March 2003 Archives

(Read Part 1 2 3)

There has been some talk recently about vicious animals going after humans. I heard yesterday the blood-chilling tale of a miniature horse stampede in Virginia. Just days earlier, I was shocked by a harrowing story from a co-worker about a water buffalo chasing him through a forest in the Phillipines. My sister Megan, the birthday girl, was not spared the trauma of animal assault either.

She was three or four years old. Mom took Megan to a petting zoo, which had all kinds of different animals in it. All Megan wanted to do was meet some animals, but an angry goose would have none of it. Spotting that Mom's back was turned, the goose advanced on Megan in a wing-flapping, honking fury. Terrified, Megan fled, with the massive goose hopping after her, threatening to peck the hell out of her, like some reverse foie de gras nightmare come frighteningly to life.

Mom came to the rescue. Seeing her daughter in peril, she dashed over, cut the goose off, and punched it in the goose face. Megan would live to her twenty-fifth birthday (at least!). Later, Megan would tell anyone she encountered about her brush with death: "I was running, and then Mom came, and she SMACKED that old goose!"

Happy birthday, Megan! Keep smacking the old goose of oppression, negativity, and poorly organized library invoices!

When I was about eight years old or so, my sister Megan had had enough of my parents and their lack of respect and their favoritism towards the other sisters, and so she decided to run away. To the backyard. She had been on the lam for an hour or so when I received a note through the screen of my window. It read something like this:

Dear Sean: I'm in the back yard. I am running away. Mom and Dad are being jerks and I can't stand it. Write back.

P.S. Write back using code. A=1, B=2, C=3, OK?

Luckily, our communications were not intercepted by hostile forces that afternoon. Megan crossed the border back into the house once the heat died down and it was getting close to dinnertime.

Many years later, in the summer of 1997, our family was driving to my cousin Shannon's wedding in our minivan. A note was surreptitiously passed to where I was sitting in the back seat. It was from Megan.

Dear Sean: I'm in the front seat. I am running away from this wedding. Mom and Dad are being jerks and I can't stand it. Write back using code.

Megan is great. Happy 25th birthday, hippie.

My cheap shot at the departed Giants pitcher Livan Hernandez made the Chron today:

Scroll down to the bottom of the article

Bush Delivers Ultimatum to Iraq

In a nationally televised address from London, members of the alternative rock group Bush delivered a tough ultimatum to Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein. "For too long, Iraq has been subject to the tyranny of this madman," lead singer Gavin Rossdale announced. "Truly, there is no sex in Saddam's violence, both against his own people and those in neighboring countries. The time for negotiation has ended. The time has come to rock Baghdad."

The band presented a plan for a rock concert directly outside Hussein's presidential palace. If the embattled leader did not step down in 48 hours, the band was prepared to play a long set, featuring the entirety of the band's poorly received sophmore effort, "Razorblade Suitcase." At press time, band members had not ruled out the use of a second chord.

Rossdale continued, "People of Iraq, don't let the days go by. I couldn't change, though I wanted to, but you have the power to change the leadership of your country." He then stepped away from the podium and tongue kissed Gwen Stefani for nearly ten unbroken minutes.

My mother Sharon, she of the gimpy knee and gradually-improving Irish accent, teaches four year-olds at an unnamed local preschool. Today was the highlight of the entire year at the school, for today was St. Patrick's Day. OK, it was the day after St. Patrick's Day, but the Tuesday/Thursday/Friday class wasn't at school yesterday, so they celebrated today. It's the culmination of an entire month full of stories about leprechauns and much singing (and beginning again) of the sad tale of Michael Finnegan. Here's how it works:

Earlier in the day, the young'uns, in conjunction with parent volunteers, build a Rube Goldberg-esque contraption designed for the humane trapping of leprechauns. Then, the fun begins.

At Circle Time I, Mrs. Keane tells the children about how, earlier in the day, she heard a rustling in the cupboard. She opened the door, pounced quickly, and caught a leprechaun with her bare hands, she lies. A paper sack is produced, ostensibly holding a plastic sandwich bag with a leprechaun inside. Just as Mrs. Keane is about to open the bag and show the assembled children, she subtly bumps the sack with her knee.

