Sunday Essay: "Penn Jillette Got me in Trouble with my Girlfriend"

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"Penn Jillette Got me in Trouble with my Girlfriend"

The better half of my existence wouldn’t talk to me for two days. Now, I’d wager that some of you would look at that as a blessing depending upon your status and tolerances of the one to whom you are…devoted. In my case, it wasn’t very pleasant.

I, mostly, blame Penn Fraser Jillette, and his silent little buddy, Teller. I suppose I am partially responsible as well for being so impressionable. Although I reserve the right to plead 'ignorance.'

I have this book that Jillette wrote, probably in an afternoon of boredom. It’s entitled “Penn and Teller's How to Play with Your Food.”


It might not shock you to know that there is an entire section giving wonderful insight on the versatility of those little white coffee creamer containers. Simply put, I was drawn in like bum to a Dunkin’ Donuts’ dumpster on the day they clean the shelves.

It seems you can do a relatively simple trick that…well…will scare the living crap out of anyone unfortunate enough to be in front of you at the time. I’m not going to give you a disclaimer in advance of describing the trick for good reason. If you are daft enough to injure yourself trying it out, then I have no sympathy for you. In fact, I’ll stand right along side the ghost of Charles Darwin pointing and laughing at your personal natural selection moment.

Here’s what you do:

1. Hold a coffee creamer concealed in your left hand. Make a fist and place it in front of your eye (I’ll let you choose which one…not important).

2. With your right hand, take a fork and move it up to the pinky end of your left fist.

3. Gradually push it in through your curled fingers until it punctures the paper lid to the coffee creamer.

WahhhhhLahhhhh…abracadabra ala Kazam the trick, she is done...you have punctured your bloody eyeball!! The vitreous fluid, aqueous humor, and various other eyeball related goop is now spilling out over your fist. Punctuate the occurrence with a S-C-R-E-A-M!!!

It is my experience that the scream will be in duet…so don’t be an amateur and immediately show your victim that it was a sham. Channel that time you had to spend two hours on the women's shoe floor at Macy's. Feel the pain of purchasing women's hygene products at the grocery store, remember that night you wanted to catch the Duke/NC game and the Lifetime channel was doing one of the Godforsaken "Thirtysomething" marathons. Play it…sell it…have fun with it.

THEN RUN, FORREST...RUN!!!!!!

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Previous "Sunday Essays":


The Perfect Murder
The Great Pierre Bruneseau
Our Ancestors Ate Dirt
Bastardizing Chivalry
On my way to Obscurity
I'm Adopting!!!
I Need a Muse
Einstein’s Brain Takes a Vacation…

Sunday Essay: "Einstein’s Brain Takes a Vacation…"

"Einstein’s Brain Takes a Vacation…"

Albert Einstein was a genius. You know that, of course. Where ever he went, it was a good bet that he was the smartest guy in the room. He passed away in 1955 after suffering chest pains and, ultimately, a burst aortic aneurysm. That day in April began a rather macabre journey of the man’s brain. Albert Einstein, known for traveling too and fore in deliverance of endless lectures to the academia of the world, was not done traveling…even in his death.

National Public Radio reported in 2005 that Einstein’s brain was sectioned into over 200 blocks, embedded in celloidin, and then stored in formalin. Apparently, all this was done without the permission of the family. In fact, it has been reported that Einstein left specific instructions on how to dispose of his body. He had specifically stated that his remains were to be cremated and scattered in secret to discourage idolaters. For those of you as ignorant as I, an idolater is one who blindly or excessively admires or adores another.

In addition, the doctor who removed Einstein’s brain also removed his eyeballs and delivered them to Henry Abrams, Einstein’s eye doctor. Apparently, to this day, they are sitting in a safe deposit box somewhere in New York City.

Per the New York post in July of 2008:

Abrams, 96, of the Jersey Shore, placed the peepers in a safety deposit box, whose location is known only by him and his wife.

"When you look into his eyes, you're looking into the beauties and mysteries of the world," Abrams once said. "They are clear as crystal; they seem to have such depth."

Gosh…what was the definition of “idolater” again?

The doctor, Thomas Harvey, who removed Einstein’s brain (and eyeballs), was discharged from Princeton Hospital because he wouldn’t turn over the goods. He left, and took that famous piece of Einstein with him. The first stop was Philadelphia, where the remains were sectioned as mentioned above. Subsequently, two of the sections were given out to study, while the remainder sat in a jar parked in Harvey’s basement. Then, with the brain in tote, the journey began in earnest.

