Point A to Point B

The natural progression of my thoughts could be described as bizarre. Allow me to elaborate by giving an example:

I was driving to Sacramento several days ago, when I saw a dead squirrel on the side of the road. After expressing the proper amount of joy that at least somewhere something is being done about the overpopulation of what some people call the "Gray Plague," I was reminded of a recent trip I made in which, deep in the blackness of the night, I (unintentionally) struck and (I assume) killed a pedestrian rabbit who happened to be crossing the road. I then considered "deer crossing" signs and a) how much damage a prancing eight-point buck would do to my Focus and b) how rarely one sees a deer cross the road in the leaping position the signs depict. Naturally, when one is on the deer crossing sign mind track, one is forced to consider other signs delineating an animal and its inclination to cross a motorway. Let's see, we have the equestrian, the occasional moose, child chasing ball, hand-holding foot traffic, bovine, armadillo, kangaroo (if you're down under) and, of course, the duck with ducklings in tow. Now, two thoughts enter my mind when I contemplate the duck with duckling train crossing sign: first, I think about the immense joy I would feel if I saw a whole squad of baby ducks following momma duck (it seems that daddy duck is rarely in the picture). In my mind, there would probably be a light rainbow behind the glistening mountains in the background, perhaps the ducks are whistling softly, I don't know. The second thought which stumbles into my mind like a guy who lives on the subway arriving late to an ill-fated job interview at, ironically, Subway, is the Berenstain Bears. Stick with me on this one. I don't know what your memory of the Berenstain Bears includes, but the most vivid picture I have is this sequence: The bears are on a road trip, when all of a sudden they strike the car ahead of them, which has unexpectedly stopped for no apparent reason. Poppa Bear is FUMING. He's ready to rumble, and, as a bear, we can expect a certain amount of carnage as a result. But, the driver of the car in front of him steps out of his car and guess what? This dude is huge. He is at least three-quarters grizzly and was only recently released from the penitentiary for crimes in relation to disorderly conduct, assault and public indecency (we assume). We can practically hear Poppa Bear gulp in fear. He gets out of the car, asks his children, the aptly named Brother and Sister, not to watch, and approaches the furious driver. However, once the two meet, and Poppa Bear sees the actual situation, which of course is that they were at a duck crossing and Mother duck and her ducklings were crossing the street in a row. Poppa Bear feels foolish, apologizes, and, in the end, it turns out that the bear in the car in front really isn't that upset and is just glad that nobody was hurt. What was the intended lesson here? Some say this story illustrates our need for just a little understanding . . . a sentiment with which I agree. However, I would add a caveat: this story illustrates our need for understanding, only if the person in the car you just hit gets out and happens to be larger than you. Otherwise, let the fisticuffs begin.

And, there you go. That's pretty much the route my brain follows. Squirrel=childhood suggestions of road rage.

"We're not like real rocking rockers. We'd rather write about feeling and emotions."

-The Fray, a band who sings songs like "How To Save A Life," a diddy which surprisingly makes no mention of CPR.

One topic. Just one.

Guess what, guys? Football is on the decline.

So tonight I am watching football, as one does in the evening. What should catch my attention but the evident rule changes in the National Football League. What we have here is the wimping (yes, I verbed the word wimp; I also verbed the word verb) of football. I watched one penalty in which a receiver missed a pass and a safety struck him from behind (if at this point you are lost, there is a good chance you don't understand the sport of football). Now, the ball bounced off the receiver's hands (put him on the bench, coach, them hands are fer catchin) and probably a half second afterwards the safety collided with the receiver. Usually this would not be a foul, but because of the rule changes, the referee felt inclined to say it was a personal foul. Not five minutes later, I was informed of the rule that, as soon as a player's helmet is removed, a play will be whistled dead. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a perversion of the sport which we love. No longer are players allowed to hit one another. If we continue in this fashion, five years down the road tackling will no longer be allowed. The downward spiral from that point will go as follows:

2015: Tackling disallowed; two-hand touch rules initiated

2017: Unnecessary touching disallowed; flag rules begin

2018-2020: Dark ages of society and sports; analog clocks disappear from society along with the understanding of basic grammar and the necessity of real human contact

2021: Flag-pulling ruled offensive; games become orchestrated, televised games of hide-and-seek; Lions perform uncharacteristically well

2025: Different teams considered unconstitutional; television time is instead devoted to three hour crafts workshop

2026: Moon strikes earth because of density of humanity; thousands are glad (or would be if the earth hadn't been crushed by lunar body) they did not waste time at medical school

In a country which allows mixed martial arts (for the record, I am not arguing against the brutality of mma, but rather against the milksopping of football), it is hard to believe these rule changes. You see, occasionally someone in an mma fight will get kicked in the head. Controversially, in professional football, excessive pushing is considered an extreme offense. I'm just saying, let's have a little continuity. Some of my favorite memories are of football and I hate the idea that it could disappear. I hope that someday my children will be able to cheer a well-choreographed touchdown pass or laugh at the expense of the Oakland Raiders and Al Davis' bizarre draft choices. But if they are forced to sit through a hit-free football game, well, then, NFL, I don't have any answers for you. You've taken it all. What more could you possibly want?

