Dude, I'll Trade You a Carl Yastremski for Your Last Beggin' Strip

Today and Sunday are days that remind me of childhood in all of its glory. Currently, we are in the midst of International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. One might think that such a holiday were for the dogs. One would be right. After all, dogs, above all living creatures, likely appreciate dog biscuits. However, do they need one day to commemorate that appreciation? Being an amateur scientist, I have been closely observing my dog today. He wags his tail just as actively today as any other when he is offered a treat. He seems to appreciate his biscuits as much today as any other.

Perhaps we should be the species appreciating dog biscuits, after all.  Think about what they allow us to do. Without the biscuit, it would be just that much more difficult to train our dogs to do many of the things that we come to expect them to do. It would be hard to get them to sit. It would be hard to get them to shake. It would be impossible to get them to balance a biscuit on their snouts if we had no biscuits.  In the place of biscuits, we might be forced to offer our dogs small bird carcasses or pieces of rabbit as rewards, and that would just be gross. Who wants to keep a basket of bloody birds and rabbits atop their fridge?

Another segment of the human population appreciates dog biscuits, also. If one were to spend enough time on the Snopes.com message board, one would get the impression that a surprising number of people seem totally cool with eating biscuits and dog food (mostly the wet kind, I infer). Granted this is a segment of the population that spends time posting to the Snopes.com message board to begin with, so they are most likely not a representative segment (one can only hope), but many of them seem almost proud of their predilection for narfing Milk Bones. Hey, man, whatever floats your boat, I suppose.

Regardless of whether or not this is a representative sample of humanity or not, I did mention that the holiday they most admire puts me in mind of my own childhood. The reason being, a friend of mine had a habit of nibbling on his dog’s treats, too. I don’t remember what the brand was, but they came in different colors and shapes that I think were representative of what they were supposed to taste like. The yellow triangles, for instance, were supposed to taste like cheese. If I recall, his reports indicated that there really was little, if any, flavor in them, regardless of the color or shape. I almost wish I still kept in contact with the dude to see if he still likes snacking on bacon-flavored crunchies.

This dog biscuit-eater was also one of the guys I used to spend hours with as a kid trading baseball cards. He used to have a Pabst Blue Ribbon case full of his cards. He was one of the guys who would order a whole set from Topps or Fleer or whatever company was printing cards. I only bought them by the pack, so my collection was not as grand as his, but we spent the bulk of many a summer day drinking lemonade and trading an Al Bumbry for an Oscar Gamble and a Rick Manning. Of course, he’d have to run into the kitchen every now and again to snatch a cheesy puppy bite, but that was no matter. 

That other childhood memory is brought to the front of my mind on account of Sunday’s observation of National Trading Card Day. It is understandable that this is merely a national observance and not an international day. Most likely, the children of France and Vietnam do not spend their early days exchanging pieces of cardboard with pictures of sports heroes on them, but since the concept of the trading card has proliferated, I can envision a future with not only an International Trading Card Day, but also an intergalactic observance, as well. Even in my own trading card trafficking, I watched as the industry moved out of its baseball-centric origins to include football and hockey, and then into movies like Star Wars, Jaws, Grease, and all of the sequels for these films. (Yes, there were Grease 2 trading cards…not that I bought any of them.) Nowadays, I imagine they have trading cards for all manner of thing: WWE, Legos, American Idol. In truth, however, all of this is speculation. It is entirely possible that the trading card industry is dying and being almost single-handedly propped up my forty year old men with plastic-cased cardboard photos of Odibe McDowell in a color-coded three ring notebook.

Whether the trading card industry is alive and well or in the midst of death throes, and whether you appreciate dog biscuits as a consumer or a distributor, I hope this last weekend in February brings you child-like joy. 

How Thinking Leads to Short Bread

“Hop inside while you give it a think.”

--George “Baby Face” Nelson, O Brother Where Art Thou?

Without taking a particular stand on the issue, I report that several states, my current home state included, is currently attempting to pass laws that would prevent Federal gun laws that might be passed from applying in that state. The waste of time in drafting such laws really frustrates me. The issue itself notwithstanding, it appears that these several states that are attempting to draft these laws have forgotten that we fought a Civil War back a hundred and fifty years ago over just these sorts of issues. It has been settled, I thought.

Of course, the question was already settled when the War Between the States was waged. After all, Article II and III of the Constitution declare the supremacy of Federal law and reject the nullification of Federal law by the states, respectively. How on earth anyone legitimately expects that these state laws would pass the Constitutionality test is beyond me, but, like the wife likes to say, you don’t know if you don’t ask. In most cases, I think she’s right.

As a matter of fact, just today I was on the phone with a sales person who was tallying up a bill for me. She quoted me the shipping charge for my order, and I said, “Okay…unless you want to waive that for me.” I don’t usually do that, but, today, I was feeling feisty, I guess. She didn’t waive the fee, but she took off half the cost. It never would have happened had I not thought to ask. Lesson learned.

Today’s feistiness could be the result of the weather system that is passing through. The Weather Channel, in one of the more annoying television weather-related ideas of the last half-dozen years, has decided to name winter storms. Yet again, the nation’s East Coast bias shows, as New England got Winter Storm Nemo a few weeks ago, but we in the Plains get Winter Storm Q. Really. One letter? It’s bad enough TWC is attempting to label storms as some kind of warped marketing ploy, but, if they are going to stoop so low, they might at least stoop low enough to come up with more than one consecutive actual name. They don’t have to slight us flatlanders by laying us with a one-letter storm. At least stick with the cute animation-name theme started with Nemo and give us Winter Storm Q-bert. If they aren’t even going to try, then they ought to just stop. Also, if they are going to be selling t-shirts, I hope they offer at least one long sleeve design. It is February, after all. I think the apparel should match the season.

Whether I will get a t-shirt out of the deal or not, the future is perhaps going to bring us some snow. We haven’t had much out here. Two storms that left about five inches each, a few dustings and squalls, the stray flurry. Winter or not, the drought continues. And a foot or so of snow (should we even get this much) won’t fix much. Don’t mistake me, however, we will take it; I’d prefer a couple of inches of steady rain, followed by a couple more, spaced out enough to prevent flooding. As I ponder the way nature often works out here, in full on feast or famine mode, I suspect I will see a cloud of locusts followed closely by enough rain to put us all in river mud for a month or two as soon as the season breaks. Then again, the only thing you can predict about nature is it’s unwavering unpredictability. I might just get eaten by a mountain lion walking to the grocery store. However, I think not.

Be it a bear or a mountain lion I see on my way to the mercantile, it will more likely be a house cat or a dog in this neck of the woods since the wildest we get around here is a sociopathic squirrel or a rabbit with delusions of grandeur. I do sometimes see a red-tailed hawk in the neighborhood as I drive to work, and I have spotted a screech owl a few blocks from my house. It all depends on how you think of a thing or even where you see it as to whether it is wild or not. A black bear in your back yard is probably considered wild. A flock of penguins at the children’s zoo is most likely not. At least, that is how I think of it.