First…to Wichita, KS…then to Weston, MO…onto Lawrence, KS…then back to Princeton. All the while, Einstein’s brain was along for the ride…or pieces of it I suppose.

In a cross country trek with a reporter along for the story, Harvey threw Einstein’s brain in the trunk of a Buick Skylark and headed to California. Believe it or not, there is a book entitled, “Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein's Brain" (Hardcover)by Michael Paterniti (Author)

He, eventually, returned and placed the brain in the hands of the pathology lab of Princeton Hospital where the trek had begun 40 years prior. That appears to be where it can be found today.

What’s my interest…you ask? (shrugs) I just found it amusing. Plus, I picked up a copy of “Driving Mr. Albert,” recently, and found it absolutely hilarious. If you have the chance, and you are looking for a quirky bit of reading…don’t pass it up.

If I had only known, I would have been a locksmith.

---Albert Einstein


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Previous "Sunday Essays":


The Perfect Murder
The Great Pierre Bruneseau
Our Ancestors Ate Dirt
Bastardizing Chivalry
On my way to Obscurity
I'm Adopting!!!
I Need a Muse

Sunday Essay: "I need a muse..."

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"I Need a Muse"


In speaking with a long time friend, Ingrid, the other day I volunteered that I could use a muse. I don't know where the thought came from. It might have had something to do with some earlier adult beverages.

Regardless, it was windy. There was some sort of humming heating unit just across the pavement. And, the person I refer to as a "long time friend" knows me well enough not to, particularly, pay attention to everything I say.

That's the rationalization I used to explain why Ingrid asked, "why in name of all that is Holy would you want those filthy birds on your property?"

Huh?

Ahhhh...she thought I said E-mus. "I need emus."

I tried to explain that I was referring to a "muse." The problem complicated because Ingrid had never heard the term before. I suppose that makes some bit of sense since the concept of a muse was a rather archaic Greek technique. The word comes to us from the Greek "Mousa" or the Latin "Musa." Early poets and literary figures would have their own special guiding genius, or muse. Some offered their "masters" a bit more than just sound words. Personally, I believe these folks to be the original "yes 'men'" in a sense.

I tried to explain this to her. However, Ingrid has a rather strong spirit with many feminist tendencies that don't smile on any form of subservience. Finally I just gave up and flipped up my wrist with a resigning "se la vie,"...at which point my "long time friend" responded with, "No I can wait until I get home..."

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Previous "Sunday Essays":

The Perfect Murder
The Great Pierre Bruneseau
Our Ancestors Ate Dirt
Bastardizing Chivalry
On my way to Obscurity
I'm Adopting!!!

Sunday Essay: "I'm Adopting!!!"

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"I'M ADOPTING !!!"

I’m excited.

I just took the plunge, hastily jumping headfirst into the world of adoption. Sure, it’s an immense move. The anxiety is killing me. The financial cost was significant.

However, how can you put a price on happiness?

I’m not sure about the arrival date yet. The service is an internationally established organization with a domestic headquarters on the east side of Manhattan. They don’t, necessarily, have a stellar reputation for reliability. Though, my fingers are crossed in anticipation.

I roped off the entire south side of my property for the endeavor. Of course, I’ll probably have to comply with the myriad consultants offered by the adoption service. So, nothing is etched in stone. After all, they’ve done this sort of thing before. Not me, I’m new to this adoption thing. Just this afternoon I started pricing front end loader rentals. Yes, there’s magic in the air on my home front. First the adoption, and then my childhood fantasy of operating an overgrown Tonka™ toy. This is going to be great.

Confused? It’s not surprising. I didn’t adopt a child. No, I adopted a minefield.

Really. The service offered a number of different adoption plans. I had the opportunity to share with other adoptive parents. But, I wanted one to call my very own. A minefield needs stability in its life. All that uprooting and down setting can’t be good in these formative years. So, I shelled out the entire $25,000 after filling out the online application. Presto! The screen alerted me that my adoption had been processed effectively, and my payment had been received. It took me a couple minutes to calm down after I failed to grab a screen capture. I was, already, over on Google checking for heavy equipment rentals by the time I realized that the approval screen is probably the closest thing I’ll get to a birth certificate.

