Archive for March, 2010

Guru tries to kill skeptic on live TV

You can probably guess what the outcome was.

When a famous tantric guru boasted on television that he could kill another man using only his mystical powers, most viewers either gasped in awe or merely nodded unquestioningly. Sanal Edamaruku’s response was different. “Go on then — kill me,” he said…

…First, the master chanted mantras, then he sprinkled water on his intended victim. He brandished a knife, ruffled the sceptic’s hair and pressed his temples. But after several hours of similar antics, Mr Edamaruku was still very much alive — smiling for the cameras and taunting the furious holy man.

“He was over, finished, completely destroyed!” Mr Edamaruku chuckles triumphantly as he concludes the tale in the Rationalist Centre, his second-floor office in the town of Noida, just outside Delhi.

Maybe these gurus, who know that they are full of shit, are used to intimidating audience people and are hence unafraid of being challenged to do what they say they can do. Still, you would have to be an idiot to expect to go through life without someone asking you to back up your words. I hope this guy was as humiliated as the article suggests, what with him boasting about his supposed ability to commit gratuitous murder. I take great amusement in gurus, psychics, seers, and other woo-pitchers being exposed as frauds and having their “careers” derailed.

3 Comments

Riding someone’s jock

In my day I was a decent runner. Those days are gone, so now I content myself with following those who are actually good, even great.

In February 2008, on assignment, I had the opportunity to train for two weeks with a pair of women who went on to become the first and second finishers at the USATF National Championships, otherwise (at least that year) known as the Olympic Trials. Shannon Rowbury and Erin Donohue both represented the U.S. in Beijing, and Shannon (whom I got to have lunch with recently) won a bronze medal last year in the 1500 meters at the World Championships in Berlin.

Here they are kicking my ass during a tempo run on Longboat Key near Sarasota, Florida.

The running world is kind of small and it’s easy to start shrugging stuff off.

Still, I’ve never been more personally proud of someone than I am of the Central Mass Striders’ Kim Duclos, who finished eighth in yesterday’s Los Angeles Marathon. (I’ve also been in that club for 13 years.) Kim, who I have been working with since October, ran 2:42:52 and qualified for the 2012 Olympic Marathon Trials in what was far from her ideal race. I won’t go into all of the details but this was not the ideal time for her to be racing a marathon or even a 5K. She’s going to come back in five weeks and race at Boston and get the “A” Trials standard (which means running in the 2:30′s) and will ultimately be a threat to make the Olympics if I have anything to say about it.

I like runners.

1 Comment

The First Nail

So here we are days away from the big vote on health care reform. In the lead up, I don’t think that I have seen people more polarized, agitated and even aggressive about a topic since the Vietnam War. I got to wondering why this is. Why are so many people getting red-faced over this? Why have I heard so many outright lies about what will (or won’t) happen if health care reform comes to pass?

Then something came to me. If health care reform passes and begins to work, and if it is then bolstered over the coming months and years and people begin to recognize that they and their neighbors are better off than they would have been without it, this will be the first nail in the coffin of Reaganism. Whatever else you might say about the late president, one thing is for sure: He took the dissatisfaction and mistrust that people had following Vietnam and Watergate, and instead of saying “That was an aberration, we can do better”, he instead fed peoples’ fears and preached that government can do no right, government is always the problem, and therefore less government is always a good thing. This argument elevated Reagan to a level just shy of deity in the eyes of some, and is firmly cemented as unshakable ideology and dogma in the political right wing. (Whether or not said politicians actually apply the ideology in a consistent manner is another question entirely).

Here’s the rub. There are few things scarier than having someone directly challenge your ideology. There is the initial shock that anyone could be so bold, rude even. After the initial shock, it will probably elicit a fight response. It doesn’t matter if a cogent, logical, rational defense of the challenge can be given; a direct attack at a core belief almost always causes people to dig in their heels, grit their teeth, and prepare for battle. Rational analysis be damned. Once invested, the tendency is to protect the investment, not admit to the possibility that it was a poor choice.