Friday, be it a snow day or a day of deep adolescent disappointment, has been tabbed as World Thinking Day. Apparently, the origins of World Thinking Day stretch back to a time of prosperity, loosening morality, and home-made booze, but the originators of the day have little to connect them to the Jazz Age. In 1926, at the fourth World Conference of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts, attendees determined that February 22 would be World Thinking Day, a day to express thanks and appreciation for their global entity. Ironically, as far as I think it, February 22 was chosen because it was the birthday of the founder of the Boy Scouts. I don’t know enough about either organization to know why they picked that particular fellow, but it smacks of early-20^th century hegemony. I don’t know if it really is, I just wanted to use the word “hegemony,” thankyouverymuch.

Be that as it may, it was also the birthday of Lord Baden-Powell’s wife, Olave. In 1936, Olave drafted a letter telling all Girl Guides and Scouts that World Thinking Day should be observed as a time of fundraising. I don’t know about you, but when I think of Girl Scouts and fundraising, all I can think about is cookies. I really have not been able to figure out exactly how to connect thinking with an object of so much American mindless eating, but what can I do about it? The fact is, in America, World Thinking Day and Girl Scout cookies are inextricably linked. So, in this month of scrambling to every grocery store to find the last box of peanut butter tag-a-longs, don’t forget to give your brain a little bit of exercise as well. What do you think about that?

A Boy Named "Honk"

Names are touchy things. Think of the bloodshed caused by the names Hatfield and McCoy. Recall the reason for the tragedy of the lovers Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet.  “A rose by any other word” ring a bell? What if Hamlet were not named after his murdered father? Would he have had the same intensity of filial obligation? It is odd and even unfair that something that can have such far reaching effects, such consequences of fate and free will, can be carried out with no input from the named at all.

Were I an expectant father, the question of a name would be a paralyzing contemplation. I would be overwhelmed by the immense ramifications of the name I gave to my child. Should the name have historical allusions? Should the name show some family tradition? Should the name be a reference to strength or peace or wisdom? Would an allusion to someone too well-known set my child up for unfair comparisons? Would my kid constantly feel an inadequacy as she tried to live up to a name like Athena? It’s an impossible problem to solve since nearly every name has some reference point somewhere. Even a name that seems entirely unique has to have been generated from some reference point in the parents’ brain: a combination of other names, a favorite food, a place, a random noise. Were I to name my child “Honk,” after a noise I heard while crossing the street on my way to the hospital, how could that child not take an auto trip, or even walk down a city street, without thinking about himself and his name. Narcissism would logically ensue. You see my problem: no matter what I might choose, all I can really bequeath to my child through his or her name is hang ups and resentment.

On top of all that, I would have to assume that any choice I made would have to be negotiated with the child’s mother. It then becomes a compromise, and who wants to spend his/her life saddled with a mark of compromise, a reminder of one or the other parent’s surrender, ultimately: weakness. Weakness for the sake of peace and harmony, of course, but weakness, nonetheless. (“What does your name represent,” Johnny’s teacher asks in grade school, during a well-intentioned class discussion on names and being proud to be one’s self. “Compromise,” Johnny sighs in response, since Mommy wanted to call him Jeremiah, but Daddy would have none of it. Doesn’t sound like a recipe for success, does it?) However, there is a possible solution to this issue for parents and children dealing with this silently awful and far-reaching situation.

Today is “Get a Different Name Day.” It’s one of those days that strikes me as a good idea, on the surface, in many respects, particularly for people with names that remind others of body parts, like Mulva, or anyone who is burdened by a compromised label. In one respect, “Get a Different Name Day” can be liberating and empowering since most of us carry the name we were given by our parents. A name we did not ask for. No disrespect to my own wonderful parents intended, but, while some may look upon the name they offer their children as a gift, I often wonder what the agenda behind my naming was. I was originally supposed to be called something entirely different from my current name, but my grandmother did not like it. As a result, I was given my father’s first name and a different middle name. So, I am labeled as I am as the end result of some sort of multi-generational power struggle.

Were I to take advantage of “Get a Different Name Day,” I might choose something more indicative of who I am, something that speaks to my strengths or personality. However, naming oneself is a dicey proposition--nearly as paralyzing as naming a tiny human that bears half of your own genetic material, for it bears some of the same pitfalls as giving yourself a nickname. It just doesn’t work to say to somebody, “Call me ‘Lightning’.” Even if you think you are a pretty fast runner, and even if everyone agrees that you are a very fast runner, and “Lightning” might even be a suitable nickname for you, suggesting your own nickname will only result in the following moniker: “Asshole.” It is simply common knowledge, a piece of primordial intelligence, something passed down from the proto-simians in the prehistoric trees: someone who solicits their own nickname is an asshole.

In that respect, “Get a Different Name Day” is a failure. It can only result in a world full of assholes, which is pretty much the world we already live in, now. And a good holiday should commemorate people who have changed the world for the better, or it should encourage us to do the same, which is why Columbus Day and Drive Without Your Headlights On Eve are shitty holidays.

Thus I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place: empowerment at the cost of being an asshole, or a worn-out, ill-fitting label and a reputation in relative good standing. “Get a Different Name Day” implores me, and all of us, to take ownership of the most important thing we own. Something so important that John Proctor, in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, chooses to die rather than lie about his allegiance with Satan because he would ruin his name, and he “shall never have another.” Too bad for him the Puritans did not have “Get a Different Name Day,” I guess. He didn’t even have a choice, but, for me, I’ll just stick with the compromise I am stuck with, and hope I still smell as sweet.

Time Gone By

In the last two weeks, I have neglected to address the following incomplete list of recognized special days: Measure Your Feet Day, Have Fun at Work Day, Yodel for Your Neighbors Day, and Thursday. Of these, one might consider Thursday the least special since it comes around at least once every week. That sort of thinking is short-sighted, however.

After all, while one can’t deny the allure of an entire day dedicated to the investigation of the length of one’s feet, how important is it? How special can it be? And, really, don’t you know how long your feet are every time you buy a pair of shoes? My feet are 10s. I suppose it would be interesting to known the length of one’s feet in inches or centimeters, but, then, why stop there? Why not use other, innovative units? Wouldn’t it be cool to know how long your feet are in chocolate chip cookies? My feet are 3 1/3 chocolate chip cookies long. Granted, this new measurement unit has not been standardized, so the US chocolate chip cookie (USCCC) may differ from the English chocolate chip cookie (UKCCC); however, once the CCC becomes popular enough, a highly distinguished board of mathematicians and measurers of all sorts might take up the cause of standardization. Until that time, we will just have to muddle through, considering the age old question: “How much cookie is in one cookie?” Were we to celebrate a day like Measure Your Feet in Odd Units Day, then Thursday might pale in comparison to such an honored twenty-four hours. But, we don’t. Alas.