"The leprechaun seems nervous," Mrs. Keane says. "Why don't we put the bag up on a high shelf (not too high - Mrs. Keane is 4'11") where it's dark and quiet? Then, once the leprechaun calms down, we'll bring him out."

The kids agree to the plan, and move on to arts, crafts, and tricycle riding. In the meantime, Mrs. Keane surreptitiously cuts holes in the paper sack, and the bags within. Before Circle Time II, everyone checks the leprechaun trap, and Mrs. Keane places a dish of green paint next to it "just in case he manages to get out, we can track him."

We retire to the other room, for more songs about leprechauns and pin-fishing Irishmen. Of course, while this is going on, the parent confederates are laying a trail of tiny green leprechaun footprints running away from the trap and into the parking lot. When Mrs. Keane brings out the hole-ridden bag, bedlam ensues:

"The leperchaun got out Mrs. Keane!"
"Check the twap!"
"I think it went outside!"
"It's undoh the sink!"

Children are running around, wide-eyed, almost hysterical with excitement. The finishing touch is the leprechaun's escape tool, a tiny toy spade left next to the trap, which one child breathlessly refers to as an "Irish shovel." The leprechaun's cache of gold-wrapped gold coins is discovered, ensuring that the already-hyper children have a little more sugar in their system when they go home, cranked up out of their minds. It's the best day of the whole year, and it's all made possible by our good friend deceit.

US and Security Council Agree to Disagree

After frantic last-minute lobbying efforts failed to yield a consensus on a resolution authorizing the use of force against Iraq, the Security Council today passed a resolution agreeing to disagree with the actions of the United States. By a 15-0 vote, the council condemns the proposed military action as "unjustified" and "imperialistic," but also "strongly respects the opinion of the United States, and extends a firm fraternal handshake to its delegates."

French Foreign Minister Dominique de Villepin said, "Look, we'd been going around in circles for days about the rights of national sovereignty and the feasibility of Iraq's long-term weapons development plan. After a while, we just said, look, life's too short.*"

Colin Powell agreed. "We could go back and forth all day about whose war is unjustified by international law, or whose impending massive military onslaught is a totally illegitimate grab for oil. After a while you get confused about whether this whole thing is about weapons of mass destruction, or terror drones made out of duct tape and balsa wood, or a wholly fictional murder attempt against George Bush, Sr. from ten years ago. Your head starts to spin."

It is hoped that the US and the Security Council will forget all this who-blocked-whose-resolution and who-believes-which-Bible-is-literal-fact-and-Jesus-hates-Iraq nonsense and go out for root beer floats together.

"But no french fries," joked Powell.

UCLink got itself together today, and returned my Inbox and other folders to me. I celebrated by deleting over a hundred of the messages. Some I replied to and dumped, some were dropped because they had been re-sent from the server crash, but some were just cold-bloodedly cast out, like baby sparrows from the nest, or heroin-addicted drummers from the Smashing Pumpkins.

Dumping all that mail was invigorating. I felt the same way upon bagging up unworn clothes a few days. For whatever reason, excising one's possessions is a really good feeling. Like a balloonist tossing sandbags over the side of his basket, my spirits soared with each ill-fitting flannel shirt and itchy wool sweater I tossed into the Hefty Bag. Perhaps this is how the CEO of United Airlines felt.

I want to write a self-help book about attaining spiritual peace by giving away your possessions. One goes every day, as you move closer and closer to spiritual bliss. Each chapter will have an uplifting aphorism. There will be non-rhyming poetry. The book will be called "Like A Magic Penny" or "Give It away Now" and I will go on Oprah to promote it and even Dr. Phil himself will chuckle at my simple, folksy wisdom and good humor. It will sell thousands and thousands of copies, and I will earn enough money to buy a GameCube, and a microwave, and a faster computer, and a lightweight jacket that doesn't advertise Cal athletic teams, and maybe also a dirt bike.