"I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault."

-Jack Tatum, retired player of the sport formerly known as football (possible new names? "Run and touch," "Shareball," "Powerwalkball," "Minimal-contact Twinkletoelery." Vote for your favorite or submit your own).

The fable of the clock: an inspiring tale

When was the last time you heard someone play a sitar really well? Oh, all those sympathetic strings. Fantastic.

Following what is arguably the best introduction to a post ever, allow me to attack one of the major problems today: which way do you pass the food? Now, people will tell you different things, but the most agreed upon direction is to the right (or counterclockwise, as the resident horologist likes to say). I have no beef (literal or otherwise) with the passing of food starboard, but I do think that we need to set in stone the rule, because there are few things that are as awful as that panic when you have two dishes in your hands, each headed in a different direction, and no way to serve yourself food. My hope is that someday, probably about 20 (if I'm being pessimistic, which I am) years in the future, when our children have become too dumb to fend for themselves, this will come in handy. Take, for example, this scenario: Little Billy has discovered an ancient relic, in pieces, known by historians as an "analog clock." Now, nobody has seen one of these in use, and, really, humanity's understanding of time as a useful tool has slipped to the same level as our being able to ever rationalize the purchase of a cinnabon prior to an airplane ride or a local Shakespeare festival in the middle section of our country; this being said, Little Billy has an extraordinary drive to accomplish something in which others his age are uninterested (probably due to the fact that his parents did not "spare the rod"). He decides he will attempt to recreate the analog clock in its full functioning capacity. He listens not to the whining masses about the possible implications a working clock has on the poor icebergs; rather, he works harder than ever to find out all he can about how to reconstruct the clock. Eventually, after the clock is completely rebuilt and refurbished, before it is wound, the philosophers and even individuals in the useful branches of science will ponder aloud, "I wonder in which direction the 'hands' of the 'clock' will travel?" And at that time, if all goes well, Little Billy will respond, with a certain sense of entitlement, "Counterplatewise."

That story was long and possibly worth it.

"The biggest misconception people have about me is that I'm stupid."

-William Michael Albert Broad, or Billy Idol, hard-rocking rock star who liked to rock hard and live life to the fullest. Rock. Hard. Oh, and he was blonde. Tight shirts? Yeah, he's a fan.

With nothing better to do

Bulldozers are cool. We can all agree on that; however, do they really merit an hour-long show on natgeo (it used to be National Geographic, but evidently natgeo is more hip)? However, just when I was thinking that this show was boring, they decided to drive a Komatsu over a pickup truck. Nice.

How have you all been? I have not written anything for a good long time, and it is possible that most of you do not even remember who I am or why you would have read my blather in the past, but let's get this post on the road before all the goodwill is used up.

Squirrels: it is well understood among literate individuals that by using the word "snake" or "serpent" in the Bible, Moses likely meant the more correct translation of "squirrel" when describing Lucifer's actions in the fall of man. You would think that by this point in history, the squirrel population would have been entirely eliminated, but this is not the case. An example of twisted squirrel evil: whilst camping, a grey squirrel stole a biscuit and left a fecal nugget in what can only be interpreted as some sort of deviant tooth-fairy-esque act. If there was ever a declaration of war, this would be it.

Mosquito hawks? My opinion? First, thank's for asking; second, it is key to my argument that you understand that these insects do not actually eat mosquitos. They do not kill mosquitos. They do not even drive past mosquitos houses real slow late at night and give the stink eye. Therefore, I say this: they have been living falsely through their reputations as mercenary mosquito life-bandits for far too long. Retribution should be swift. Remember when you were a child and, having already run out of large, furry animals to persecute, turned your innocent, child-like rage to insects and your mom stopped you moments before you superman-punched a mosquito eater out of the atmosphere by saying, "Don't do that; that's a good bug. It eats mosquitos." Do you remember how you regarded that bug for the next bunch of years? You probably looked at it and said to yourself, "Oh to serve such a purpose as this insect does!" I bet you feel foolish now. And so did I when I learned nature's dirty little secret about the mosquito hawk.

