HinesSight

Further evidence of male idiocy

Now, there's a title for a book, a really long book. I have an item to contribute to it. Not involving me, of course. That would be ridiculous, to think that I have ever, am now, or will in the future engage in any act that could fall under the rubric of "male idiocy" (the skeptical laughter from cyberspace is already ringing in my ears). No, this is about the bird I like to affectionately call Bastard Robin, or even nicer names, depending upon how many tons of bird poop I find splashed on my Volvo wagon each day.

I'm no expert on bird behavior, but I believe these are the basic facts. Bastard Robin wants to father some offspring. It isn't enough that he screw some sweet young female robin. In his delusional, and seemingly infinitesimal, robin brain, he is determined to be the only male in the whole wide world screwing a sweet young female robin, so all the baby robins everywhere will carry on the genetic heritage of Bastard Robin. Hence, his singleminded determination to rid the neighborhood of other male robins. Now that makes some sense, I guess. But now the male idiocy kicks in, stimulated by what a character on Ally McBeal was fond of calling the man's "dumb stick."

In searching about for other male robins, so he can kick their feathered ass, Bastard Robin always comes upon himself first thing in the morning. He (or they; I can't tell them apart) used to wake us up by fluttering against our bedroom window, trying to chase away that robin S.O.B. he could see when he peered at the glass, and who bore such a strking resemblance to himself, and who mirrored his every move, the crafty kung fu fighter. We put shades over the window and carefully drew them down every night, believing that this had solved the Bastard Robin problem.

Actually, it just moved the problem. Now he has found the windshield and rear view mirrors of my (previously clean) car. When I drive into the carport, I often see him flying off from a rafter, where he has been lying in wait for Bastard Robin2 to return. And yes!, there he is, just as before, on the other side of the windshield and mirror, taunting with his antics that are so similar to Bastard Robins'. He thinks, "I am so angry! I am so frustrated! I can never reach Bastard Robin2! What should I do? Why, I will poop! And poop, and poop, to show Bastard Robin2 just who is the Biggest Baddest Robin around here."

At least, this is how it seems to me. If there are any robinthologists who have a more accurate insight into Bastard Robin's brain, I would appreciate hearing how they see things. Know your enemy, that's my motto. I could cover my car with a tarp, but that seems like too much trouble. And then I'd have to hose the poop off of the tarp, which would be harder than taking the Volvo to the car wash.

To end on a broader note about male idiocy, several years ago I remember talking to someone about this sort of robin behavior (we've been suffering from a succession of Bastard Robins since we moved to Spring Lake Estates). I was trying to convince this guy that, compared to humans, birds obviously were way down on the dim end of the male animal intelligence scale, since they were incapable of distinguishing a two-dimensional image from reality. He simply replied: "What about a Playboy centerfold?" I walked away. Argument lost, and getting too close to home.

Roger Dodger

This was an unexpected pleasurable DVD find, made possible by the usually-reliable "two thumbs up" notice on the front cover. I don't think this movie got much notice when it was first released, which figures: it is quirky and full of great dialogue, but not much sex or violence (lots of talk about sex--little explicit action). Roger is an advertising executive who, not surprisingly, has a way with words, and a way of using words to seduce women. The only problem is that he falls prey to his own bullshit and can't separate his malarkey from his real self--assuming he could ever distinguish the two. Hence, the "dodger" side to Roger, for he is dodging life while seeming to embrace it.

We all know people like Roger, and at times we all are like Roger: too clever for words, with precious little substance supporting the seeming. Nevertheless, Roger's seeming can be highly entertaining. The very first scene is worth the DVD rental price, where Roger holds forth, cigarette and drink in hand, with his work buddies (and boss/lover) at a restaurant, or bar. His riff on why men are headed for the evolutionary trash heap, driven there by the availability of artificial insemination, is a wonder to behold, and quite persuasive, actually. Roger theorizes that women really only need men to do the heavy lifting, and opening of stuck bottle caps. Once robots are able to fill the strong man role, and artificial insemination fills the procreative role, what is there left for men to do? Start wars? Rape the environment? Women can do without that, easily.

Most of the movie is light and funny, especially after Roger starts giving his nephew "women lessons"--both conceptual and hands-on, literally. But it enters the dark side near the end, only to rebound, thankfully, before the closing credits. So don't give up on it when you get to the two guys rolling around on trash bags in a dirty dark alley part. That is a jarring serious interlude, but it passes fairly quickly.

