I Forgot the List

One unlikely way to learn what you really need is to go to the store and buy what you think you need. Lo and behold, when you get home you'll find any number of things you should have bought.

Although this phenomenon is not readily explained by modern science, researchers believe clues to understanding it may be found by studying episodes of rain being brought on by washing your car.

How To Eat M & M's

There is an age-old question that's been around for, uh, ages, I guess. And the question is: "How shall I eat my M & M's?" This question is just slightly more prevalent than: "How is M & M's spelled? Lowercase "m's" (m & m's) or uppercase?" Or this one: "Are there spaces between the M's and the ampersand or not (M&M's)?"

While I am no expert concerning candy grammar, I can give you some tips on consuming said candy. This is how I do it:

First, I sort the candy-coated chocolates by color. Then begin eating with the longest line. In this case, both red and blue are equally long, so I eat one of each.

That will yield the arrangement below.

Again, choose from the longest line(s), in this case, red, yellow, blue, and brown will each be equally long and so taking one of each will net you a 4-candy mouthful. You see what's happening? As I progress, the amount of candy consumed in a bite gets larger. It's like counting the days until Christmas. Or something.

So, again eating from the the longest lines gets me to here:

Yes. There are 5 lines that are longest. That means I get to eat 5. And when I do . . .

There remains just one multi-colored, six-candy row of goodness.

I eat them.

That is how to eat M & M's. I recommend the Peanut Butter version, but use the variety that gives you the best results. By following these very simple instructions briskly, you can be sure the candy will melt in your mouth and not in your hand.

Feel free to use this at a Lunch 'n' Learn. There is no YouTube version, but scrolling up and down real fast might work for you.

Nathan and Oscar

Tuesday, I had journeyed to Mart du Ste. Walton Grande to lay in supplies for watching the All-Star game that night. On the list were hot dogs, of course. I also got some chips and Dr. Pepper and popcorn. I was in the mood for cheese popcorn, emphasis on the cheese, and I was intrigued by something called "Buffalo Cheddar" popcorn. My mind translated Buffalo as meaning 'big' or 'extra' or 'bodacious,' or something. I saw what I wanted to see and thought I was getting popcorn so cheesy, the kernels might be individually wrapped.

Of course, when I got home and opened the bag (with scissors, no less-they used some sort of Vulcan mind meld to seal the bag and there was NO WAY to pull the bag apart at the seal), I learned that 'Buffalo' had a specific meaning, as in, flavored like spicy chicken wings dipped in ranch sauce. I was not amused. It's not bad. But it's not bodaciously cheesy, that's for sure.

Well, when I took my goods to the checkout to be scanned, the guy took the hot dogs, slid them over the magic glass, (BEEP), and put them in the bag. Then he looked at me and said, "Those are the best hot dogs ever!" I replied, "Well, they are the best you can buy in the store, that's for sure."

We referred to these, of course:

So tonight, I was headed home to fix myself two more Nathan's. Kathy wasn't going to be home for a while, so I was on my own for supper. It was with mouth-watering anticipation that I pulled into the left turn lane of the last big intersection on my way home. And across the intersection, headed the opposite direction from me was, of all things, this:

I don't think I'd want to drive a wienermobile for a living. On the other hand, it couldn't be as bad as a lot of jobs, come to think of it. But still, I couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy, being on the Oscar Meyer payroll, when I was headed home for Nathan's. I wish now I could have given him one.

He'd have to get a new job, but it'd be worth it.

The River Road? You Can't Miss It

In case you didn't know, this is the River Road.

Photo from Fox News.

Not In My Backyard

Whoever wrote Subway's 5 dollar footlong song and the person responsible for Steak'N'Shake's talking hat should be locked in a room far away from those of us who still have our minds and be made to continually pitch their commercials to each other forever.

Concept Is Lost

When the company John Doe worked for had an employee-suggestion competition, John told his staff to submit entries that would save money for the firm.

The winner was a man in John's department who suggested they post corporate memos on bulletin boards instead of printing 200 individual copies for distribution. He got a helium balloon with the company logo and one share of stock.