I think deep down, the leaders of the right wing realize that if successful and real health care reform comes to pass, their mantra will be broken. Who will believe them on any other issue if the citizenry discovers that the government can, in fact, do good things for people, in direct contrast to their continuing diatribe? How severe would this undercut them? Their power would evaporate like water in a desert.

The vote appears close, and even if it passes, some parts will take a few years before they come into play. And there remains work to be done to make it better. I guess we shall see. Oh, and I should mention that my Congressman, a “Blue Dog Democrat”, decided to vote against it as of yesterday.

5 Comments

Hot Water Heat Pump

For most folks, the second most energy intensive activity in the home (after living space heating/cooling) is heating potable water. For a great many people the obvious choice is storage-based or on-demand fired by natural gas. But lots of folks (like me) don’t have natural gas service so we usually rely on storage-based electric water heaters. They’re relatively inexpensive to purchase (maybe $300-$350 or so for a halfway decent 50 gallon unit) but expensive to operate. Standard government estimates run around $500-$550 per year. This figure depends a lot on your usage and local electricity rates.

By themselves, electric resistive water heaters are relatively efficient in simple terms. Generally, between 90 and 95 percent of the electrical input is translated to heating water. This, of course, does not account for generation and transmission of said electricity, and as the average consumer is many miles from a generation plant, the system efficiency is much, much lower. In other words, bringing the fuel to the consumer (e.g. natural gas) and having them burn it on site achieves a much higher system efficiency.

Ultimately, an electric water heater is not much different from a toaster or space heater: You pass current through a resistive element, the element heats up, which in turn heats the water (or the bread, or the air).  So how do you make a system like this more efficient and less costly to operate?

Read the rest of this entry »

1 Comment

Hitchens on the Vatican and complicity in child rape

Without Chris Hitchens, the world of journalism would be cookie-cutter drudgery and darkness. If you happen not like what he says, do not accuse him of cowardly restraint or less-than-lively prose. From Slate:


The Great Catholic Cover-Up

On March 10, the chief exorcist of the Vatican, the Rev. Gabriele Amorth (who has held this demanding post for 25 years), was quoted as saying that “the Devil is at work inside the Vatican,” and that “when one speaks of ‘the smoke of Satan’ in the holy rooms, it is all true—including these latest stories of violence and pedophilia.” This can perhaps be taken as confirmation that something horrible has indeed been going on in the holy precincts, though most inquiries show it to have a perfectly good material explanation.

Concerning the most recent revelations about the steady complicity of the Vatican in the ongoing—indeed endless—scandal of child rape, a few days later a spokesman for the Holy See made a concession in the guise of a denial. It was clear, said the Rev. Federico Lombardi, that an attempt was being made “to find elements to involve the Holy Father personally in issues of abuse.” He stupidly went on to say that “those efforts have failed.”

He was wrong twice. In the first place, nobody has had to strive to find such evidence: It has surfaced, as it was bound to do. In the second place, this extension of the awful scandal to the topmost level of the Roman Catholic Church is a process that has only just begun. Yet it became in a sense inevitable when the College of Cardinals elected, as the vicar of Christ on Earth, the man chiefly responsible for the original cover-up. (One of the sanctified voters in that “election” was Cardinal Bernard Law of Boston, a man who had already found the jurisdiction of Massachusetts a bit too warm for his liking.)

There are two separate but related matters here: First, the individual responsibility of the pope in one instance of this moral nightmare and, second, his more general and institutional responsibility for the wider lawbreaking and for the shame and disgrace that goes with it. The first story is easily told, and it is not denied by anybody. In 1979, an 11-year-old German boy identified as Wilfried F. was taken on a vacation trip to the mountains by a priest. After that, he was administered alcohol, locked in his bedroom, stripped naked, and forced to suck the penis of his confessor. (Why do we limit ourselves to calling this sort of thing “abuse”?) The offending cleric was transferred from Essen to Munich for “therapy” by a decision of then-Archbishop Joseph Ratzinger, and assurances were given that he would no longer have children in his care. But it took no time for Ratzinger’s deputy, Vicar General Gerhard Gruber, to return him to “pastoral” work, where he soon enough resumed his career of sexual assault.

