Indiana State Fair

Due to a staffing crises at one of our networks, I’ve been pressed into service to cover (?) the Indiana State Fair. Since ours is an ag network, I’ll be there for Farm Day, August 14th. It’s been a while since I’ve been entrusted with an asignment like this and I’m desperate not to screw it up. It promises to be a pretty exciting day:

Old-fashioned Pancake Breakfast (There must be contemporary pancake breakfasts)
Square Dancing Tractors and Antique Tractor Olympics (Square Dancing Tractors? I’m there!)
Celebrity Milking Competition (I didn’t know you could)
Rooster Crowing Contest (Good audio)
National Shropshire Show (I’m not sure I can say that)
Open Shetland Show (…or this)
Sheep Shearing Demonstrations (…or this!)
Clogging (Plumbers’ online journals?)
Country Western Dancing (couples) (I’m staying for the individual competition)

I’m sure there will be out-takes and I’ll try to share them here.

Hey, Ladies! Look at me! I’m a dick!

I’ve been a fan and regular reader of The Disgruntled Housewife for years. One of the best sections of the site is The Dick List. Nikol Lohr explains:

“The Dick List began 7 years ago at the Pasadena house. It was a very girly house for a long time. It was also a very listy house. So in honor of both of those characteristics, we developed an oft-revised, publicly posted Dick List in our kitchen. It had a two-fold purpose: 1) promoting girly solidarity through bile-spewing; and 2) reminding us that certain guys were real dicks.”

Men, if you’re still “out there,” you should periodically check The Dick List.

Lesbian Chat Rooms.

They delivered our new refrigerator a few days ago. The guy in charge was in his mid-30s, early-40s. The younger guy was a sophomore in high school. As they wrestled the box down from the pick-up truck, I asked the young guy if he’d rather be online. “You bet he would!” , said the older guy. “So would you,” offered the teenager. I asked the older guy how he spent his time online and –before he could answer– his assistant said: “Lesbian Chat Rooms.” The older guys jumped in with something like, “You mind your own business now.” It was a topic they had discussed previously.

Now, I’m as fascinated by Lesbians as any other heterosexual male, but my first thought was: The Internet is here to stay. When the guys (representing two generations) delivering my refrigerator spend enough time online to make their way to the Lesbian chat rooms… well, this just isn’t a fad. The Net has achieved penetration.

The Death Test

I don’t guess there’s really any way to pass the Death Test [dead link]. I’m told I can expect to die on April 7, 2031 at the age of 83. Most likely cause of death: Cancer (18%), followed by Hearth Attack (13%) and Alien Abduction (12%). I’m exactly sure what Auto-Fellatio (9%) is (in a car? by myself?) but it sounds better than cancer.

Spam Faxes.

Douglas Rushkoff is a better man than I. He’s getting bombed with spam faxes but resists the urge to hit back. “…say, with a late-night 500-page black fax (emptying their toner cartridge)? Or what if I called the periodontist and made, say, 40 different appointments for fictional patients?” He concludes that two wrongs don’t make a right. Frankly, I like both of his rejected ideas.

Never too hot for a Kool.

Something new on the smoking scene. New to me, at least. On a recent trip to Florida I walked to a nearby supermarket. The temp was in the upper 90’s and some of the employees were taking their cigarette break (just outside the entrance, of course). Rather than stand there puffing in the heat and humidity, someone had pulled their van up and parked it just outside the entrance to the supermarket. The sliding door was open and the AC was blasting. They even had a little cooler for drinks. They seemed to be taking turns crawling into the van to cool off. It was like a little nicotine tail-gate party.

Got a light?

I don’t think people rant about smokers the way they used to. I know I don’t. It would be like ragging on crack-heads. I don’t know any former smokers. Banned from their offices, from restaurants, even from bars in some cities… they huddle outside buildings in their shirt-sleeves in February, stamping their feet trying to keep warm. I always wonder what they’re talking about. Are they pissed about being “sent outdoors?” Or are they embarrassed that their addiction has brought them to this sorry state of affairs?