I haven’t received word on the arrival date yet. She’s coming from Matutuine in the Maputo District of Mozambique.

I’m not too sure how she will get along with Keisha, my Kuvasz. Keisha had laid claim to that portion of my yard, at least, a half a dozen times. We’ll see.

Once we get settled I’m going to explore further into other adoptions, possibly. I understand there are a large number of misplaced water sheds out there in the brutal world. I’m told that there are beaches that are in desperate need of adoption as well. Actually, it’s pretty unsettling when you open your eyes and see all those alone in the world looking for a good home. Adoptions of Manatees, bats, classrooms, pilots, wheat fields, greyhounds, racehorses, birds, POW’s, bison, birds, wolves, streams, highways etc.

If I adopt a beach, highway, water shed, stream, and wheat field over the next five years I should be pretty self-sufficient when all is said and done. Although, I’m considering going for the bulk set. I may just adopt a State. I have it narrowed down to California or Florida. Perhaps that’s a bit premature. For now, I’m just looking forward to getting my new arrival situated.

Wish me luck...
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Previous "Sunday Essays":

The Perfect Murder
The Great Pierre Bruneseau
Our Ancestors Ate Dirt
Bastardizing Chivalry
On my way to Obscurity

Sunday Essay: "On my way to Obscurity..."

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"On my way to Obscurity"


Each year, the Nobel Prize committee divvies out awards to those that have excelled in a specific field. Economics, for example, was featured in Ron Howard’s version of A Beautiful Mind and based on Sylvia Nasar’s biography of John F. Nash Jr.

Nash was honored with the Nobel in Economics for his “Game Theory” concept that was, incidentally, initiated in his doctoral work some forty years before the 1994 Nobel Prize was presented to him.

I have a theory, also. I call it the “Corn Theory.”

The concept is simple. Too much of one of your favorite things can lead to a decrease in your appreciation for the former. In other words, if you eat too much corn, your gluttony overtakes your enjoyment and that, one time, favorite is compromised. It’s a sound theory. I’ve experimented with chocolate brownies, Cherry Garcia Ice Cream, and Czech Bud Var Pilsner.

So, I have the theory. However, the Nobel folks aren’t likely to shine the light on me unless I can show a practical application with everyday innovative use.

At first, I thought about applying my theory to the entertainment industry. However, I made the capacious mistake of taking Carrot Top as my subject of study and application. It, thoroughly, skewed my testing results, because, eventually, I discovered that no one ever liked him. It did enlighten me to the fact that I needed to factor the uncanny influence of agents and publicists into the fray.


But wait; a revelation.

Publicists, agents, advertising agencies, lobbyists, pundits, and the like are obstacles to the individual. They cloud the issue on our true opinions. Or, rather, they shape our ability to have all the pieces from which to draw that opinion.

Crap, I’m getting too deep, and I’m boring myself to tears. Does Nobel like boring?

Think of it this way. Do you really think a Carnie worker gets a kick out of riding the Ferris wheel? All that spinning after downing a forty ouncer mixed with the hepatitis medication can ruin the experience I suppose. However, the fact remains that they see those spinning conglomerates of aluminum and chewing gum every day.

The constant exposure lessens the pleasure.

Hmmm…perhaps my theory applies to marriage.

A constant exposure to upraised or down set toilet seats, mothers’-in-law who keep locating your new address, unremitting requests to fix the sink, and minivans influence what you, one time, thought to be your favorite “thing” in the whole world. Some people compensate by obtaining other favorite “things.” This, generally, leads to your first favorite thing walking away with 50% of your overall favorite things. You’re left with a query of how you could, possibility, have considered her a favorite in the first place.

I have a new theory. It's called the "Deceptive Patio Door Theory." You have all seen it presented in its unmitigated glory. An unsuspecting individual walks right into the nearly invisible glass creating untold embarrassment for the subject and unbridled enjoyment to the rest of us.

That never gets old.

Sunday essay: "Our Ancestors Ate Dirt"

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"OUR ANCESTORS ATE DIRT"


I'm on the fence.

While I have significant respect for our ancestors, I'm beginning to think they might have been a little touched. Our generation has the distinction of inventions and enhancements related to computers, televisions, sporting equipment and the like. Our ancestors had a much more down to earth search to achieve innovation.