Academy Awards reprise

I knew it! As I surmised in my last post, I knew there was no way that Laurel and I, who go to movies at real theatres regularly, could have only gotten 10 Oscar winners right, while my sister and brother-in-law, who spend about half the year in St. Lucia, where movie-going plays a second (or nineteeth) fiddle to margarita drinking and lying in the hammocking, could have gotten 16 and 17 Oscars right. Today Carol Ann fessed up in a revealing email message:

"Anyway, you were right on our internet use for winning the annual first prize. Bob actually went to a web site where they listed 42 different people like Roger Ebert and all the movies they thought would win. But as you can see, Bob didn't get them all right, so the majority isn't always the one to vote for. I voted for Michael Moore because he has done some good documentaries. But after listening to his speech, I will certainly not see the movie and add to his pocket change."

Regarding Michael Moore, he did go a bit, or a lot, over the top in his "acceptance speech" (did he actually ever thank anyone? I don't think so.) Even though I like Michael, his fanaticism on the left is almost as disturbing as Bush's fanaticism on the right. I came across this supposed expose of "Bowling for Columbine", and it has a ring of truth about it. This guy, David Hardy, seems to have done a lot of research about the "facts" Moore puts forth in his documentary, which Hardy doesn't consider to be a documentary at all, but more of a diatribentary. Maybe so. But Michael Moore makes people think, and challenges the status quo, qualities which are deserving of an Oscar.

Laugh when it hurts too much to cry

With all the serious insanity flying around the front page of the newspaper and CNN nowadays, it is great to be put in touch with someone who can laugh at it all. One of the (two or three) HinesSight readers, Randy Smith, told me about Neal Pollack's weblog, and I became an instant fan. Sucked into Pollack's web by his shameless self-promotion, I even bought both of his books via Amazon, where I learned that his first book was the inaugural title of McSweeney's Book, Dave Egger's (author of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius") publishing arm. And that's all I needed to know to buy it. Egger is a major talent, and so is Pollack, from even a brief read of his weblog.

Keep those coyote control ideas coming

[Update: I've observed that some people find this post via a "coyote control" Google search. What you'll read below is , obviously, a tongue-in-cheek approach to coyote control. If you want to know the truth about coyote control, take a look at some other posts I've written on the subject of controlling predators: "Is killing cougars a wildlife service?" and "Coyote debates."]

I've heard from a fellow Spring Lake Estates resident who has got his shotgun facing in the right direction when it comes to controlling the coyotes around here. It's refreshing to find someone who cuts through the B.S. and offers some final solutions. Here's what he had to say:

"On the coyote issue, I've run a series of fairly sensitive (10 lb trip force) landmines down the sides of the driveway, as I suspect that's where the coyotes think they have some kind of goddamn right of way around here. The animals are safe behind the fence and cars are safe so long as they stay on the asphalt. I've mentioned it in passing to the neighbors, so they're safe too. I know we're all on the same page on this issue. Death Before Dishonor and all that.

The mines have a limited blast radius, just enough to stun them by blowing their feet clean off. That way you get the satisfaction of going out there and finishing them off by hand. I save the heads, as I'm planning on capping my fenceposts with them as a warning to the rest of the interloping little bastards. I'll go after the deer, bunnies, and squirrels once I've eliminated all the coyotes. I'm going to form the Spring Lake Eradication and Rehabilitation Patrol!"

Well, I don't quite see where rehabilitation fits in, but otherwise I like the Simple Bold Grandiosity of this scheme. If an animal bothers a human, blast it into oblivion. Some of our other neighbors have been thinking so small. Ratcheting up the firepower by using landmines is a stroke of genius. But why stop there? I look forward to the next evolution in the Spring Lake Eradication Patrol's animal extinction plans. Neal Pollack speaks approvingly of nuclear bunker-busting and neutron bombs. Something to consider, if we can get them on Ebay. We've been trying to get rid of moles in our yard, without much success. Well, let's see how they like a tactical nuke up their sorry mole ass. Power to the People! Death to the Animals!

Academy Awards impressions

Should have gone with my heart, "Bowling for Columbine," rather than calculating, "they'd never vote for Michael Moore"...would have won with 11 picks, rather than tying with Laurel and one other person who also had 10 at Jim Ramsey's traditional vegetarian AA potluck...regardless, 10 or 11 is still pretty pathetic; my sister and brother-in-law report they got 16 and 17 respectively, ending up the top two at their AA get-together...congratulations! though don't I recall you saying, Carol Ann, that you do advance research on the Internet, checking out the projected winners from various sources, and then averaging them all together?...doesn't seem as fair as my more intuitive methods, which, in part, involve voting for any documentary with a Holocaust theme...but why didn't I pick "The Pianist" in any category?; probably because the previews look so depressing.