Have Fun at Work Day, another special one that we missed, also seems tame when compared to the splendor that is Thursday. Doesn’t everyone have fun at work? Every day? I know I do. I can only hope that some folks out there are not in such miserable labor environments that they need a special day, and only one per year, on which they have fun by mandate. Where I work, when we are having fun, we call that day Thursday…or Wednesday…even Monday. Oddly, we never call it Tuesday, not because we don’t have fun on Tuesday (we have fun EVERY DAY)—there’s just something about Tuesday that pisses people off. I guess on Tuesday we have angry fun, like sarcasm.

Now Yodel for Your Neighbors Day gives Thursday a run for its money. It must be a truly special occasion to stand in the middle of one’s front yard and make rolling O’s as loud as one can, hoping to please the people that live closest to you. The key to making one’s yodeling as acceptable as possible to one’s neighbors—after all, it is a gift to and for your neighbors—is to pick the best time to do it. Remember, the best gift is an unexpected thing at an unexpected time. Right off the bat, you know your neighbors will not be expecting you to yodel for them. At least, they won’t be expecting that from most people. I neglected to consider that somewhere, someone is in the habit of yodeling…in public…regularly. More power to you, yodelers! However, I think I can say, with little doubt, that the majority of folks are not regular yodelers. So, an unexpected thing.

It would seem, on the face of it, that any time would be unexpected for something so rare as public yodeling, but, as with all things, there is an optimal time. After deliberative consideration, I have unscientifically determined that the most unexpected time for yodeling for you r neighbors is 3:17 in the morning. It is in that blank expanse of the clock when the night is ostensibly over for most sensible people, yet the morning has not come for the earliest risers. And seventeen past the hour is about the most unexpected part of any hour. Someone expecting something at three has lost that razor’s edge of perception that anticipation brings, and someone expecting something at 3:30 has not yet begun to scan the sensory waves for early warning.

But, even with all this, Yodel for Your Neighbors Day is no Thursday. It is only too bad that today is Friday. Today, we can only wait for the glory that is tomorrow. We all know what tomorrow is, don’t we?

On Squirrels, Penguins, and Ravens

In all seriousness, today is commonly recognized as an important day of celebration. MLK, Jr. Day is a truly righteous holiday, allowing all Americans to consider the sacrifices that Dr. King made on behalf of equality for all people in this country. He is a true American hero, and he deserves the recognition that he receives, now and forever.

However, this voice in the wilderness is not prone to staying serious for too long, so let’s move on to matters less important, but far more open to ridicule. Today is a confluence of three wonderful things for us here at Central Standard. The first is a warm up for an even more momentous day next month, the second allows me to really put my true personality on display, and the third is something that makes me prouder than I have any real right to be.

First, today is Squirrel Appreciation Day. Many of you already know of my love for Groundhog Day (my favorite minor holiday), so I was pleased to discover that today was set aside for a more diminutive rodent relative of the whistle pig. Not only am I pleased to have a day to acknowledge all of the diligent hard work of squirrels everywhere, burying acorns, nesting in people’s attics, and destroying more bird feeders than any other non-bird yard animal known to man, but I am happy to have this day as a stand in for yesterday’s Penguin Appreciation Day, which, sadly, I neglected to recognize in due time. (A sorrowful tip of the pen to all of my penguin friends out there.) As a result, all of squirreldom receives all of my love today.  And, they shall receive it in a most excellent way, since today is also, National Hugging Day.

There is nothing like a good hug, is there? One thing that makes me the happiest is to hug someone. As a matter of fact, I have been known to hug complete strangers while walking down the street. It is just hard not to show your love for your fellow man when all it takes is to wrap the two arms you probably have around the torso that another person probably has. Needless to say, hugs become more complicated when approaching someone without a torso, but a dedicated hugger can usually accomplish a decent enough hug with nothing more than a neck or a leg to grapple with. And, of course, non-torso situation really do not come up that often.

So, today brings together two celebrations that certainly can be recognized jointly. I charge you all with going out today and hugging a squirrel!  And, while you are at it, give thanks that today is not Bear Appreciation Day, Mountain Lion Appreciation Day, nor Shark Appreciation Day.

Oh, yeah, and that third thing? How excited I was yesterday watching a collection of men whom I have no actual connection to, pound another collection of men I have no connection to into the turf of Gillette Stadium.  I know that it is irrational to feel pride that a team with a certain uniform wins a game. After all, what role did I have in the accomplishment? None. But, it would take someone with a better psychological mind to explain why so many of us feel the connection that we do to certain sports teams, and, in the long run, I don’t care. I am an unapologetic Ravens fan. I was there for their first game, and I have rooted them on no matter where I happen to live.  So, I say without shame that I did a little dance last night when the whistle blew, and the scoreboard read Baltimore 28, New England 13. Go Ravens! We’ll see you on February 3 in New Orleans. 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Yesterday was the anniversary of the date in 1377 when Pope Gregory XI moved the papacy from Avignon, France, to Rome. It stands to reason, however I have little evidence to support it, that today must be the anniversary of the date in 1377 when the pope had his cable turned on and unpacked his record collection.

Gregory and his small retinue of hundreds moved into a charming fixer-upper and proceeded to plan his vegetable garden and to innovate new ways to torture heretics. The house immediately became a magnet for Rome’s cognoscenti, literati, and illuminati. Unfortunately for the thirty-second most unoriginally named pope (all of the Johns (including an antipope (John XVI) and a non-existent pope (John XX)) and the first ten Gregorys are ahead of him), he died not long after his move, leaving his garden plan unexecuted (but not a few heretic--they WERE executed) and casting all of Catholicism into a lengthy spat.

Before I get into The Great Schism, I would like to revisit the fact that there is a nonexistent pope. Somehow the papal historical record labeled one of their honchos incorrectly. John XIV was apparently counted twice (perhaps due to the action of another antipope, Boniface VII (sometimes the history of Western religion reads like a Marvel comic book: Pope/Antipope)).  I am not kidding when I tell you that the papal record apparently refers to John XIV AND John XIV the second.  How can you have a John XIV the second?  Isn’t that like having a John Jr III?  It doesn’t make any sense.  But, when the pope who would be XX came around--a guy referred to as (again, no joke) Spanish Peter--he decided to correct the record (assuming there already had been XX popes named John) and he skipped the XX and went right in as XXI.  As it turns out, John XIV and John XIV the second turned out to be the same guy.  Um, duh?  No wonder some Christians believe the world is only 6000 years old--they can’t even keep track of sequentially numbered guys named John.