Somewhere along the way, in the very basic sense of the word, our ancestors determined various types of items could be subjected to oral consumption. In other words, they set the trend on what we eat. How they came up with some of this stuff can only suggest that a considerable number of inhabitants of our previous centuries were traipsing around sticking things in their mouths at every opportunity. What’s worse is that most of these culinary treasures first required a prerequisite digging around in the dirt. Perhaps it was instinctual.

If you have a toddler at home, try this little experiment. Place the little dickens in the middle of a freshly prepared garden patch. I’ll wager you have to wait all of two minutes before hand goes to a wad of topsoil, and rebounds right up to the mouth for a little sample. It’s instinctual, and our ancient ancestors were more in touch with those internal impulses. Simply put, the earlier the date, the more likely they were to eat dirt.

Take marshmallows as an example. Someone in ancient Egypt had the revelation to dig up the root of a Marsh Mallow bush. Now, these bushes grew to about six feet tall and could only be located in the salt marshes where salt water and fresh water met. They weren’t something you’d stumble across while going for a walk. What I’d like to know is who was the first one to stick it in his mouth. If it were up to Freud, he would deduce that a majority of man’s greatest culinary discoveries were motivated by an oral fixation. Then again, Freud probably giggled like a school girl every time he saw a train enter a mountain tunnel.

Don’t misinterpret me here. I think it’s great that Egypt had their dirt eaters. Marsh Mallow root was used in Ancient Greece as a medicine for such things as sore throats, toothaches and more. Apparently, the original medicine was added to a sugar mixture, and the eventual transformation is what want-to-be pyromaniacs stick in campfires present day.

Root Beer is another one of those curious discoveries. Today, the name is so common place that few ponder the fact that genuine root beer, actually, involved a whole mess of stuff that you and I would spend most of our Saturday afternoon raking off our pristine lawns.

Charles Hires’ parents likely had to resort to tying the poor kid’s hands behind his back when he was a scrapper. For in his adulthood he’d stick anything in his mouth. The Hires version of “root beer” evolved from an herbal tea he used to brew in the mid 1800’s. He took his inspiration from “small beers” developed in colonial times. Such things as allspice, birch bark, coriander, juniper, ginger, wintergreen, hops, burdock root, dandelion root, spikenard, pipsissewa, guaiacum chips, sarsaparilla, spicewood, wild cherry bark, yellow dock, prickly ash bark, sassafras root*, vanilla beans, hops, dog grass, molasses and licorice fit the bill. My dog eats grass periodically. I don’t see her getting a patent application anytime soon, however.

There are plenty of interesting examples of our ancestors eating dirt. The origins are steeped in medicinal qualities, spiritual enlightenment, vitality, and just plain curiosity. I'm sure more than a few were the result of a dare. While a number of these risk takers were pioneers in a multitude of evolved products that we eat today, one has to contemplate the thought of the first person who stuck it in his mouth.

There aren’t a lot of noteworthy new culinary delights discovered in present times. You might think that’s because most of the basic finds occurred many years in the past. I tend to think that Mothers are to blame. In fact, there is a simple phrase that has, no doubt, stunted the entire food discovery movement altogether. There’s nothing really documenting the exact date that the phrase was first instituted. However, I’ll go out on a limb and hypothesize that somewhere in the early twentieth century someone’s maternal instincts overcame a child’s internal impulses with the, now, coined phrase….

“Don’t stick that in your mouth…you have no idea where that’s been.”

Now, about that five second rule…

Sunday Essay: "The Great Pierre Bruneseau"

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

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"The Great Pierre Bruneseau"

Some of the world’s most accomplished explorers never really received the acclaim that they deserved. Despite the intricate mapping and intense dedication to their exploratory task, you wouldn’t know their undertakings. You wouldn’t even know their names.

Such is the case with Pierre Bruneseau.

Bruneseau had an astonishing gift for direction. His ability to transfer the experience to mapping paper was unprecedented. His efforts were pieced together under the most adversarial of circumstances. Yet, he succeeded in his endeavor. He achieved his arduous charge against obstacles that would have made the most seasoned peers cringe in aversion.

His task was a land that had been known for nearly 400 years. However, no one had risen to the challenge of making it more familiar. Napoleon, a man basked in self-importance, was truly impressed that Bruneseau had the persistence and fortitude to, not only, take on the endeavor, but complete it with such brilliance. The area explored was considerably more ample in comparison to, say, Rhode Island. That miniscule State is about 40 miles long and 30 miles wide. Bruneseau covered nearly 1,300 miles in his intricate set of maps. It was a marvel. Bruneseau was a phenomenon. And, still, you have never heard of him.