(Originally published in The Heuristic Squelch)

Top Five Travis Tritt Songs For the New Millenium

5. "Here's A Quarter, No, Wait, Here's a Quarter and a Dime, Call Someone Who Cares"
4. "I Don't Especially Care To Hear Your Problems, But I Just Have A Twenty - If You Can Get Change, You're Welcome To Call Someone Who Cares"
3. "If You Keep It Brief, You Can Just Use My Cell Phone"
2. "Here's Two Quarters, Call Someone Who Cares"
1. "Use 1 -800-COLLECT And Save A Buck Or Two On All Your Calls To Someone Who Cares"

Congress Declares Thumb War

(Originally appeared in The Heuristic Squelch)

In a joint session of Congress this week, both houses moved to declare a "thumb war" on Iraq. Citing numerous violations of the Geneva Convention including "sorta moving up their arm to get better leverage," Senator Phil Gramm (R-Texas) said a thumb war with Iraq was "inevitable." "The Iraqi people have been under Saddam Hussein's oppressive thumb for too long," remarked Gramm, before joing fellow lawmakers in solemnly intoning, "1,2,3,4, I declare a thumb war."

Pundits are divided on the controversial thumb-military intervention. While some are confident that the conflict can be resolved swiftly, through hand-to-hand combat, others fear that the thumb war might escalate to Indian burns, or even Bloody Knuckles. Military officials declined to comment specifically, though they have not ruled out the use of Chinese finger cuffs

You hear a lot about people trying to work on their spirituality, get in touch with their God. Some people seem to want to be as close as possible with the Lord. Not me. My relationship with Jesus Christ is strictly business.

He's my carpenter. Handled the addition we put on the master bedroom. Works fast, polite to the kids, doesn't work weekends. Technically, He's a carpenter/messiah, because of the dying-for-my-sins thing. Saying my sins is kind of weird; it's the accumulated sins of all of humanity, not just my stuff. I'm not ungrateful, but I also don't want to get that thrown back in my face all the time. The last thing I need is Him trying to guilt me into bringing Him lemonade when he's out on the roof.

If it gets too personal with your savior, things can get weird. Out of nowhere, Jesus will start dropping hints about maybe going bowling, getting a bite to eat after church. Next thing you know He's "just dropping in" every Saturday afternoon and inviting me to join His softball team, or go with him to wash the lepers. No thanks.

I have a friend who always talks about how great his relationship with Jesus is. He's always telling Jesus his problems, asking Jesus' advice, washing his feet and stuff. Of course, this guy also didn't notice that Jesus did a half-assed job sanding and sealing his deck last summer. Whenever I point out the places where it's cracked and splintered, he just gives me some crap about how the Lord works in mysterious ways. Mysteriously lazy, maybe.

Once, when I was kicking back, watching the Sonics with Barabbas and the boys, we called up Jesus and invited him over. It was pretty awkward, what with constantly having to explain the rules to him, and how he kept referring to the refs as "pharisees." Near the end of the game, Steve accidentally took His name in vain after Brent Barry missed an easy layup, and even though Jesus forgave him right away, played it off like it was nothing, it got pretty quiet for the last few minutes. After that the game ended, and everybody pretty much cleared out. We haven't called him up since. Don't get me wrong, Jesus is a nice guy. We just don't have that kind of a relationship.

(Read Part 2)

Back in 1999, my first year working at the Lawrence Hall of Science, the Science View department was looking for actors. They were producing an educational CD-ROM about supernovas, and needed a boy and girl to portray high school students. We would receive our regular hourly wage and a copy of the completed CD-ROM. As a fame- and cash-starved college sophomore, it was an offer I couldn't refuse.

I showed up at the museum after closing time, along with an Asian girl from the gift store who I'd never encountered before or since. Our relationship was to be as brilliant and as brief as the explosion of a supernova itself. Truly, there had not been on-screen chemistry like that in the Lawrence Hall of Science since Marie Curie was featured in the Women's History Month display. On second thought, since it's a CD-ROM, that ought to be on-disk chemistry. OK. Then, there hadn't been on-disk chemistry like that since Glenn Seaborg recited the laws of thermodynamics on Snoop Dogg's "Doggystyle."

I played a kid named Alan. Alan helped our CD-ROM users to search for and identify supernovas. Alan said things like, "Yes! That's it! You found a supernova!" or "Are you sure that's a supernova? Maybe you should check your math and try again." As I try to be a Method Actor, I tried to get inside Alan's head. I tried to feel his excitement about the search, his disappointment with the wrong supernova locations, his subtle-but-palpable lust for Store Girl's character. I experimented with different line readings: "Yes! That's it! You found a supernova!" "Yes! That's it! You found a supernova!" "Yeah? That's it? You (visible quote marks)'found a supernova.' Well that's great. Congratufuckinlations."