But, anyway, the pope elected after Gregory XI was from Naples, and the French, being used to a) having a short walk to the pope’s house (pre-1377) and b) speaking French to the pope (okay, you got me, it was probably Latin, but there’s no joke there…is there?), did not like the new guy. So, they did what any reasonable collection of people will do when an election doesn’t go their way—they split. Literally. And, so, The Great Schism began, and Europe had to choose a patriarch. This was highly confusing to Europe. The pope was supposed to be the closest human to God, and now there were two?  How could that be right? As it turned out, most of France and Scotland went with the antipope in Avignon, and everybody else sided with the Neapolitan pope.

For thirty years, cardinals tried to solve the problem. The best solution they could come up with occurred in 1409, when, in an attempt to sort out who was the legitimate pope, they elected a second antipope, giving them, you guessed it, three popes to choose from! I have no idea how they managed such an unbelievable act of incompetence.  Maybe they thought they were voting for one thing and voted for another? Perhaps the ballot was printed in too small a print, or it was written in the vernacular (which they did not understand). Be that as it may, the episode of The Great Catholic Comedy from season 13 titled “Aw, Schism!” began to rival the most madcap episodes of I Love Lucy ever filmed at DesiLu Studios.

Eventually, the cardinals figured out the difference between one pope and three popes (or one pope and two antipopes), and they recognized the legitimacy of the Roman “line” of popes. They call it a line, but that would imply heredity, wouldn’t it?  Are only popes allowed to reproduce? I will stop this line of inquiry here, I don’t want to upset too many of my family members.

Needless to say, the Roman popes eventually moved out of Gregory XI’s little cottage and started their own city-state, Vatican City. Hmmm, city-state. Didn’t the Greeks have city-states? And wasn’t there a big break up between the Greek and Latin Church in 1054? And wasn’t that The Great Schism? Does that mean we should refer to the 1377 break as The Great Schism the second?  And, really, y’all, what’s with all the schisms? Can’t we all just get along? 

The March of History

This weekend, the Monkey House was enthralled and delighted by the success of the Baltimore Ravens in their playoff game against the Denver Broncos. With one more playoff win, the Ravens can play in Super Bowl XLVII on February 3, in New Orleans, LA. On this day in 1967, the very fist Super Bowl was played in Los Angeles, CA. The game was called the AFL-NFL World Championship, and a lot of things were different about football and the US, when the Green Bay Packers defeated the Kansas City Chiefs.

But that is not what I really want to talk to you about. Today, about a hundred years earlier (1870) to be exact, Thomas Nast published a political cartoon that gave the Democratic party its symbol: the jackass. They would prefer to refer to it as a donkey, most likely, but I think we can all agree that most Democrats, simply by nature of being politicians, are jackasses. Incidentally, four years later, Nast drew an elephant in a cartoon to represent the GOP, and, instantly, those jackasses became elephants.

That is not what I really want to talk about, either. In the world of letters, today was the day, in 1899, when California school teacher Edwin Markham published his poem, “The Man with the Hoe.” Inspired by Millet’s 1863 French painting of a similar name (only in French), the poem contains the lines, “Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave / to have dominion over sea and land”? I sometimes feel that way when I look in the mirror and watch my bulbous nose spread slowly across my face. Anyway, a great scandal occurred when Markham’s poem was reprinted in an Eastern newspaper as “The Man with the Ho.” The paper broke sales records that day, but was forced to field countless complaints later for “not delivering the goods.”

Yet, again, that is not what I really wanted to talk to you about. In 1987, Paramount used this day to announce that they would place a 30-second ad for Diet Pepsi at the front of their videocassette release of Top Gun. So, the movie that gave us “the need for speed,” and miraculously bright shots of Tom Cruise’s pearly whites, may also be responsible for the thirty-five minutes of wretched merchandising in the movie theatres, today. Thank you Paramount for every Bod commercial I have ever had to tolerate.

However, let me get to my point since the previous is not what I wanted to talk about, either. What is really on my mind is that on this day, in 1981, Omaha, Nebraska, native Bob Gibson was elected to the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot.  This is remarkable not because of Gibson’s stellar career, his ferocious personality, nor the fact that he hails from the largest city in my current home state.  This is remarkable because this year’s Hall of Fame balloting, 32 years later, produced not one inductee.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, not one baseball player currently being considered for inclusion was deemed worthy of the Hall.  Not Mark McGwire (again), not Roger Clemens, not Barry Bonds, not anyone. The highest vote getter, at 68% (you need 75% to get in), was Craig Biggio, a highly respected second baseman, in his first year of eligibility, whose claim to the Hall rests on his 3060 hits (a pretty good number).

And why is it that baseball's writers, who are the gatekeepers of the Hall of Fame, have found no one from among a heady list of recent stars to invite into the HoF? Well, I blame Lance Armstrong. His recent fall from grace has cast a pall upon every sportsman and woman of his era. After all, if Lance was a juicer, they all must have been, from Sammy Sosa to Smarty Jones.  And, if they were all cheating, do they belong in the pantheon of their sport?

I will let you decide. I gotta go…Oprah’s on!

As Plain As The Nose On My Face

There has been a raging debate online over the past several years among the scientifically-minded. Both PhD’s and kitchen doctors around the globe have been weighing in on the age old question of whether or not our ears and nose grow as we age.  Everyone, from Arthur Perry, MD, blogging on The Doctor Oz Show’s website, to Philster and Master Wang-Ka, posting on The Straight Dope’s message board, has an opinion on this topic.

But opinions are not facts, and consensus is not truth. The only thing that can sway this debate, the only thing that can answer this primordial conundrum, is science. Perhaps we can look to studies by British physicians, or papers published by Japanese doctors, or investigations by German scientists, all cited in an April 25, 2011 article in the online edition of The Guardian (UK). Maybe we can consult the troublingly anonymous Medical FAQ website. As authoritative (or otherwise) as some of these sites may seem, their scientific reliability pales in comparison to the tried and true method of observation and comparative physiology known as looking in the mirror and comparing your face to your grandfather’s.

According to Krogh’s principle, somewhere in the world there is some animal upon which any problem that affects humans can be studied. Were this true, someone somewhere would be using National Institute of Health grant money to accurately measure the size of mouse and pig ears over an animal’s lifetime, or trying to grow a nose of immense size in a Petri dish.  (Wasn’t there some such scene in Woody Allen’s The Sleeper? A dream sequence with giant noses on legs?  Or am I imagining that? Digression!) There may very well be a poorly publicized slave of science toiling away at his ever-growing nose study, but, at the present, we have no information to prove it. And so, we are left only with the tools of science at our disposal, our eyes, our memory, a poorly-lit mirror, and our slowly expanding facial characteristics.

