeance, but instead to play an impromptu game of Spit Take.

Snapshot 4: Mike Barnett warns smokers not to go past the patio, due to the fumes wafting away from the gasoline-soaked wood in the fire pit. A few try to slip past him anyway. "Listen to him!" I cry. "He works for Pepsi!"

Snapshot 5: Maggie asks me to sing "A Man of Independent Means," a song I wrote with Fred Lee. (Hear a much better singer than me sing it here) Thinking she was mocking me, I put her off, until finally relenting and singing a rap-type version of the first verse. My lyrical memory fails me after that, and I have to stop. "The first verse was good," Maggie says. "Then it just started to suck."

Snapshot 6: As the furniture blazes in the fire pit, the pledges of "Sigma Nude" assemble on the balcony. Dustin leans over to me and says, "The good thing is that now, corporations will no longer exist."

Snapshot 7: Jesse DeBoer meets Jessica Beaird for the second time in roughly fifteen minutes. "What's your name again?" he asks, again. Jessica tries a hint, "OK, think about it. What's your name?" Mr. DeBoer gets it right.

Snapshot 8: For some reason, I am left to cook an enormous block of frozen bacon on my own. I have never cooked bacon before. I remind everyone nearby of my bacon-preparation naivete, as I weakly poke at the icy bacon with a spatula. Soon, Jason Shamai arrives. I wonder if he, as a vegetarian, is upset by the smell. Clearly, he is not. "You can't eat that!" someone tells Jason. "But I can smell it!" he cries.

Snapshot 9: Maggie asks about Katie Vigil, the sergeant-at-arms of Sigma Nude. "So, you guys dated in high school?" Yes, I told her. "She looks like Jake Gyllenhaal." You mean Maggie, I tell her. Maggie Gyllenhaal. There is a pause. "No, I'm Maggie!" she exclaims.