Eventually, I think the goal of the game is to find a certain number of supernovas. Or maybe just one supernova. Or maybe the supernovas make a picture if you find them all, or there's a song that plays. Basically, this CD-ROM is probably not much fun.

We had to do a lot of takes because of Store Girl screwing up. It was like being in a Kubrick film, only we weren't in England and I didn't have to do a nude scene. It was distracting, but I tried to focus on Alan, on the supernovas, on the extra five dollars I would receive if the shoot lasted past 7:00. And, oh, what I learned about supernovas! Nothing at all, that's what.

The shoot wrapped, and I never heard about the CD-ROM again after our two hours of shooting was up. That is, until this week, when I heard from Science View. In an e-mail which I would quote from if UCLink weren't on life support, a woman told me the CD-ROM had been completed and produced. Soon, a copy of the CD-ROM will be in my hands, soon to be followed by accolades and fame and fortune and cocaine and the opposite of despair.

By Sean Keane and Monica Fitzpadrick

It's 2024. My rebellious son Seamus O'Murphy Padrick-Keane wants to borrow the space-car, but he's been grounded for breaking space-curfew. When I refuse to give him the keys, Seamus wallops me over the head with an empty bottle of space-whiskey. Reeling and bleeding, I stagger towards the space-foyer and alert his mother, who cold-cocks the unsuspecting Seamus with a space-wrench as he dashes towards the space-garage. "Seamus," his mother bellows, "You've... shamed us!" His mother pauses as the hilarity of her statement sinks into her enormous Celtic head and the weight of it all eventually causes her to topple over.

Kevin Deenihan has a glass jaw, and collapsed like a rag doll.

While walking home from the pub, I spotted a tiny green-clad man with his tiny foot caught in a steam grate. I knew right away that it was a leprechaun, and that anyone who captures a leprechaun is entitled to his stash of hidden gold. So I looks the wee little guy in the eye, and I says, "Look, let's play it straight here. Ye're captured, and ye'll be telling me where your gold is without any of yer leprechaun tricks." He protested a bit, but eventually led me to a garden with hundreds of rosebushes. I made him tie a red handkerchief onto the bush which hid his gold, and went off to get my shovel. When I returned, every bush in the garden had a red handkerchief around it. I was so angry that I hardly noticed the partially-peeled potatoes being lobbed at me from a nearby tree. The little bastard gave me no gold at all, just a series of tiny-but-vicious kicks to the kidneys. The wee bugger was brutal with the pointy toes, but ye have to respect the man.

So it was wicked cold one day in Southie and I was walking along the river. I was taking a nip a Jameson's that I stole from my old man one night when he was passed out drunk by the fire and suddenly a cop car was pulling up beside me. O'Malley. This was not the first time we'd met. I eyed him up and down as he opened the car door. All the sudden there I was again, skirt around my neck and knickers around my ankles, goin' at it on the hood. We humped like two leprechauns on the glistening emerald isle. I had a confession, I told him, "I don't really know what the word 'altercation' means." He paused for a second to eye me wildly, "And I'm too embarrassed to ask."

"Sit yer foockin' arse down or I'll climb up there and give you somethin' to cry aboot," a disgruntled patron three rows back grumbles towards the stage. "Get yir foockin' foot outa yer arse, Vladimir! Foockin' do somethin!" (Estragon crosses, looks to the man) "I sometimes wonder if we wouldn't have been better off alone, each man for himself." (Disgruntled patron stands, stumbles towards stage and sweep kicks Estragon's bum foot from under him) "Well foockin' A right!" (The sun starts to set) "Aye, let's go," I says to my friend. He says "Feene, we're goin.' We're goin.'" (Nighttime. They do not move. Blood trickles from Estragon's nose. Vladimir sobs like a wee baby in the corner and the curtain falls)

The toughest altercation I ever had was with an Irishman named myself. Scrapping and brawling is one thing, but try learning to read at age 22. It's always tempting to quit studying phonics and drown your sorrows in alcohol, especially when a jerk like Danny McGinnis is giving you shit about Dick and Jane and that foocking dog Spot. Still, you have to battle with yourself every day to stay focused on the goal of self-improve-ment and literacy, unless that McGinnis simply WILL NOT SHUT UP, and then you haul off and smack him one, and he responds with a knee to your groin, and at that point Timothy O'Flanneryhan breaks a bar stool over Danny's head, and someone is biting your ankle, and just before you lose consciousness, you can read the label on the bottle of Bass Ale flying towards you in what seems like slow motion, for the very first time ever.