Does Roman Polanski have a protégé in Adrian Brody?...Laurel felt that his Halle Berry kiss bordered on sexual assault, but she didn't seem to mind (Polanski, recall, was convicted of drugging, raping, and sodomizing a 13 year old girl back in the 70s, which is why he wasn't at the Awards, to avoid being arrested if he returns to this country; but, heck, artists deserve some slack, and he apparently deserved his Best Director award)...A backstage photo in the paper today had Brody kissing Nicole Kidman also, though more demurely--god knows what Brody did when he could really cut loose after he got to a private party...best dress from a purely sexist point of view (what other point of view is there?): Jennifer Lopez, naturally...though Selma Hayek looked great also (she'd look great in a gunnysack)...more later, the little woman is home and demanding dinner.

Victory! (but the war may not be over yet)

No, we're not talking about Iraq, but about Laurel's fight to stop further partitioning (a.k.a. subdividing) of lots in Spring Lake Estates. The report from the Marion County hearings officer arrived in the mail today. She denied the Nielsen's application to partition their Oak Drive lot. We're still digesting her findings, but clearly all of Laurel's hard work researching well deepenings and replacements, plus the competent hydrogeology reviews by Malia Kapillis, paid off. The hearings officer cited numerous errors and omissions in the original hydrogeology report prepared by Nick Coffey for the Nielsens, most of which were pointed out by Laurel.

The Nielsens can appeal to the county commissioners, but we've been told that no application to partition that was denied by a hearings officer has ever been reversed by the commissioners. Many thanks to everyone who helped win this battle, especially those neighbors who contributed to the Stop Densification in Spring Lake Estates committee. It's wonderful when a spirited group of people who want to keep a neighborhood livable beat back the forces of over-development.

I know how much time and effort Laurel put into this appeal. I'm proud of her. There were times when she wanted to give up, but didn't. With all the problems in the world, stopping one more house and one more well from being built in an area that can't handle any more density may not seem like much. Yet, if everyone was as concerned about Mother Earth as Laurel is, and the other supporters of this appeal are, the world would be much better off. Though a cliché, its true that the longest journey is made up of many small steps.

Good and bad of March 17

The good: its our anniversary, which we cleverly managed to make St. Patrick's Day, so whenever images of green beer and drunken Irishpeople start to run through my head I know it's time to start making romantic preparations. Which, this year (our 13th, which isn't bad because we're not superstitious, knock on wood) didn't require a lot of time. I guess a man knows he's been married a dozen plus years when the big present you decide to give your wife is finally fixing two mouse problems--in our well pump enclosure and (more disgustingly) our medicine drawer--and she is happy to get the present. Not only that, your most intimate physical encounter of the day, so far..., is pulling her out of the empty medicine drawer enclosure by her feet, after she crawled in there to staple some wire mouse-barrier material that you were too large to put in yourself.

Ah, love comes in many guises as a marriage matures. We wouldn't have it any other way. Let those hot young couples on TV toast each other with fine wine while they dine al fresco at a romantic hillside restaurant. We'll brush mouse poop from our dirty jeans before eating leftover veggie lasagna.
Laurel's other anniversary present, which came a few days early, was a second cortisone injection for her spine (degenerative disk) problem. This happened Friday, and it went fine, easier than the first injection. She would rather heal naturally, but when physical therapy, yoga, acupuncture, and such left her in pain, she decided to kneel once again at the altar of Western Medicine and see if the gods would give her relief. So far, as before, she feels somewhat worse than before the shot. Relief will come in a few days, we hope, like it did last time.

The bad, of course, is having a war declared on our anniversary. At least, that is what all the signs are pointing to at this moment, a few minutes before the Inglorious One addresses the nation at 5 pm. I feel for George, though, even as I disagree with him. I can't imagine what it must be like to know that you are sending hundreds, thousands, or maybe even tens of thousands of people off to die. Pretty big karmic burden to be president, that's for sure. And who knows? It may be the right decision. The stock market seems to think so, from how it's been acting today. I'll be man enough to say, "I was wrong," if the war goes smashingly, or if Hussein decides to leave Iraq peacefully tomorrow. And if the Iraq army does use chemical or biological weapons, as many are predicting, that will vindicate the U.S. position--though no one, even George, wants to be vindicated in that fashion.

It's a new day in world history. But so is every day, really. This won't be the end of the world, or the beginning of heaven on earth, whichever way the war turns out. I saved our medicine cabinet from tiny pellets of mice mini-destruction. And I love Laurel. Somehow these truths seem a lot more real than Iraq at the moment.