A memo announcing the prize went out to 200 people.

Engine Trouble

Since the lay off, I've been working on finding new work, of course. Updating resumes, scanning online sites, sending in apps with resumes attached, "etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." (You know, I remembered Yul Brenner saying this, but I associated it with "The Ten Commandments," not the movie it is actually from, which I have not seen since I was a wee lad and probably have never seen it in its entirety. Hello, Netflix!)

In the meantime, the little Escort wagon has been sitting in the driveway a lot, going nowhere. I do have a part time job in the evening, but usually I drive the newer Chevy we have because Kathy is not going to be using it and, as a bonus, the Chevy has a heater that works. The Escort's blower has blown itself out, so there is no heat to speak of. I bought an alleged heater a while back that plugs into the cigarette lighter and sits on top of the dash, ominously, like a swollen radar detector. It is very effective when clearing the foggy windshield, if by 'very effective' you mean it will clear a spot to peer through that is roughly the size of a softball and is about six inches below your line of sight.

Today it was time to put some coolant in the Escort's radiator as the little light, that may or may not indicate coolant is needed, has been on. I gathered all the relevant items for just such a task, took them to the car, and popped the hood.

Now when a person opens the hood of the car, he generally knows what to expect. Usually one expects to greeted by a lot of metal and rubber in proportions required to put braces on George Washington on Mt. Rushmore.

Well, I saw some of this, but what really caught my eye was the microwave oven-sized wad of leaves packed into the spaces in and around where the coolant overflow reservoir is. And I also saw a neat semi-circle torn out of the insulation attached to the underside of the hood.

Our front yard is a squirrel paradise, judging by the number of them I see most days. And I guess the engine compartment of the stationary automobile was just perfect for a new squirrel dwelling, and construction was underway. However I determined that this new construction was not up to code and, besides, had violated numerous zoning ordinances. It had to go.

However, no squirrels were available for the job, so I had to tear it out myself.

It's A New Year. Let's Go To Wal-Mart

At 3:55 this afternoon I was headed out of Wal-Mart and saw a mob of people going into the store, lined up like Vegas conventioneers at an open bar. What's the attraction? Maybe the Electronics area was going to drop a lighted ball later on. Actually, it's a pretty good bet that something lit would drop in Wal-Mart.

Anyway, I had just been there and let me tell you it is no picnic. Not only are there many shoppers per aisle in there, but there are also at least 2 employees per aisle trying to get the store recovered for what I can only assume would be year-end inventory.

Happy New Year! Now go straighten a jam-packed Wal-Mart as it's being shopped.

Oy.

The Penurious Pirates

See, all along, you thought the Pirates were in Pittsburgh. But no. The Pirates are from some place called penurious. You doubt me? I have proof. From the Minneapolis Star-Tribune in an article outlining the management changes of baseball clubs since the season ended:

"John Russell was booted by the penurious Pirates after 299 defeats in three seasons, which extended the woebegone franchise's consecutive losing years to a major league record 18."

The Penurious Pirates. As plain as day. Penurious must be in Minnesota and I say that for two reasons.

First, as odd as it is for a common sports article to whoop out the word 'penurious', the paper in Minneapolis' sister city, St. Paul, used the same word shortly thereafter. From the Pioneer-Press:

"For years these have been the lovable, do-no-wrong Twins who persevered despite a penurious owner, pathetic payroll and abominable stadium."

So the Pirates and the owner of the Minnesota Twins are from penurious.

Second, the Pirates were also called the 'woebegone franchise'. This must be the same part of the country that Minnesotan Garrison Keillor is always telling tales about.

So, the Pirates are from penurious, which is in Minnesota and this is why they play ball in the NL Central and not the East.

Class dismissed.

Time Travel

Jim Varney died.

This isn't news, at least not to most of you, but I didn't know it when I read it today. Or, if I did know it once, I had forgotten. I wasn't a big fan, but there is one scene in "Ernest Saves Christmas" that cracks me up. Varney, as Ernest, is a cab driver and he stops on an interstate highway to scoop up a Christmas tree that had fallen on the road. While cars and trucks are crashing all about him, he observes to his fare, "They really stack up at this exit!", oblivious to the fact that it was his actions that caused the mess.