In a move that may have implications far beyond Shellmound Street, the Emeryville IKEA has declared itself an independent republic. Speaking from the newly established capital next to the lighting aisle, Assistant Customs Manager/President-Elect Sven Nielsen spoke at length about freedom from tyranny, the natural rights of retail employees, and the success of the recent Winter Sale.

UC Berkeley professor Wilber Chaffee was not surprised by the decision. "IKEA is almost as big as the rest of Emeryville combined. With abundant natural resources, plentiful strudel, and a small, hex-wrench-wielding militia, IKEA should find great success on its own." Chaffee then purchased a set of knives for $4.

The Emeryville government, still weakened from its efforts to put down the Best Buy revolt in November, is expected to offer only token resistance. Primary exports of the new nation are expected to be prefabricated bookshelves and traffic

Re: Unauthorized Publication of Information on Internet

The undersigned and this office have been retained by ______ Pool, Inc., relative to your apparent posting of Internet transmissions with information as to participants in and activities with the _____ Swim Team. Specifically, we have been provided with copies of your e-mails posted on July 17, 2002, July 20, 2002, and most recently, an e-mail posted on January 17, 2003. These e-mails identify various activities undertaken by children, oftentimes eight years old and younger, describing not only the swimmers' names but also their attire.

The disclosure of private facts concerning the children at _____ Pool into a medium which can be viewed by literally millions of individuals with no legitimate contact with _______ Pool is at best ill-considered. We can conceive of no legitimate purpose for the posting of information concerning a six year old boy "clad in a small blue Speedo" or a six year old girl "clad in a wet suit" At best, your choosing to disclose this information shows incredibly bad judgment on your part.

We have made various recommendations to the _______ Pool Board concerning what further action should be taken by this entity relative to your e-mails. By this letter, this office as the authorized representative of ______ Pool makes a formal demand that you cease and desist any further disclosure of the individuals or activities undertaken at _______ Pool, a private club where you are admitted only as an employee. We make the further demand that to the extent possible that any e-mails relating to any _______ swimmer or activity be removed and/or deleted from any web page or posting.

This letter does not serve to foreclose any action by the individuals or their parents relative to the information contained within the e-mails generated by you. Certainly any further e-mails which reference _______ Pool, members of the ________ Swim Team, or which provide for the continued disclosure of private facts related to swimmers at _________ will be viewed as an intentional act on your part.

If you have any questions concerning any of the above, or wish to discuss this matter further, please do not hesitate to contact the undersigned.

Very truly yours,

Rand Chritton
rchritton@archernorris.com

I got caught doing the Morrissey voice today.

Talking like Morrissey, the celibate, vegetarian former lead singer of The Smiths, is something I have done since my freshman year at Cal, back in 1984. My good friend and associate Khurram told about a game that he and his friends would play involving sneaking up on an unaware friend, and then making the trademark warbling Morrissey vocalizing sound very close to their ears. (When I refer to the "Morrissey sound," think of the post-"I'm so sorry" wailing on "Suedehead" or the "ooh-ooh-ooh-oo-oo" at the end of the chorus of "Girlfriend in a Coma") Reactions to the Morrissey voice are mixed, but always entertaining. The Morrissey voice surprises, but the Morrissey voice also soothes.

Recently I was watching, with my peg-legged mother, an old Saturday Night Live rerun that had him as the musical guest, and proceeded to converse only in melancholy Morrissey-speak for the next hour or so (see "running the joke into the ground"). Since then, I will periodically slip into the Morrissey zone, usually while driving, singing tuneless songs about my day: "It's cold and my car is too slow/ So I merge to the right and I stall and I cry and I want to die."