It is, of course, claimed, and it will no doubt later be partially un-claimed, that Ratzinger himself knew nothing of this second outrage. I quote, here, from the Rev. Thomas Doyle, a former employee of the Vatican Embassy in Washington and an early critic of the Catholic Church’s sloth in responding to child-rape allegations. “Nonsense,” he says. “Pope Benedict is a micromanager. He’s the old style. Anything like that would necessarily have been brought to his attention. Tell the vicar general to find a better line. What he’s trying to do, obviously, is protect the pope.”

This is common or garden stuff, very familiar to American and Australian and Irish Catholics whose children’s rape and torture, and the cover-up of same by the tactic of moving rapists and torturers from parish to parish, has been painstakingly and comprehensively exposed. It’s on a level with the recent belated admission by the pope’s brother, Monsignor Georg Ratzinger, that while he knew nothing about sexual assault at the choir school he ran between 1964 and 1994, now that he remembers it, he is sorry for his practice of slapping the boys around.

Very much more serious is the role of Joseph Ratzinger, before the church decided to make him supreme leader, in obstructing justice on a global scale. After his promotion to cardinal, he was put in charge of the so-called “Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith” (formerly known as the Inquisition). In 2001, Pope John Paul II placed this department in charge of the investigation of child rape and torture by Catholic priests. In May of that year, Ratzinger issued a confidential letter to every bishop. In it, he reminded them of the extreme gravity of a certain crime. But that crime was the reporting of the rape and torture. The accusations, intoned Ratzinger, were only treatable within the church’s own exclusive jurisdiction. Any sharing of the evidence with legal authorities or the press was utterly forbidden. Charges were to be investigated “in the most secretive way … restrained by a perpetual silence … and everyone … is to observe the strictest secret which is commonly regarded as a secret of the Holy Office … under the penalty of excommunication.” (My italics). Nobody has yet been excommunicated for the rape and torture of children, but exposing the offense could get you into serious trouble. And this is the church that warns us against moral relativism! (See, for more on this appalling document, two reports in the London Observer of April 24, 2005, by Jamie Doward.)

Not content with shielding its own priests from the law, Ratzinger’s office even wrote its own private statute of limitations. The church’s jurisdiction, claimed Ratzinger, “begins to run from the day when the minor has completed the 18th year of age” and then lasts for 10 more years. Daniel Shea, the attorney for two victims who sued Ratzinger and a church in Texas, correctly describes that latter stipulation as an obstruction of justice. “You can’t investigate a case if you never find out about it. If you can manage to keep it secret for 18 years plus 10, the priest will get away with it.”

The next item on this grisly docket will be the revival of the long-standing allegations against the Rev. Marcial Maciel, founder of the ultra-reactionary Legion of Christ, in which sexual assault seems to have been almost part of the liturgy. Senior ex-members of this secretive order found their complaints ignored and overridden by Ratzinger during the 1990s, if only because Father Maciel had been praised by the then-Pope John Paul II as an “efficacious guide to youth.” And now behold the harvest of this long campaign of obfuscation. The Roman Catholic Church is headed by a mediocre Bavarian bureaucrat once tasked with the concealment of the foulest iniquity, whose ineptitude in that job now shows him to us as a man personally and professionally responsible for enabling a filthy wave of crime. Ratzinger himself may be banal, but his whole career has the stench of evil—a clinging and systematic evil that is beyond the power of exorcism to dispel. What is needed is not medieval incantation but the application of justice—and speedily at that.

1 Comment

Today’s Fun Factoid

According to our college’s IT director, the server that handles faculty and staff email receives between 80,000 and 100,000 incoming emails per day. Of these, only 10 to 15 percent are good emails. The remaining 85 to 90 percent, perhaps as much as 90,000 incoming emails per day, is nothing but spam. I suspect that these percentages are not unique to our institution.