Whew! Information overload, right? This post is like the straight to vhs version of if a Snapple lid and the entire catalogue of ranger rick animal magazines had a love child, but the child was fathered by Walker, Texas Ranger (the character, not the actor who played him), and had Stever Irwin's daughter and the security guard from the Kaplan College commercials as godparents.

That's ridiculous.

"Sink me, your tailors have betrayed you."

-Sir Percy, from the untouchable classic, The Scarlet Pimpernel. Any movie in which the French get bashed is okay by me.

The twilight of humanity brought about in a most ironic fashion

Gooooood evening folks. I figured, with all this debate about the Twilight series going on (can you call it a debate when only one party seems to have any understanding of normal human behavior and what truly defines "good" or even "passable" literature?), it was more than time that we should let mother nature weigh in on how she feels about this new trend. Hence, I give you the facts: bear and shark attacks are a direct result of the creation and following of the Twilight series of "books" and "films."

The most important facts which correlate with the events of the series are listed above in the handy scatter plot. However, what isn't present is the interpretation of the facts. That's what I am here for. That, and to accept any free swag which may be sent my way. Contact me if you are interested. Some might ask why I don't put my mailing address here to cut out one step of the swag-receiving process, and my answer is simple: I don't want to receive in the mail a shrunken head, DNA or some sort of frightening photograph montage of me in which all the pictures were taken without my knowledge and from a high vantage point.

2003: The year at which our chart begins and the year in which this "author" from Phoenix decided to conjure this ridiculous fantasy of shiny, non-threatening vampire-lovin'. How's this sound?- a brown bear, in response to this clear attack on literature and better judgment, killed a dude. What's more, sharks got in on the action and attacked forty people. I hate to be the one who points this out, but when both the forest and the sea say, "Whoah, now," it may be time to take heed.

2004: A relatively quiet year. Why? Because she was still in the process of writing the "books," and, frankly, the beasts of the earth and water did not think she would a) complete them before realizing they were trash or b) ever succeed at finding a publisher dumb enough to endorse them.

2005: Bad news, bears (and sharks not to mention [and the people who were attacked also not to mention])! Twilight is published and there is trouble in river city (and also cities not adjacent to water). This is arguably the bears' biggest response to the travesty--they go to bat against six people in North America and feast well. The shark puts up average numbers (smart thinking, sharks. You don't want to get burned out yet, not with two more "books" and heaven knows how many "movies" left to rear their frightening, dull heads).

2006: New Moon was "published" and the animal attacks continued. I am sad to say that I only caught wind of this today (despite the fact that I regularly peruse the internet to find statistics of wild animal attacks. You have stamp collecting, I have a morbid interest in nature's retaliation towards the invention of the deep fryer. I don't hate your hobby, don't hate mine.), for if I had been aware of this when it was going down, perhaps we could have avoided the release of any more well-organized pages of blather and the needless loss of life purely attributable to society's willing acceptance of Twilight.

2007: Eclipse is out and the sharks have had enough. They pick up the slack for their furry brethren by attacking 50 people. Maybe I'm an optimist, but I like to think that perhaps those people never had to sit through a reading of one of these "novels."

2008-present: The attacks and deaths continue, as do the clear and personal attacks to good taste. The bears have, in my opinion, spoken closely. We have always looked to the bears for guidance, and they have never failed us (except for that one time, when they were like, "No, it's cool . . . the Challenger is totally space-ready.").

Shall we answer the call of the wild? And after we have finished relieving our bowels, should we not respond to the clear message of nature? Nature's message: "Knock it off, Twilight dweebs." Who would have thought that nature would still be using the euphemism "dweeb?" But then again, nature is old school.

"Why are people so afraid of bear attacks?"

- Question on Grizzly Bay, a web site devoted to making people feel comfortable around grizzly bears. I have a suspicion that the site is run by bears to the purpose that people will be easier to eat. Here's a short list of why people are so afraid of bear attacks:

1) The word "attack" is a word with which one should be uncomfortable.

2) Bears are frightening, hungry beasts who will occasionally bite a head or two. This is another perfectly valid reason for fear.

c) Just because I am more likely to be killed by bees than by bears does not make the thought of a bear attack less horrifying; just because something is unlikely does not mean that someone should not be concerned about it.

IV) Full-grown grizzly bears are roughly the size of a Datsun. If you shag carpeted the exterior of a Datsun and made its primary food source flesh, I would also be afraid of that.

5) Your condescending question makes it clear that you have never had to run for your life while urine trickles down your cargos and you search for either a tree to climb or a large-caliber firestick because a bear is chasing you.

F) Have you ever been flicked with a rubber-band? Did it hurt? Probably. Bear attacks hurt waaaaay worse.