For we stood before the mirror this week and were struck by the ridiculous size of our own ears. In a slight panic, we looked to our nose and noticed that perhaps it is growing a bit more bulbous. We scoured our memory for that face, that face of our grandfather, a man born in America of Polish immigrant parents.  We are aware of the fate of the Polish men (and not a few of the women) in our family. First, they are born with feet wider than any human should have.  And, as time goes on, the feet widen.  Next, the ears and nose grow in length. The cartilage continues to grow, and, in the case of the ear lobes, gravity plays one of its crueler tricks. The lobes seem to drip down toward the ground, pendulous flaps of opaque skin, swinging unattractively in the breeze.

It is unmistakable that this is indeed happening to me. As a matter of fact, if one observes the following artist’s renditions, one can plainly see the growth in both the nose and the ears on my face.

Here is a pretty accurate crayon on napkin sketch of me as a young child. Note the relatively small facial features.

Here is a current depiction of my features in the same media. Note the marked change in the size of certain aspects.

Thus, as we used to say in Geometry class, “QED, bitch!” It is proven. The nose and ears do grow throughout life. I am proud to have committed myself once again to the scientific method. It is an honor to have sacrificed so much in the way of dignity in my search for the truth.

And, Doctor Oz, if you ever need a blogger on your highly regarded scientific website, I am your man!

Better Living Through Science

Wednesday, January 9, is National Static Electricity Day. In my research for this shocking day (glad I got that one out of the way so early), I stumbled upon the Altius Directory, which, as best I can tell, is a business service that checks the Internet for information about your business, or it sells domain names, or it posts articles about little known calendar events like National Static Electricity Day. However, after reading Altius’ posting on “National Static Electricity Day,” I knew less about static electricity than I had before I read it. A sampling of the highly entertaining article reads:

Many of us would have experienced, when we suddenly touch any metal, we experience a sudden static or shock. Sometimes as soon as we take off our hat, our hair stands straight. This especially happens in winters. Therefore, the sudden shock and the hair standing out is a result of static electricity. To know a little more about it we should be aware of a few things around us.

As we all know that everything that surrounds us is made of atom. According to scientists there are 115 pieces of atoms; therefore everything is made of atoms. (“National Static Electricity Day”)

I suspect that the author of this article is not a native English speaker. Regardless, it is abundantly clear that he/she is not a scientist.

So, what is static electricity, beside the reason for winter-time hat hair? As we all remember from primary school science, static electricity is an action that takes place at an atomic-particle level, and, as we all know from reading Altius’ website, everything is made of the 115 pieces of atoms. So, when you walk across the carpet in your socks, you gather up some atoms’ electrons on your feet. When you reach out to turn on your stereo, the negative charged electrons attract positively charged particles from the stereo (made of atom!), causing the arc that you can sometimes see, and also causing the short circuiting of your stereo because it is plugged into a non-grounded outlet. What, that doesn’t happen to you? Oh…lucky.

Most people don’t know this, but Wint-O-Green LifeSavers also produce static electricity. When you bite this particular flavor of ring-shaped mint, sparks do fly. You might not be able to see it, but it happens…particularly in the dark. This is generally believed to be caused by the mints being rubbed on a balloon before being packaged. Each ring is packed with electrons, which are discharged when they come in close contact with human teeth, which everyone knows are positively charged. It is scientifically accepted that excessive consumption of Wint-O-Green LifeSavers can force so much electrical force on the teeth that they are jarred in their sockets. Young children who eat too many LifeSavers nearly always need braces later in life.

Static electricity has also been blamed for other, more singular, disasters. It is an unconfirmed possibility that static electricity was responsible for the explosion and burning of the German airship LZ129-Hindenburg in 1936. Because the far safer gas, helium, was rare and difficult to obtain (as all Nebraska football fans know), the German designers of the Hindenburg designed it to utilize hydrogen, which is highly flammable, and in a great enough concentration and pressure can result in a giant star not unlike our Sun. Ironically, had the Germans used helium, rubbing the outside of the airship vigorously would have resulted in it sticking comically to the side of the Empire State Building, but, alas, such a scene was not possible.

So, today, eighty-three years after a tragic disaster caused by atoms, we have a day during which we, as a nation, are asked to take a moment to recognize the awesome power of “the sudden shock and the hair standing out.” After all, without static electricity, brothers and sisters the world over would have had one fewer way to torment their siblings.

God bless the atom, and God bless America!

One Realization That Leads to Another

Today is the Feast of Epiphany, according to Western Christians. According to Wikipedia, the feast day commemorates not only the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, but the “revelation of God the Son as a human being in Jesus Christ.” I’ll buy the Magi’s arrival; it’s the manifestation of God part that stretches the date’s credibility. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It just isn’t for me.

The same Wikipedia page has a link to the page for “Epiphany (feeling).” Which credits James Joyce for possibly coining the usage of epiphany to mean “an experience of sudden and striking realization.” His stories in The Dubliners all involve characters coming to some realization that alters their view of themselves or the world around them. It is conceivable that large doses of beer and whiskey may have had something to do with those “striking realizations.” Interestingly, for me, anyway, the author of this particular page also equates William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch as a terminology of epiphany, as well. How do Christians feel about having a word so closely associated with the first big feast day of the year secularly implying “drug-influenced state(s)” and beer-soaked revelations? Then again, the Magi brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Frankincense and myrrh are both popular for use in incense, and we know who burns most of the incense, don’t we? Let’s just say many of us stop “burning incense” when we get out of college.

Perhaps, in a related vein, back in 1974, Tom Scholz was burning incense when he had an epiphany in his basement in 1974, and the song “More Than a Feeling” manifested itself in his mind. Boston, my favorite band EVER, released the song on their 1976 debut. I am certainly not trying to equate Tom Scholz with the Son of God. Nor am I implying that “More Than a Feeling” is a song of anything more than mild musical significance. It just happens to be where my mind took me on this particular intellectual exercise.

Maybe more significantly, today is also the birthday of Jeanne d’Arc, according to some sources. Being an inveterate skeptic, I suspect that her birthday is more than likely not on January 6. It just seems too coincidental that the day that the (arguably) second most famous Christian martyr (sorry John, the Baptist) was born on the same day as the manifestation of the first most famous martyr as a human being. Then again, if one negates the manifestation of the Son of God thing (see paragraph one), Joanie’s birthday is a bit easier to swallow. At any rate, Joan was a fascinating young woman--most likely delusional, but fascinating nonetheless. And without her inspiring and tragic tale, we would not have one of the most beautiful silent films ever (The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)) nor one of the best-known Smiths songs (“Big Mouth Strikes Again”). Granted one might argue that the Smiths couldn’t have written that song without the invention of the Walkman, either. You might also argue that they might have written the song even without the allusion to Joan (or a Walkman), but that just wouldn’t be the same song, would it. At any rate, wouldn't it be sad if the Smiths were most well-known simply for "Girlfriend in a Coma." Seriously.