Week in review

God, that sounds like some sort of PBS public affairs program, "Week in Review." But that’s what it's been, more than a week since my last HinesSight entry, so duty calls me to summarize it all in a single blaze of what-we've-been-up-to-but-haven't-uttered-a-peep-about.

Well, the most traumatic event, from which it took me several days to recover, was logging onto the L.L. Bean web site, ready to accomplish my bi-or tri-annual jeans buying in the usual minute or two, and making a horrifying, absolutely impossible to believe, discovery. L.L. Bean had discontinued selling black natural fit jeans, and had changed the color of their light brown/tan jeans--without asking me. I can't fathom why a store that sells to men would so cavalierly make such changes.

Don't their high-paid marketing experts understand that many men want to buy the same piece of clothing they have always bought, and worn, for many years? Clothes shopping, for most men, is not an enjoyable experience. I want to do it over the Internet; I want to do it fast; I want it delivered to my door by UPS fast; and I don't want to have to go through any bullshit, like being told that black jeans aren't available any more.

I felt victimized by L.L. Bean, but I bought four pairs of their faded blue and khaki jeans anyway, because that was the easiest thing to do. Yes, the "khaki" now wasn't the same "khaki" as before, but I can be a little flexible. Finding some black jeans was a major pain in the butt, though. Google wasn't a great help with my quest, nor was my other best Internet friend, Amazon.com. Yes, Amazon sells clothes now, along with just about everything else in the world. I suspect this is where Iraq is getting its weapons of mass destruction. "Welcome back, Mr. Hussein. We noticed that last time you bought some anthrax and botulism. Here are some other biological weapons that might interest you, from our WMD Store. Remember to turn on your 'One Click Shopping.' Remember, there is free shipping in unmarked containers for any purchase over $1 million dollars."

But they didn't have any relaxed fit black jeans in my size, so far as I could tell. By now I had spent over fifteen minutes clothes shopping, albeit all at my computer, and I was reaching my psychic limit for the year. Feelings of panic, irritation, and betrayal by those bastards at L.L. Bean were mixing together in an unhealthy mental brew. Then I thought of checking out the Eddie Bauer web site, which seemed to have a family resemblance to L.L. Bean (outdoorsy, down-to-earth), but hopefully with a greater genetic tendency toward black jeans. And, yes, there they were, black relaxed fit Eddie Bauer jeans, in my long-standing 35/32 size. Heaven!

Except, when they arrived by UPS several days later, I found that L.L. Bean's 35 isn't Eddie Bauer's 35. Guess I deserve to learn what women know so well, a size 12 in this store isn't a size 12 in that store. Isn't 35 inches an objective indisputable constant of nature, though? Once again, I felt betrayed, especially since now I faced the prospect of having to send the jeans back, and wait another week or two for the right size. Then I had an amazing insight, which came out of nowhere. Must have been divine guidance, because nothing in my experience could have led up to this thought: "Brian, you could go to an actual, physical, concrete Eddie Bauer store at the Salem Center, talk to a live human being there, and probably get replacement jeans right on the spot."

What an idea! I could shop for clothes in a real store, not over the Internet! It was such an astounding concept, I couldn't believe it for a moment. It was like doors were opening into a whole new realm of possibilities. Why, next I might find myself buying books in a real bookstore, rather than at Amazon.com. Or I might find myself getting vitamins at a real vitamin store, rather than at Puritan.com. Or I might find myself having real sex... (oops, almost too much honesty in HinesSight).

After finding a parking space just a block away from Salem Center, I can tell you that this is a fad that might catch on, even with men. I learned that in just about the same amount of time it takes to log onto a web site and go through the ordering process, you can walk into a clothing store, talk to a young attractive female clerk, have her say, "Yes, I'm sure we have the size you want," put two pairs of the exact clothes you want into a spanking fresh plastic bag, and be on your way. This reality shopping thing just might take off, if enough people like me get turned on to it.

Otherwise, we've been obsessing over Iraq like everybody else. Also, at the moment Laurel is penning a complaint about an incompent hydrologist with whom she's locked horns in her stop partitioning in Spring Lake Estates crusade. Tomorrow she may go to a hearing at the Board of Geology where this guy is being called on the carpet. One more person we're not going to be getting a Christmas card from next year, I bet.