I try not to stare as I walk by. I hate seeing their furtive, defensive glances. They remind me, for all the world, of convicts in some 1940’s movie, milling around The Yard…waiting for the screws to tell them to go back to their cells. Or street bums huddled around a burn-barrel, sucking on a butt in some bombed-out neighborhood. Curious as I am about what drives these lost souls, I never approach them. I came close recently.

I was in the airport, walking past one of those little glass rooms they’ve constructed for smokers. There they were, jammed in, staring at the floor, the smoke so thick you could barely see them. I couldn’t resist. I took a picture. I took a couple. When they finally noticed me, some waved…one guy gave me the finger. I know it was insensitive of me. Like sneaking into the amputee ward at the hospital. But I couldn’t help myself. What –I wondered– could compel someone to sit in that little smoky room?

But that sounds like I have more sympathy than I do. Most of the smokers I know are pretty militant these days. (“Fuck you! I’ll smoke if I want to.”) I mean, where do they think it will all end. What goes through their heads when they see an emphysema sufferer dragging that little oxygen bottle through the mall? “Whoa. That looks like a drag.”

This is a recycled rant from an old Website. I dug it out after noticing that more people seem to be smoking today than ever before. Seems like I see lots of young smokers. I admire their fearlessness in braving what will probably be a long and agonizing death.

Younger than the pope

Nancy sent me to the Age Guage [dead link] where I learned some disturbing things. I’m only six years younger than Ann-Margret and I’m the same age as Ted Danson. I was 13 when The Sound of Music was released and just 11 when Ben-Hur hit the theaters (Hawaii was admitted as the 50th of the United States that same year). I was 5 years old when TV Guide debuted nationally and 9 when Leave It to Beaver first aired (was the Beav nine, as well?). All pretty depressing.

On the up side… I was 15 when the Beatles appeared live for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show and it was a very big deal for teenagers. I was 17 when 8 track tape players were first offered in 1966 Fords. Before that you listened to whatever the radio station was playing or nothing.

The Age Gauge is not for sissies.

Better than hanging up.

Douglas Rushkoff is a best-selling author (Ecstasy Club and Exit Strategy, among others) which I would have thought somehow insulated him from annoying telemarketing calls. Guess not. He says he used to get rid of them by shouting, “I’m bleeding!” and hanging up. He has a new technique I can’t wait to try.

I confess to being a little nuts on the subject. I once told a telemarketer that I had just caught my wife and next door neighber in bed and had to hang up so I could kill them both. “Don’t do it, buddy. They’re not worth it. Believe me, I know,” pleaded the telemarketer.

While returning from a neighbor’s house later that evening, I passed sheriff’s deputy going the other way. Seems the telemarketer had gone a little beyond his prepared script and called the law.

I once asked the telemarketer if his mother knew what he was doing? “Yes, she’s very proud of me,” he insisted. “No, she’s not,” I explained. “She’s mortified by what you do but doesn’t love you enough to tell you the truth.” A supervisor came on the line and chewed my ass for abusing her guy. “See what you’ve come to?” I told the young man… “your supervisor loves you more than your own mother.”

Blogging life.

If I were 22 years old and making regular blog entries, what would it look like thirty or forty years later. Almost 11,000 entries. Your life online. True, a lot of the shit we put in our blogs hardly seems worth the keystrokes. But the idea intrigues me.

I think my mom would have been up for a blog. She kept journals during the latter years of her life. I can see her sitting at the kitchen table, writing in her tiny, perfect longhand. When we asked what she was writing she’d say, “Oh, things that happened yesterday… things I’m thinking about.”

One more scary thing for today’s teenagers to deal with. Mom blogging away the intimate details of her 13 year old daughter’s life. “Hey, Amber. Did you see your mom’s blog today? She said she thought you were getting your first period.” Not good. As George Costanza told his mom, “You can’t be out there. I’m out there, so you can’t be out there.”