Summertime blues like Eddie Cochran. That will be the only Eddie Cochran reference. Sorry, blue suede shoes fans.

Well, everybody, I've figured it out. You see, for some time I (and other inquiring, efficient minds) have pondered the question: "What the dickens is wrong with music today?"

Now, I know a lot of you will argue that the problem with today's music is that it lacks an emotional quality, has no real message, or that its message is one of, if I may, "money and hoes." Still others may say that the problem lies in the fact that the music is too digitally enhanced or that the bands have to scream too much. Finally, a small percentage of you may take issue with the fact that, in bands of today, a v-neck is considered not only acceptable but necessary.

Up until recently, I would have agreed with you. However, we would all have been wrong if we had taken that route.

Therefore it gives me great pleasure to tell you all the answer to the problem:

Today's music lacks . . . harpsichord solos.

Weren't expecting that, were you? But it's true. How much more would we enjoy music if the occasional 12 minute harpsichord solo was thrown in the middle.

Summer is at hand, yet I find myself still in school. I am ready for summer, although I am sure some of you are saying, "Come along, now, Benjamin. You have only been in school for the last quarter because you lacked foresight and had a less-than-stable moral structure. You cannot possibly be ready for summer." If that is how you feel, you are a bad person, and I would not be the least bit surprised if something negative befell you.

That last sentence had a lot of aggression in it.

"It's summertime and the living is easy. . . ."

-Sam Cooke, a pioneer of soul music who was killed in the winter of 1964 by a hotel manager with an itchy trigger finger. One can only ponder if it had been summertime, would this have happened?

Does absence make the heart grow fonder? I don't answer that question in this post. This title is really long.

It has been nearly a fortnight since I have last written anything (I considered adding the phrase, "of meaning" to that last sentence, but thought better of it) on this little soapbox. I think it is fair to assume that I have been missed.

Not too long ago, I was walking from my dormitory to the cafeteria. It was a sunny day, with few clouds in the sky, and I was walking with my eyes open (which is usually the case when I begin to get into trouble). All of a sudden, a drop liquid struck me square on the left eyeball. Recall, if you will, my description of the day earlier in this paragraph: sunny, few clouds. So, when the globule of heavenly drink impacted my iris, it is not surprising that I thought I was being attacked. Both eyes shut rapidly, in order to impede other stillicides from entering my skull, and I began throwing looping right hooks to defend myself in my blind state. It turned out that the drip was just a stray raindrop. However, in that time of trouble, it was very pleasant to see my Emergency Action Plan so effectively come alive.

Have you ever asked anyone the question, "How are you?" only to receive the answer, "Well, it's Friday." If so, there are a couple possible problems with this response. First off, check the date. Is it actually Friday? If not, it is safe to say that the person with whom you are conversing does not have a proper grip on reality. Backing away slowly, while possibly not the best course of action, can't hurt in this situation. However, if the day is, in fact, Friday, this second problem needs to be handled: is the person deaf? Along with that, is this person deaf AND a very poor lip-reader? Because, as any hearing person will tell you, "How are you?" sounds nothing like, "Pray tell, which day of the week are we up against?" And any person who can see will tell you the lip movements during the last two sentences are quite different. This was a long-winded attempt to bring an end to people telling me what day it is when I ask them how they are faring.

I went to Leatherby's this weekend (Hey, Leatherby's, free advertising. How else would you have reached my eight readers [out of which an estimated 88% already know of your existence]?). If you are not feeling what we humans call "jealousy," it is either because you, also, were at Leatherby's this weekend or because you just don't understand, and there is nothing I can do to make you understand. For this I am sorry.

As I was driving back to Napa Valley on the 12 this evening, I was afforded a delightful moment: it was about 8:30, the sun was low in the sky and casting orange-red light on the clouds and the windmills were basically silhouettes against this magic backdrop. What's more is that, as I was pondering this, Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" came up in the shuffle. The entire atmosphere gave me shivers, an experience which I thought could not be bested. However, immediately following in the playlist was "Thriller." If you have never driven the 12 in May at 8:35 with "Thriller" on the stereo, you are missing out.

Also, and this may be strange, every time I go on a trip the song "She's Gone" by Hall and Oates comes on my iPod. I like the song, but is there anything that makes you feel more alone than Darry Hall and John Oates singing a breakup song from the 70s while you maneuver a hatchback solo through wine country?

"A hat raised half-heartedly is a courtesy without charm."

-Evidently an old proverb. Who first said it? I don't know. Why don't you do some research? Do you think I enjoy writing this last part? I wish I had never started writing quotes at the end. It's too much pressure. That's probably why I make up half of the quotes; I find it difficult enough to find someone to whom I can falsely attribute the words.