Most unfortunately, however, today is the final day of Winter Break for kiddos in this neck of the woods. Tomorrow, we will be back to shaping young minds. And I hope to find more time to keep up with this blog, albeit with a new focus. Instead of Central Standard's traditional, unfocused, hard to maintain ramble from random thought to random thought, I hope to focus on today's tone of edification and the loose division of fact and opinion to create a regular discussion of topical current and historical events.  If anyone has any ideas for topics, leave a shout in the comments.

Thanks for stopping by!

The Tradition Continues

The annual writing endeavor known as National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) begins in less than eight days. I have been a participant in NaNoWriMo, with varying levels of success, since 2006.  Each year I look forward to writing, and, each year, I appreciate the extrinsic motivation to write. I have actually “completed” a novel twice in the past six years, which, compared to many participants, is not a great average.  However, I always assuage any feelings of literary inadequacy by reminding myself of my busy life; my dedication to my job, which takes more time than most would like; and anything else that I can use to justify not giving adequate time to feed my writing jones.

When I first started doing NaNoWriMo, a friend of mind sort of scoffed, saying it was impossible to write a novel in one month.  She was right, of course.  You don’t just sit down on November 1, start hammering away at a keyboard, and get up on November 30 with a completed novel on your hard drive.  But it is possible to write a first draft of a novel in a month.  At the very least, it is possible to write a collection of 50,000 or more words (the length of a short novel) in a month.  What one does with it after that is up to him or her.

After my first NaNoWriMo experience, in 2006, I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment, having dashed off (over a month…maybe not dashed off, but anyway…) the longest piece of cohesive writing I had ever done, short of my Master’s thesis.  In many ways, it was more of a challenge (and more cohesive) than my Master’s thesis.  However, I knew when I was done that I had a creature with a host of warts.  There were unresolved plot points, random digressions, fake chapters, all in the name of getting finished.  When forcing myself to produce words, only thinking about getting something on the page, completing my goal for the night, the week, the month, I let logic and any idea of an end result go.  It was far more important to get the novel written than it was to make sure it was in something close to a polished state.  That is what drafting is.  The experience of participating in this madness reminds me of what the writing process really is, and it helps me, I believe, be a better writing coach to my students.

It is one of the hardest things to do with young writers, getting them to forget about the end product and to just write. It is understandable. I am asking them to engage in a certain action to perform a particular task.  They know that I will be evaluating their published draft.  It will be consumed, weighed, assessed, and assigned a value.  This is an A, this a B, and so on.  It is school writing.  But their best writing always comes from some other, more personal place.  After all, I don’t enjoy NaNoWriMo because my draft will be evaluated at the end.  Hell, no one has even seen either of the novel drafts I have written in the last six years.  Not even a paragraph. But, I want them to engage in the writing process without the goal in mind. (It is perhaps more accurate to say “the goal they set for themselves,” since, really, my goal is not to assess them—I would rather never put a grade on another paper again as long as I live. My goal is to have them learn, through experience, how to effectively communicate their ideas through writing. It is only a necessity of the system of education we have that that learning is expected to have a letter assigned to it that more or less reflects student learning and standing when compared to standards and (don’t tell anybody) other students. After all, why have class rank if you are not comparing students to each other…but I digress.)

It really is a kind of Zen exercise, writing without the goal in mind.  Once a student sits down with a vision of what an essay should be, it influences every choice they make, and it is nearly impossible for them to write honestly about what is important to them, or at least what is worthwhile to them to say. And who can blame them for considering the end before they even imagine their beginnings? So, I try to build assignments in such a way that students can arrive at topics that are meaningful to them by giving them choice and open-ended prompts. I try to constantly remind them not to worry about questions like “How do I start this essay?” Frustratingly for them, my most common answer to such a question is, “You start by writing.” Or, “Start at the beginning.” There are always those kids so wrapped up in the rubric or their grade that it takes a short conference on strategies for introductions.  And, honestly, I hate having that conversation.  What I really want students to do is to just sit down and start making that music that I love to hear, the tick tack tick of the keyboard being exercised.

For that is how the process begins, not by writing an awesome attention getting sentence that takes a student twenty-five minutes to write and agonize over and edit and rewrite and delete and start again.  After a class period, she might have a really excellent pair of sentences, but she hasn’t really been writing.  Not really. She’s been practicing building sentences, or fitting her words into a structure that she thinks is what writing should be.  What I would like her to realize is that writing is messy, that first drafts always suck, that you can’t write a novel in a month, but you can have a hell of a time grinding out a first draft.

And then, she can go back and excise the dead weight, add in some detail, shore up a shaky foundation.  I have been slowly revising an ancient draft for six years. Of course, one might say, a student doesn’t have six years.  That’s true.  But we aren’t asking him to revise 50,000 words. 

Sometimes, one of my kiddos gets it.  Sometimes, like today, I say, “Start at the beginning,” and she does. And, as she works her way through that mess that she is slapping down on the page, I watch her struggling. But I can tell she is not struggling with the writing. She is struggling with the natural tendency to fix something and with the tendency to ask me if a paragraph or a choice she has made is “alright.” I sense that she really wants to, but she doesn’t.  That’s when I know that she really is engaging with the first stage of the writing process.

Which is exactly what I will be doing, again, when all the little ghouls and goblins wake up on All Saints Day and realize they have eaten way too many Butterfingers the night before.  I will be engaging in the first stage of the writing process, and, if I am lucky, when the last of the turkey and stuffing leftovers are consumed and Santa Claus has strolled down Fifth Avenue once again, I just might have another massively problematic first draft that will take me a lifetime to fix.

By the way, if you are interested in joining me on this fabulously maddening writing adventure, go to the Office of Letters and Light website and look me up, my username is underdog30.  

And at the End of the First Quarter...

The last week of first quarter begins tomorrow.  It is always amazing how quickly the time goes by.  One minute it’s August and you are nodding off during a professional development session that seems painfully familiar to something you talked about at the last professional development session you went to, and the next minute it’s October and you have three weeks worth of grading to complete in seven days.  As this milepost approaches, it is a fine time to check and see how the year is progressing.

To this point, my classes are going wonderfully.  My freshmen are great kids.  They are attentive, funny, and curious on most mornings. And, even when they are not at the top of their game, they usually do very little to make things more difficult for themselves or me. That counts for a great deal in my world.  My sophomores--more numerous and spirited--are still pretty good students.  They too are engaged, interesting, and curious.  A recent class chat about their own use of language and about a New York Times article on the President’s use of language was a really rich discussion. My sophomores are particularly social, and I am trying to use that strength of theirs by giving them more discussion-based lessons.  So far, I like it, they like it, and it really encourages them to think about things (score!).

Yearbook, always a work in progress, seems to be getting itself off the ground after a slow start.  I have some real go-getters (and a few sloths) who are shining right now.  I will do all I can to keep them doing what they do (and nudging the sloths to action).  I am encouraged.