So, how much are we spending to build and maintain an infrastructure that delivers mostly unwanted garbage created by assholes who don’t pay a thing for its (ab)use?

I say it’s time we put a bounty on spammers and then create a reality TV show called “Spam Hunters”.

3 Comments

“the biggest, costliest, most complicated plumbing job in the history of the human race”

And it is.

I shit all over Florida every chance I get, but I really shouldn’t. I was there thanks to the sweetest girl I ever knew and her equally sweet parents. We didn’t agree on all manner of stuff politically, although we both felt that Lawton Chiles had been a good governor and that Jeb Bush was for shit. Now Charlie Crist, who started with much promise, is turning out to be yet another shill and a sell-out.

The Florida Everglades
, which I lived less than a mile from for a good stretch, constitute a genuine treasure. They are the sole reason I was glad to be a Floridian, unless you count living in Boca Raton and staring at big fake tits as a benefit, which I tend not to do. I’m a guy who likes his 30-degree days, his hills, and his absence of company, and there was none of that here. But there is no replacing this huge swath of land once it goes. It’s not a place you want to be, really. It’s ugly and buggy and not very hospitable, as my trips out there with C. and Soup taught me. But it’s also home to a huge array of species that could never live elsewhere.

The other day I wrongly reported the number of living panthers in Florida as 20 or so. The number is closer to 80-100, still dangerously low. One day I saw one of these animals, broken and starving and dazed, on the way home from work on the Sawgrass Expressway in northwestern Broward County, maybe in Tamarac. (It may have in fact been a cougar.) It was wandering in the breakdown lane. The whole thing was swallowed up by the fact that some shithead was driving about 50 up the median toward me at the time, with at least two police choppers and several newsies overhead. That’s South Florida for you. I called the Florida Dept. of Wildlife when I got home and never found out what happened. If that poor fucker was not run over I’d be amazed.

If any place allows more legal violations of natural life, I haven’t seen it. Florida actually has a law that allows for the plowing under of turtles for purposes of construction. Fortunately there exist voices of resistance to such shit, and Florida actually lost population in 2008, reversing a decades-long trend. Of course, here I sit bitching about this having moved to the place as an outsider with no discernible purpose for living there except to have a girl and experience hurricanes, in no particular order.

The Everglades are worth saving even if the rest of the state may not be.

Leave a Comment

A man can dream, can’t he?

The other night I had a dream that was short enough for me to recall the whole thing. I was in Boulder, Colorado visiting a friend who in real life hosts a couple of shows on a pirate radio station. I was with her while she was spinning her discs (or loading up YouTube videos, more likely). She decided to play “The Monster Mash” by Boris Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers. As soon as the song started, with nothing said, we each picked up a handy microphone and started singing along with he song. Our performance was broadcasted in concert with the recording. We were predictably awful. Our singing was for shit and we kept fucking up the lyrics. We didn’t care, though, we were laughing and jumping around and were really into it.

Maybe you had to be there to appreciate the enormity of this thrilling experience.

1 Comment

The New England High-School Indoor Track and Field Championships: a brief personal interlude

The meet was held Friday night at the Reggie Lewis Center (a work of wonder) in Roxbury, Mass. Among the better performers was a kid from Hamilton-Wenham named Jackson McDonald. He was seventh in the 55-meter hurdles in 7.78 seconds and second in the long jump in 22′ 6.75″. He has also high-jumped 6′ 6″. The previous Friday, at the Mass State Meet, he broke the meet record by jumping 23′ 3″. He then demolished the state record in the pentathlon last Wednesday. He’s narrowed his choice of colleges to U. Conn. and Boston U. He had previously looked at both UNH and UVM.