So today, I was working at the museum on a slow, nearly-visitor-free day. I ended up in the empty employee restroom around 2:00 and unconsciously began exploiting the restroom acoustics to Morrisseize the day. When Dan from Exhibits walked in, I was looking in the mirror and warbling a variation of the Lawrence Hall of Science closing announcement: "If you'd like to make a purchase in the Discovery Corner gift and book store, you should do so now-ow." It's hard to make excuses for talking to yourself even when you're not using a high faux-British singing voice and vaguely approximating the melody of "The Boy With a Thorn In His Side."

Luckily, the general no-eye-contact, no-conversation, don't-look-sideways-at-the-urinal conventions of male restroom etiquette let me escape with no more than an awkward head nod and a face full of shame. And, secretly, a heart full of song.

I'm sorry to have had to call you in here like this, but I'm afraid it can't wait. Every one of you is fired. You can stay until the end of the week.

I've been going over my notes, crunching the numbers, and the statistics don't lie. Productivity is down, expectations have not been met. There are people who have invested a lot of time and money here, and frankly, I don't know what to tell them anymore. People with influence are starting to ask tough questions about the future of this operation. It's all I can do to keep my head above water. And out of the toilet, because this whole thing makes me sick.

We could try third-party mediation, but I'm not sure we should keep kidding ourselves here. Plus, that third party is also fired. And dropped. Some of you are also dropped. Please make a note.

No, I am not crying. Those are my allergies. I have allergies.

It's just not working out. It's not you, really, it's me. Me, firing each and every one of you with just cause; cause which I will explain later because there are lots of very good reasons really and I am just not going to talk about it right now OK?. Maybe we should start seeing other people. Or even no one at all. OK, me, seeing people, you all, in seclusion, thinking about seeing me, but unable to, because you're fired.

On second thought, those other people I was going to be seeing are also fired. Please make a note.

I am also going to need those nametags back.

My younger sisters both work at a Mexican restaurant in Lafayette called El Charro. Often, one or both will return home, shirts splattered with refried beans, with stories that usually revolve around the ridiculous restaurant patrons of Lafayette. One such story Kelly told me was about an old man who tried to order vermouth. Really, really wanted some vermouth. Sadly, El Charro was out of vermouth. Kelly tried to apologize to the man, but he could not be comforted. "What kind of a restaurant doesn't have vermouth?" he asked her. "It's a bar, but there's no vermouth?"

Even as the meal progressed, he kept bringing the subject back up. Kelly takes food orders: "I keep running this through my head, but it's just not making sense to me. There's no vermouth at all?" Kelly brings complimentary replacement drink from the bar: "Thank you... it's just, no vermouth? Totally out of vermouth?" Old man clasps Kelly's hand as he pays the bill: "I don't blame you. It's not your fault. You're not in charge of ordering the vermouth."

Fast forward to two weeks later. I and a group of friends dine at El Charro and have the pleasure of having sisters Kelly and Molly as our waitresses. All is going well until the end of the meal, when Molly approaches our table to apologize. El Charro has run out of guacamole. As per our family's usual tradition of running jokes into the ground, I begin imitating the old man.

"What kind of a restaurant doesn't have guacamole?" I ask. "I mean, this is a Mexican restaurant, right? And... there's no guacamole?" Molly gives me a tight-lipped smile and a small chuckle. Energized by discount margaritas, polite laughter and the melodious sound of my own voice, I continue.

"I'm trying to get this straight in my head. This is a Mexican restaurant, and you just ran out of guacamole?" Molly continues to grin, but her face starts to waver. I go on and on, until Molly mutters something about searching for extra guacamole downstairs and darts away.

It is only then that I realize, Kelly was the one who had to deal with Captain Vermouth. Molly doesn't know about the vermouth guy. All she knows is that her older brother has been berating her for five minutes, in front of his friends, about the lack of guacamole; guacamole that no one has actually requested, guacamole that no one cares about, guacamole that Molly is now frantically searching through El Charro's catering offices to find.

Everyone is disappointed in me. Kelly threatens to beat me upside the head with a menu. Molly, bless her little heart, comes back, arms laden with single-serving-size guacamole, and is puzzled when no one at the table takes one any from her. What kind of a brother sends his little sister on a pointless Mexican-condiment-related errand? I keep running it through my head, but it's just not making sense to me.