In general, my “I’m okay, you’re okay” philosophy is serving me well.  I am seriously busy all the time, but that has always been the case.  I only occasionally feel like I am going to completely lose my shit because I have three weeks of grading to do in seven days, but that has also always been the case.  I do not feel as if I am particularly being put upon any more than in the past (okay, maybe a little bit--but it's okay).  However, I do feel (for the most part) calm and happy, which is a really great headspace to be in, but (again) no real change from the past.  Truth be told, I still get overwrought while watching sporting events, but that is no change from the past, either.

So, I find myself asking myself, what is the benefit of this whole “okay” thing anyway?  Well, it is probably like the Romney-Ryan tax cut plan: it is too complicated to explain the math. Suffice it to say that I anticipated that this year would involve a lot of stress-management challenges (and it has involved them), and I hoped that being aware of them, prepared for them, and accepting of them would make them less stressful. So far, so good.

Here I am, feeling pretty good, but as I type this I see, just at the edge of my periphery, a folder full of papers that compose a mere quarter of what lies before me to be assessed.  And, so, I will leave off this particular entry to tackle that job, for before me looms a distraction from my professional responsibilities, as my beloved and oft-maligned Baltimore Orioles face the dreaded New York Yankees in the MLB Divisional Playoffs.  Yes, that’s right, the playoffs. After fifteen years.

How can I not be okay?

Pumpkin and the Janitor: The Story of a Flightless Victim and a Forgotten One

This morning’s Lincoln Journal Star reported an incident of adolescent hi-jinx this morning in Gretna, NE.  Apparently, a trio of young men placed an emu in the commons of the local high school ten days ago. Understandably, this caused quite a ruckus when the janitor found it the next morning.

Now, I have never encountered a six-foot emu in a school commons area. As a matter of fact, I have only encountered an emu of any size when each of us was standing on opposite sides of a fence.  And, for all I know, that emu could have been an ostrich. So, I can only imagine what the unnamed janitor did when he opened the doors of the commons and saw a bird staring him down from across the feather-and-feces-strewn room. If he were smart, he gently closed the door, walked out to his car, drove to the nearest open bar, and had a shot or two. Then, were he still using his brains, he would have called Animal Control.  I am not advocating drinking as a way to steel one’s courage or cope with one’s situation; one has to suspect that, when Animal Control receives a call about an emu in Gretna High School, the operator’s first question will be, “Have you been drinking, sir?” Why not temper the news by being able to live up to someone’s expectations, especially since the janitor’s were surely not met that morning?

However it was performed, after a bit of a struggle in which our emu (real name: “Pumpkin”) was lacerated on his neck, the bird was apprehended and is now living at a company that puts on wildlife shows for schools and parties. Most likely, Pumpkin spends his days in the pasture wondering how his once-promising life came to this: a six-foot, flightless circus clown.

For Pumpkin once lived the life of the proverbial Riley, living in Iowa, killing chickens, and most likely scaring the hell out of the kids who foisted upon him the less-than-masculine, far-from-noble name of Pumpkin.  But, as the article informs us, the Iowegians put Pumpkin on Craigslist for thirty bucks, and some Gretna boys came a-calling.  When they told the emu’s owner that they were buying it for a friend who raised emu, he took a shine to the boys and let Pumpkin go for free, which was probably good for him to do, since the boys then proceeded to drive the emu over the state line with the intention of causing mischief.  This might be considered illegal animal trafficking, and the previous owner might have been implicated.  As it stands, he appears to be out of the woods.

The boys, however, are not. They have been charged with criminal trespassing and animal cruelty. Their fate hangs in the balance.

It is too bad that these young men, thinking at first to release Pumpkin onto the football field, found the door to their school unlocked.  Would it have been less cruel to leave the bird outside?  It is also too bad that this seemingly “harmless” prank is being punished with criminal charges.  After all, there was a time when these boys would simply have become part of small town lore, like the guy who carried a goat to the top of the water tower in Columbia, Missouri, and tied it up overnight thirty or so years ago.  Is it necessary to mar the record of these three youngsters for what they have done?  Some might say yes, the kids need to learn the lesson that no creature should be treated poorly.  After all, the experience of being carted over state lines, locked up in a school overnight, and apprehended by armed officers in the morning (I am assuming) most likely caused an amount of trauma on this creature that was entirely unnecessary.  This is true.  However, I think maybe having them volunteer at an animal shelter or some sort of experiential punishment might be better, without any need of the courts or legal authorities.

And, really, what about the janitor?  He’s been traumatized—perhaps worst of all.  Not a day will pass from here forward, when he doesn’t have at least a mild flashback as he unlocks a door.  What will be in room 123?  A boa constrictor? A velociraptor? A grizzly bear?  What will lurk in the gymnasium’s darkened corners?  Sasquatch?  A zombie?  The Loch Ness monster?  What restitution does he deserve? He is truly the forgotten victim.

Finally, what about all of the people in the Lincoln area, reading this tragic story and the effect this TRIO of boys has had on man and beast alike, who finish the story on the back of the A section, and then return to the headline, which they quizzically remember as: “Emu in school lands 6 in trouble”? Once again, it looks like the media is not telling the whole story: what about the other three kiddos?

A Rose by Any Other Name

"Chiara," according to everyone's favorite fact checking site, Wikipedia, is an Italian word meaning "clear."  There are several people with this word as a first or last name, and "Chiara" even forms a morpheme of the Italian surname Chiaramonte, a noble Sicilian family who claim descent from Charlemagne.

I tell you all this because a pair of encounters with said word in this morning's Lincoln Journal Star sent me a-searching for some information on this word.  The two usages, both as proper nouns, referred to apparently different things, and, I was certain, different ideas, and, being the curious life-long learner that I am (and having the power of the Interwebs at my fingertips), I did a little researching.

First, my initial encounters.  Ironically, perhaps, both of my encounters with the word occurred in the "fluff" section of the paper, "The (402)."  I believe I have mentioned this section before, so I will spare you my rail on that particular section's ridiculous name.  However, in the "At a Glance" feature, on page F2, where some events are listed and written about briefly, a headline reads: "Walk to conquer Chiara is at Holmes Lake Park."  The article explains that a fundraiser walk will be held "in an effort to bring awareness and funds to Chiara malformation."

The article further states that Chiara is "a neurological condition in which the brain descends out of the  skull and puts pressure on the spine." Really?  That actually happens to people? Their brains fall out of their skulls.  Why?  How?  It sounds like an awful condition.  Of course, it is, I thought to myself. Why else would they need to raise funds or awareness? Nobody would be interested in a Stubbed Toe 5K, would they?  Who would pay $25 to race in a Pretty Bad Stomach Flu Fun Run?  We only tie up our Mizunos for big causes, like cancer, muscular dystrophy, or chiara, to name just a few.