Noteworthy about this kid is that his mother and my mother are longtime great friends, having met about 30 years ago after winding up on the same team in an amateur women’s softball league. Renee is about a dozen years younger than my mom (she was in college wen they met) and used to take me skiing. In, I think, 1984, my parents, Renee, Renee’s husband Jared, and a few others were spending a weekend at Renee’s parents’ place in New Jersey. Very late at night, Jared was water-skiing with one or two of his buddies and was killed when he was cut by a boat propeller after falling. Everyone was devastated; Jared was a great guy. Renee eventually remarried and moved to Massachusetts, and she and my mom, though still in touch, were not as close. They have been through a lot together.

Anyway, it’s hard for me to imagine Renee having a kid who’s 18 years old. That’s older than I was when she used to let me take nips of peppermint schnapps on the chairlift at King Ridge.

My old high school, Concord, had two kids fare well in the distance events (one was sixth in the two-mile, another seventh in the 1000 meters).

Leave a Comment

My dad’s latest binge

He decided, for very unclear reasons, to splurge for this, an extremely detailed Lego rendition of the Millennium Falcon, the infamously ramshackle spaceship owned and operated by Han Solo in the original Star Wars trilogy. At nearly three feet long, it has over five thousand pieces, which for over a week covered most of my parents’ living-room floor. There are even little versions of Han, Chewbacca, Princess Leia, and someone I can’t identify, all of them boasting the familiar grinning yellow heads introduced in the Legoland era (c. 1980).

6 Comments

Letter to the Concord Monitor

I recently wrote a letter to the editor to my hometown newspaper in response to a letter from someone claiming that barring firearms from the State House, of all places where anyone might need to carry, constitutes a global threat to private gun ownership. These people see slippery slopes where there is level, dry ground–keeping guns out of the fucking legislative chambers hardly suggests that THE MAN IS COMING FOR YOUR SHOTGUNS AND HANDGUNS, and I outlined the reasons why. The replies were a mixture of polite disagreements and half-baked bullshit from my functionally illiterate coterie of haters. (I used to post in the comments section on this site, but quit when I could no longer tolerate having to confront how many stupid people there are in New Hampshire, let alone the nation at large.)

These paranoid rednecks are undoubtedly culled from the same gaggle of waterheads who will refuse to fill out their Census 2010 forms, citing bullshit concerns about personal privacy.

Here’s the text:
—————-
I am always amazed at ideas like those of Leigh MacNeil (“Threat to freedom,” Feb. 28), who is convinced that passing a law that prohibits bringing firearms into the state legislative chambers constitutes a step toward eliminating gun ownership altogether.

The list of places in which guns are already not permitted is long: schools, courthouses, airplanes, rock concerts, sporting events and so on. Yet this has not threatened anyone’s right to possess a firearm. Why would the passage of HB 1635 result in anything different?

MacNeil’s letter also included a familiar canard: the idea that a fully armed citizenry would result in less violent crime. Not only is there no evidence for this (and none could be collected without a real-life “experiment”), but it makes no sense in light of the demonstrable ways of the world.

Guns are more widely available in the U.S. than in European countries, and this correlates neatly with a higher level of gun-related violence. That people expect that this trend would reverse itself with even higher levels of gun ownership defies logic. (The foregoing ignores the fact that a fully armed citizenry is already a legal possibility; some simply choose not to carry.)

I am not anti-gun ownership, by the way. But I do find the idea of people devoid of basic reasoning powers packing heat a little distressing.

KEVIN BECK

Concord

2 Comments

On farts

I occurs to me that having been a resident of planet Earth for nearly 15,000 days, I have probably heard a least that many farts if my own are included, and that’s a conservative estimate. Nevertheless, there is no fatigue factor when it comes to the amusement farts offer. I would grin just as widely at the millionth audible fart I might hear as I would at the first.

Recently there was a thread on a message board I frequent concerning all things flatulence. Actually, “there was a thread” is duplicitous since I started it myself. In this thread, which grew to a surprising length, was mention of sharting, shitticles, and other terms you may, much to your detriment, be unfamiliar with.