I've been edging into a possible real job, god forbid, which is a threatening proposition for a writer. In the past week I've even had to go to a couple of meetings with other people, rather than just meet with myself at the usual place and time (here, and always). Still, just as there is something appealing about interacting with a human being, instead of a computer, when buying clothes, I've been enjoying talking with some sustainability comrades instead of conversing so much with myself.

We're in the process of forming three entities, Eco-Enterprises, Eco-Homes, and an Eco-Wise Center that will be in the forefront of developing the Sustainable Fairview site here in Salem. Eco-Enterprises plans to run a 30 acre eco-industrial park with all kinds of cool businesses, from hydrogen power to green building to soil health consulting. Eco-Homes plans to buy 10 acres and sell rights to build 60 green dwellings, owner-designed, with the land held in a Community Land Trust--not owned privately (you own your home, not the land, as on national forest property).

And the Eco-Wise Center will be a non-profit educational/research foundation devoted to saving the earth, and all that good environmental stuff. I may end up being the Communications Director, though we're trying to find less traditional titles than CEO, CFO, and such. Any (shareable in polite company) ideas for a title for me would be most appreciated; a pretty much worthless prize would be awarded to the person who comes up with a title that can be used.

Clearly, a message from God

What other explanation is there? I open up the newspaper this morning, and there in the Saturday “Auto” section is a glowing review of the Mini-Cooper. I got to drive one of the original Mini-Coopers exactly one time, circa 1967, when a college friend much more knowledgeable about cars than I urged me to test drive one, as an alternative to a VW bug that I was thinking of buying. That test drive is still fresh in my mind, or, at least, as fresh as any experience from the 60s can be, for reasons that should be obvious, but which are irrelevant to the subject at hand. Which is, what a Cool Car the Mini-Cooper was, and now once again is, in its recently reincarnated form (an apt term that, now that I think about it, reincarnated).

Anyway, until today I have seen only one Mini-Cooper on the streets of Salem, Then, waiting for a light to change at the corner of Court Street and Commercial this morning, walking to my martial arts class, I espy a yellow Mini-Cooper with a white top tooling down Commercial. I ogle it (though that color scheme doesn't do much for me). I go to the class. After class, I walk back along Court Street, heading for my boring Volvo station wagon. And there, going down Court Street this time, but at the very same intersection I saw it two hours before, is the yellow Mini-Cooper with a white top. Clearly, a message from God. I am destined to have a Mini-Cooper. And not just any old Mini-Cooper, because God is good, and God is generous. And because I really want a supercharged Mini-Cooper, if I am to have one at all. Which I am, because God wants it so.

Now, the only fly in the ointment in this (to my mind) ironclad theological conclusion, came, not surprisingly, from my wife. When I got home and pointed out the amazing unlikelihood that I would read about the Mini-Cooper in the Statesman-Journal today, then see the same Mini-Cooper pass before me not once, but twice, that same morning, when I had seen but one in the months and months before, so obviously God was sending me a message that it was right and good that, one day, a Mini-Cooper sit in our carport, she said: "How do you know it is God sending the message?"

Well, the nerve! How do I know?!! Because I know! However, I suppose she does have a point. "Doesn't God want us to lessen our worldly desires," asked Laurel irritatingly, "rather than add to them?" Hmmmm. So Laurel had the gall to suggest that some lesser divinity, or perhaps even the Dark One, or chance, led me to see three Mini-Cooper Signs in a single morning. Well, everyone is welcome to her own opinion, as ridiculous as it is. I still feel that God is calling me to become a Mini-Cooper owner, And because I believe in grace, and because I don't have the $20, 000 or so it takes to buy a Mini-Cooper S, the supercharged version (plus the bribe money to get a dealer to put you at the top of the lengthy would-be buyer waiting list), I am publicly issuing this challenge to God through my humble weblog.

"God, there are those who do not believe in you. One is my wife, because she doubts the blessed signs that appear to We Who Believe. But do not punish her. Rather, reward me for my faith. Lord, I know you work in mysterious ways, so I will not tell you how to get me driving a Mini-Cooper S, with the navigation system, Tiptronic transmission because I'm lazy (but the 6-speed is acceptable), racing green with a black top, or anything on top but the British flag option. I leave this In Your Hands. God, show my wife, and the doubters who read HinesSight, that You are Real. Get me a Mini-Cooper, and I shall believe, and sing your praises to all who stop to admire my new ever-so-cool wheels. Thank you in advance for your boundless generosity and grace, Brian."

I'll keep you posted on how things turn out. (Note to the Mini-Cooper public relations department: wouldn't this be a great human interest story, when I wake up one morning, and a Mini-Cooper S is sitting in my garage? Email me, and we'll work out the details).