As I turned the page, I found on F4 a review of a recent chamber music performance: "Chiara members open Sheldon Friends season."  I have heard of this Chiara Quartet, two men and two women, who are well-known in the chamber music circles.  They have made many appearances here in the Lincoln area, always to great acclaim.  But this review, published so close to and on the same day as the fundraiser walk, stoked my inquisitiveness.  I needed to make sure that these chamber players weren't being highly insensitive, naming themselves after a neurological condition suffered by "about 300,000 people in the United States."

And, so, I was led to the Wikipedia, where I find listings for celebrities named Chiara, saints and singers, physicists and attorneys. I find the names of churches and a "religious complex" (don't you mean a "church?").  And, I find links to the aforementioned "Chiaramonte" and a pair of words that are homophones of "chiara," itself.  What I don't find is any mention of any neurological condition.  I had to search the Google a bit more to find any discussion of dropped brain syndrome (an alternate, totally rad, name I have given to the condition, myself), but I did find some information about the condition that affects more people in the US than live in Barbados.

(Interestingly, the website Researching Virtual Initiatives in Education, on their page "All Countries by Population," divides countries using "'scientific' nomenclature." For instance, a country with at least 1000 million people is a "kilostate;" a country with at least 0.3 million but less than 1 million is a "tridecistate" (also known as a minicountry); a country with less than 0.01 million people, a picocountry, is a "millistate." There are also "centistates" and "hectostates," orthocountries, nanocountries, and gigacountries.  Another bit of information learned on this random research project.)

But, back to "chiara."  I learned a lot in the several minutes I spent researching this little mystery, but I was left with a few questions. First, I wondered where the quartet came upon their name?  Is it a tribute to a person, or a place (most likely a church)?  I also wondered if they were even aware of their close association with a leaking skull?  But, more importantly, I wondered how, if the Chiara fundraising initiative was sophisticated enough to organize multiple events such as this weekend's 5K walk, they were unable to draft as valuable a PR tool as a Wikipedia page? Because, when you think about it, not everybody is going to be as dogged a researcher as I have been today.  If people don't get their wiki-fix on the first search, right at the top, they'll go right back to looking for topless pictures of Ryan (Hey, girl) Gosling.  And, if you're trying to drum up support for a disease or a condition, you have to do one of two things: make sure a lot of people suffer from it (i.e., cancer) or that a lot of people know about it (i.e., muscular dystrophy).

Finally, if I were in a string quartet, and I found out it was named after a neurological condition that can lead to deafness, dizziness, double vision, eye pain, headaches, and spasticity (I did not make this word up), I might just change my name to Cancer.

   

I Can't Sit Idly By While Things Like This Go On

In honor of last Thursday’s discovery of a new species of monkey in central Africa, Paste magazine ran a “List of the Day” on “The 15 Best Monkeys in Pop Culture.” I consider myself a bit of an expert on monkeys of a certain kind, so I found myself highly interested in this particular list. Needless to say, perhaps, being a difficult-to-please critic of all things primate, I was not impressed.  Even given Paste’s disclaimer that they were “using the term ‘monkey’ loosely—and frankly, incorrectly,” this mishmash of gorillas, apes, chimps, cartoons, video games, and Clint Eastwood is practically unforgivable.

The list starts out strongly enough, with Chim Chim of Speed Racer fame, claiming the number fifteen spot.  But, almost instantaneously, the critical reader asks, “What is the criteria, here?”  Is this merely a non-ranked list of “monkeys” that the author can remember (or remember hearing about)? Or was there some sort of criteria-referenced ranking done by the boys and girls at the office?  It is perplexing—perhaps even disturbing—to consider the apparent lack of obvious criteria as we move through this list.

To wit, number fourteen is the bone-throwing pre-hominid of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Over Chim Chim?  Really?  I mean, if we are assessing the occupants of this list on their dramatic impact or symbolic significance, then, yes, Moon-Watcher beats Chim Chim, hauntingly-human-like-hands down.  However, if that were the criteria, Arthur C. Clarke’s cheeky little hairball would be much higher than fourteen. (Not to mention that Chim Chim would have to break the top ten…not really.)

Grape Ape occupies the thirteenth slot.  I can live with that, if it wasn’t so high.  Thirteen?  I don't get it.  It seems kind of arbitrary, really. Here, for me, is our number fifteen. Our big purple pal, who used cars for roller skates and tagged along with his friend Beagly Beagly, didn’t have a ton of staying power, social import, or symbolic significance.  One might even ask what Grapey is even doing on this list, but there he is.  And, as large as he is, there he will stay.

As we make our way into the top ten, however, my problems really begin, for there sits the finest secret agent chimp the world has ever seen.  Lancelot Link was the star of probably the most affecting and entertaining show that television will ever create.  A concoction of voiced-over chimpanzees acting out ridiculous espionage-based buffoonery and loosely connected musical numbers, Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp was a watershed event in my development—not that that is part of the criteria…at least I don’t think it is.  It certainly had, not simply for me, but for the world at large, a significant cultural impact. For that reason alone, Lancelot Link should occupy one of the top spots on this list.

Then, let’s look at number nine.  It is that video primate who made a mark on the eighties that was even deeper than the mark Lancey left on the seventies: Donkey Kong.  Who but this barrel rolling, girlfriend stealing, ladder-climbing villain, who made millions one quarter at a time, has been a more socially significant simian?  Who among us did not spent an inordinate amount of our young life in front of a video game at the corner pizza joint trying to get past that one level?  Or, for the younger among you, who has not spent time racing with that powerful DK spin off character, Mario. The effect of the Donkey Kong franchise is still being felt today, thirty years later.  What could be more significant than that? But, again, does significance have anything to do with this?  I suppose not.

After all, as we move deeper into the top ten, we find Clyde, the completely irrelevant orangutan of Every Which Way But Loose. I don’t get this one at all. Rumor has it that, since Clint’s chair monologue, Clyde has shunned his old pal.  That may be the best career move the old ape has ever made.    

Finally, I have two further concerns with this list.  First, and perhaps most troubling, Curious George is number five.  That’s right: NUMBER FIVE! WTF? He was a good little monkey and always very curious; he is an icon who has entertained generations of children.  And he gets beat out by the cast of Planet of the Apes? I mean: are you freaking kidding me?

But, to make matters worse, Marcel, Ross’ capuchin monkey from Friends, holds the number two slot.  All I can say is….  All I can say is…. I don’t know what to say.  This over-sexed little squirrel is ranked higher than Curious George?  I’m sorry, what? When was the last time anybody went to FAO Schwartz and paid an exorbitant amount for an over sized stuffed Marcel? The answer is never! 

Yet, this misguided, undefined list is out there, proudly displayed.  And, occupying the top spot, high above the mean streets of New York City, 1939, is the king of the beasts, the eighth wonder of the world, King Kong.  Disclaimer or not, couldn’t the number one spot at least be occupied by an actual monkey?  I give up.