The loudest fart I ever heard was expelled from the arse of a girlfriend, circa early 2006. The set-up was the two of us visiting her parents and working on computers two rooms apart. When I heard an eruption reminiscent of a howitzer shell, I walked toward the living room and peeked around the corner with a bland expression. The offending party was laughing so hard she was almost crying. She was a notorious farter, and this time the perfect storm of short shorts, a hardwood chair, and a high-fiber diet resulted in a cataclysmic blast that probably threatened the structural integrity of the chair, if not the whole house. (She used to be stricken with farthood on runs, something she didn’t like. When this happened on a particularly gassy morning run, I gritted my teeth, tensed up, and farted audibly in her presence for the first and only time of our almost-three-year relationship. She expressed surprise and made it clear she appreciated the display of empathy.)

The loudest burst of flatulence I ever heard in a public setting was perpetrated about 20 years ago by one of my friends in the Bailey-Howe Library on the campus of the University of Vermont. I was studying at a table that was part of a very long row of such tables, and it was pretty crowded. My friend, who I was not expecting to see because I knew he was busy getting drunk all day, showed up, sat down across from me, and immediately let loose with a boom of uncommon timbre and resonance. Then he started laughing and buried his head in his arms.

I actually jumped. The girl one table away did an impressive job of pretending not to notice, but there were people eight or nine tables away staring our way to see who the perp was. For all I know the bastards thought it was me. Shortly after that we both left, no for nothing.

If you want to have all sorts of fun in this realm, try sleeping on an air mattress. Farts on a well-inflated air mattress are given an extraordinary volume boost, and you’ll feel as powerful as Thor himself.

Then again, it’s best to be careful with your arse and what it’s holding at bay lest you end up like this poor S.O.B.

Not his lucky day.

Leave a Comment

The one-two punch in the Central Mass Striders

CMS is the largest running club in New England. I’ve been a member for 13 years and for a few of those was the newsletter editor, putting me in close touch with the club’s workings from top to bottom.

In general, the men’s team, once a juggernaut of real elites and now merely quite successful on the New England Grand Prix road-race circuit, has been a resource hog, with the women’s team given the short shrift in terms of publicity and general attention. Happily, that’s changing.

In December, homegrown chick (the club is based in Worcester, New England’s second-most populous city) Kim Duclos ran 2:38:21 at the Rocket City Marathon in Alabama, shattering an already fast personal record by six minutes. Had the race taken place in 2010, she would have made the “A’ qualifying standard for the Olympic Marathon Trials in 2012. If memory serves, she was the 11th-fastest American woman in 2009. She’s now prepping for the Los Angeles Marathon on March 21.

Oddly, she now longer has the fastest marathon time in her own club. Two weekends ago, Heidi Westerling, who is coached by longtime CMS racing-team member and masters stalwart Larry Sayers, left the Boston Athletic Association to join CMS. I remember watching Heidi run as a high-schooler about ten years ago, when she was running for Fall Mountain High School and I was coaching at Bishop Brady, like FMHS a Class I New Hampshire school. She was good but not great, but most of all she was obviously intense. That mindset has carried her to an improbable regimen of 200-mile weeks and a personal best of 2:35:02, set when she won the Vermont City Marathon last May.

It’s unusual to have two women in all of New England break 2:40 in a non-Olympic calendar year. It’s outrageous to have two of them be members of the same local-yokel, non-training-camp club.

Welcome, Heidi.

Leave a Comment

The genetics of alcohol tolerance

If you expect this to be a genuine scientific treatise of the topic, abandon that idea. I’m writing this on a Monday night from a recently Internet-free apartment and, absent anything besides memories of P-450 cytochrome oxidase and enzyme induction in general, will choose anecdotes over physiology, and post this in the morning from Mom and Dad’s.

A related phenomenon, one familiar to me, is the correlation between running performance and training. You might see two kids new to running go out and run the same times for five kilometers on no training. Yet as both undergo a similar regimen, one improves drastically while the other improves more modestly. The rationale is differences in enzyme induction, the this case the ones within mitochondria responsible for oxygen processing and utilization. Some people are wondrously capable of improving their performances on account of rapidly increasing improvements of the working muscles in terms of converting the O2 delivered to moving faster. Others are more biologically staid and improve to “average” status.