I was reminded of Varney when I read Lileks today who commented on the "Toy Story 3" trailer that was just released. Lileks noted that someone else will voice the dog, obviously. But here's what really made me spin my wheels: Varney died in 2000. That means both of the previous Toy Story movies were out before then. That struck me as a very long time ago. As I think about it, I realize that it was in the 90's when they came out, but it doesn't seem possible somehow. Where has the time gone?

"The 70's Are Here!" was some sort of marketing campaign for somebody. I forget who. But I remember the slogan and being impressed in some way that something had changed because it was the 70's. There was anticipation of some hip, modern and cool future. A time portal that now is 40 years in the past. This slapped me in the head as I looked at some files at work yesterday.

Where has the time gone?

I saw on ESPN.com that the Mike Tyson-Buster Douglas fight was 20 years ago. That was probably the last boxing match I was ever interested in. Tyson still wore the mantle of invincibility and the prospect of Douglas winning was remote, as I recall. But win he did and it seems to me, though I confess I don't really follow the sport, Tyson was never the same after. It seemed to be a watershed that marked the beginning of Tyson's decline. Twenty years ago.

Where has the time gone?

There are, in Springfield anyway, drivers for whom time has no meaning. And they are in the left lane. And they are headed where I am. Slowly.

This is where the time has gone.

Unnecessary Duplication of Work

Big headline on Drudge Report:

White House: Obama Critics Helping Al Qaeda

In other words, you Obama Critics, stop helping Al Qaeda. Eric Holder's already doing that.

I Guess I Missed This

So when exactly did Ringo become the leader of the Iranian Republic?

Stay Out Of The Basement

James Lileks reminices about a boyhood pet:

"How the hamster got out, I don’t know, but it’s a lesson; he had all the food he wanted, dry aromatic bedding, a wheel, liquid, and warmth, but he wanted freedom. So he squeezed through the bars somehow and died behind a fridge in the basement, like a junkie."

I never had a hamster, but I had a teddy bear that 'died' in the basement, but he wasn't a junkie.

Let The Chips Fall

I stood in front of a vending machine at the office today and, perusing the small number of choices, focused my attention on a particular bag of chips and asked myself, "How bad could those be?"

This is probably a pathetic approach to snacking.

Fun On Thursday

The Onion News Network provides readers and viewers with what appears to be hard-hitting news reporting, except it's a joke. The network gets a little racy for my blood sometimes, so generally I only wind up there by following someone else's link.

I did that today and I suggest you do, too.

I Like Dogs. Really.

I was tooling around town the other day and saw a bumper sticker that read, "My Daschund Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student." I remember when these bumper stickers first appeared. It seems like a long time ago. IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO!

I'd like to visit with this daschund that is so smart. I'm sure he or she has many interesting opinions about the current political scene, what to do about energy, the war on terror, and why the recession is lingering. I'd like to know who the daschund voted for, if he could reach the table. And if he could read the ballot. And if he can make the mark on the ballot with the stylus using his little pads.

I'd like to know where the daschund is employed and how much he makes and what he contributes to the economy. Surely a dog smarter than an honor student has some gainful employment.

Does he follow sports? How 'bout those Cardinals, eh? And is Missouri going to be strong again this year? And will the Royals ever turn it around? A dog as smart as he is surely has some ideas here.

Oh, and I'd also like to ask him who's befouling the yard and leaving the smear marks on the windows in the car.

I'll bet it's not the honor student.

Friday Night Fun

As I write, there are two lady guests of my wife's in the other room and the three of them are preparing name tags for a ladies function at church next week. The frequent laughter erupting from the dining room is enough to make a man curious. However, the Natural Order of Things says I will keep my distance. It wouldn't be a problem to go in there, but it would be, ah, . . . different.