Pierre Bruneseau had a very good friend who was well known at the time. His friend is described for posterity as a genius of sorts. He had a true gift for capturing the moment on paper. He applied his art intertwined in the steep history of his homeland. His accomplishments are lauded in the present as he was in the past if not more so. I could tell you his name and you would know it in a second. You can see the influence of his greatest accomplishments in some of the largest (and smallest) cities all over the world. I know you’ve seen his work in one form or another. You might not have read anything by this writer, but I hope you do some day. He was quite wonderful.

The friend of Pierre Bruneseau was a writer, a novelist, a poet, a dramatist and one of the best French Romantic authors of all time. His works include Hernani, Marion de Lorme, and The King Takes his Amusement. You might not know any of those. Perhaps you have read Han of Iceland, or maybe Bug Jargal.

No?

Well, have you ever had the opportunity to witness a little show called Les Miserables?

Per chance, have you had the pleasure of turning the pages of The Hunchback of Notre Dame?

If so, then you know this author. You know Victor Marie Hugo. More importantly, you are familiar with one of Pierre Bruneseau’s close friends. In fact, provided that you are familiar with Les Miserables, you have intimate knowledge of Pierre Bruneseau’s most extraordinary accomplishment for it is soundly and profoundly represented within that superb tale.

Hugo, even, described his friend's undiscovered land as "tortuous, fissured,...interrupted by quagmires, rising and falling illogically, fetid, savage, wild."

Hugo had the gift of tempting your imagination in the way he brings poignant scene after poignant scene from Les Miserables to life with extraordinary detail. The rebels on the barricade fighting against all odds had you there in the rubble. The description of Javert invokes memories of comparable contempt. The setting of, protagonist, Jean Valjean stumbling through the underground of Paris with a wounded rebel draped over his shoulder transfers the pain.

It, also, transfers something else.

Hugo provided incredible detail of the underground sewers of Paris known as the cloaca. Pierre Bruneseau was, no doubt, his consultant in that regard. For you see, Pierre Bruneseau knew those sewers better than most Parisians knew the streets above. He mapped them for posterity. He mapped all 1,300 miles of those labyrinths. Upon completion of this voluminous task in 1812, he was lauded all throughout France as "The Christopher Columbus of the cloaca."

Sometimes the most undiscovered of all lands is right under our feet.

Sunday Essay: "The Perfect Murder"

(Every Sunday will include a little essay that is off the beaten track a bit. It's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to invoke any deep thinking. It's just for fun...and more than a few will be a bit warped. Just like the other six days entries.)

(reprint from a previous blog that I let fade away to obscurity...which is reduntant in that no one read it in the first place...)

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"THE PERFECT MURDER"

It occurs to me that I have finally pieced together the perfect murder.

Undeniably, and without the necessity of modesty, I can assure you that it is, not only fool proof, but a work of absolute simplicity. Location is not important. Witnesses are not an issue. The act could be photographed, videotaped, and blasted across the international airwaves without scrutiny, and a conviction would be virtually impossible. The unmistakable recognition of the assailant would mean nothing of consequence.

A knife, an ice pick, a gun, a baseball bat, poison, it doesn’t matter the tool. The subway, a busy city street, the board room, in the middle of the convocation of the Policeman’s Benevolent Ball; it doesn’t matter where. A conviction of murder in any degree would not be considered. It could not.

Ahhhh….but the question of “who” is key. The murderer must be of a certain and specific pedigree. “Who” is the plan, the act, and the success all wrapped up in a neat little package. “Who” is everything.

I can guarantee you that the perpetrator of the murder would not, even, be alone when he plunged the knife, pulled the trigger or leveled the club. He would, more than likely, be arms length from a witness who could identify him with unimaginable clarity. That witness would have no difficulty convincing the authorities as to the identity of the culprit. More importantly, the accused would be taken into custody, almost, immediately. The suspect could hold a press conference and state with unequivocal confidence that, yes, he committed the murder. And yet, there is nothing that the police could do.

How?

Simple...Conjoined twins.

Provided the conjoined twins share a common and needed body organ that prevents surgical separation, there is no way to incarcerate one of the twins without infringing on the rights of the other. So you see, the perfect murder has nothing to do with the planning or the act. It has, everything to do with the defense and the actor.