The liver is the site of many, many enzymes responsible for breaking down drugs into inert substances. It’s no secret that some people forever become drunk after part of a six-pack while others spiral down a dark a path toward needing, and wanting, ludicrous amounts of booze in order to become as wrecked as they feel they need to be. Psychological factors play a huge role in this.

Earlier today I was talking to a woman friend of mine who was once famous for her alcohol consumption, at leas withing the circles in which she travels. As she describes it, virtually all of her first- and second-degree relatives are unabashed drunks whose chief pursuits are fighting, fostering resentments, and in general committing themselves to chaos and chemical fugues. She describes on occasion a number of years ago in which she drank exactly 26 beers a day for four days in a row. This is something that would put most of of the most committed 200-pound frat boys under the table in short order. She weighs maybe 125 pounds.

I don’t know whether I ever displayed this kind of manic endurance, but I did her one better one one ludicrous day in 2003. Like most far-gone drinkers. I seemed to care far more about the opinions of store clerks than about my family, friends, and general livelihood. I’d been on a month-long, single-minded rampage that I fully expected (and hoped) would terminate in a jump off a bridge on the Blue Ridge Parkway that included a 200-foot drop onto the rocky banks of the Roanoke River.

I woke up one morning after a serious day of drinking a about 6 a.m. The convenience store I favored for my intoxicating purchases was open 24 hours a day, so I headed there without pause except to put on shoes. I bought a 12-pack of some brand of shitty beer and headed home. Bu 8:30 or so it was all gone.

I knew that the cashier shifts at this store were 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., 3 p.m. to 11 p.m., and 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. I was therefore aware that if I went back for another 12-pack I’d be facing a different cashier than the one I had dealt with earlier that morning. So I did. And by mid-afternoon I had killed that batch of suds, too.

5 p.m. rolled around and I decided I was still disgustingly sober despite pissing a pint or more about every 20 minutes. So I made my third trip of the day to this Texaco station and secured yet another 12-pack. This one was history by 8 p.m. or so.

At this point I had what passes as a philosophical moment. A 138-pound person knocking back 36 12-ounce beers in the course of the daylight of a summer day is not anywhere close to the median in terms of such pursuits. I left the apartment, walked (mostly in a straight line) to a beautiful cemetery nearby, and looked over the headstones at the prominence of the equally elegant peak known as Stewart Knob. And I thought (and maybe said), “there’s something really fucking wrong with all of this.”

Most human beings would be in a state of surgical anesthesia at whatever blood-alcohol level I “boasted” that day. I takes the perfect storm of genetically granted tolerance and personality problems to even try. And I woke up the next day and drank some more. Someone without the right genetics could never reach this kind of absurd level of ethanol tolerance no matter how much he or she “trained.” There would be puking, passing out, and maybe alcohol poisoning, but no 36-beer holiday.

There’s no lesson here other than the fact that it takes a special combination of qualities to be a genuine addict. And being a slave to chemicals sucks. I’m not proud of any of what I’ve recounted here and wish I’d been more genetically talented at something else.

Leave a Comment

Sticky Snow

Lots of people tend to think of snow as some amorphous blob, kind of like sand that melts. It comes down, it piles up, it blows about, it lays around. But under the right conditions snow can behave in odd ways.

Here are some photos of snow behaving oddly at our house recently. First, we have snow that has decided to stick upside down to some PVC pipe:

Upside down snow

The pipe is a frame used to hold a bird net for blueberry bushes. Not to be outdone, we find snow behaving like a snake and undulating along the handrail of our deck:

Snakey snow

And finally, we have snow that has decided to behave like a torn sheet of fabric, and peels itself off of a car cover:

Fabric snow

I like the twisting effect particularly.

Leave a Comment

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.