While we are on the topic of guests of the lady persuasion, my lovely bride hosted 10 or so last Tuesday for Bible study. While they held their confab in the living room, I took the opportunity to have the oil changed. In our car. I'm not sure what the topic was the women were discussing, but when I returned, trying ever so hard to not make a disturbance, they all rose in unison when I walked in the door. I will say the notion of being in the wrong house crossed my mind. But no, they cooked up the little display for fun!

For the last thirty years, or so, I have harbored the idea that learning guitar would be a neat thing to do. And these many years later, it remains a harbored idea. There were a couple of times I nearly set sail, but alas. A few days ago I came across this video of a young man which causes me to think about starting to learn AND abandoning the idea all at once! I trust you will understand my meaning when you watch.

And, this one is amazing.

Happy Friday!

Friday Night Coffee Break

Have you noticed all the coffee shops? Well, sure you have! And, not only that, you have a thought about coffee. I know you do because, these days, it seems, no one is permitted to be coffee neutral.

Apparently, it’s important to choose sides and offerings such as “I like coffee”, “I love coffee!”, or “COFFEE!!!” are examples of opinion on one side. On the other side are declarations like, “I don’t care for coffee”, “I can’t STAND coffee”, and, an oldie but a goodie, “I don’t like coffee, but I like the way it smells”. The two sides generally do not come to blows, but declaring which group you identify with is expected in polite company.

Here at Central Standard I have weighed in on the issue before and, in the interest of full disclosure, I am pro-coffee, but I don’t really drink it. I drink frozen (or iced) mochas. (All the hard-core coffeeheads just guffawed.) Mochas are, essentially, chocolate milk with a little coffee added to tamp down the sweetness a bit. Edgy Chocolate Milk, you might say.

Well you can imagine my interest in an article I found called, “Iced Coffee? No Sweat”. As it turns out, it’s not about mochas at all, but coffee – specifically iced coffee. Interesting. The article touts the joys of iced coffee brewed cold, not hot, and goes on to explain how one can prepare it, and it really is easy. The author tells of learning about cold-brewed coffee from a man who, while on vacation in the Caribbean, refused to drink iced coffee brewed hot. It’s a fun story.

Also catching my eye was this item by Owen Strachan via Justin Taylor. Strachan skewers some of his evangelical/reformed brethren over their coffee pretensions. He describes his peers as “youngish, theologically oriented, book-loving, culturally plugged in, ironically inclined”.

He continues,

“What you find on many websites is some kind of description like this: “I love reformed theology, U2, anything by Steven Soderbergh, and a fresh cup of joe. . . Here’s the thing about this situation: there’s nothing ironic or unique about liking coffee. We all like coffee. Coffee is good. Made well, it’s really good. It’s kind of like saying you like bread. “Anything by Piper, Band of Horses, and Pepperidge Farm rocks my world.” Everyone likes bread. And everyone likes coffee."

He does not stop:

"So, reformed hipster/progressive/student/master-of-irony, next time you consider charting your particular coffee-related beverage of choice, next time you wear it as a distinctive identity marker, remember: everyone else likes coffee. Work harder on the goatee pattern, find another brand of undiscovered denim, dig even deeper in the alternative music shop to lay hands on the truly avant-garde musical act, because your love for coffee–it ain’t getting you there.”

Funny I think.

Get More Jewelry With the Tickets

I read Dave Barry every week.

If you don't know (heavens! who doesn't know?) Barry is a columnist for the Miami Herald and he writes humor. In my view he is must reading. He is what I want to be when I grow up.

His column this week concerned the travails of brides-to-be during the run-up to the wedding. This amounts to planning and planning and planning with the intent being to have a day that is not "RUINED, RUINED, RUINED!" And it all has to be done by the bride, of course.

"Well, what about the groom?", you ask. Helpfully, Barry explains:

And don't tell me that the groom can help. Please. The groom is useless. Statistically speaking, something like 92 percent of all grooms are male. If you let males plan weddings, you're going to wind up with Skee Ball at the reception.

My first reaction, "What a GREAT idea!!! Man! What a blast!" And I thought that any man who read that column had basically the same reaction. "Who wouldn't go for Skee Ball at the reception?"

Actually, I think we know who.

Card Index is Down

I always thought the Index Card was one of man’s great achievements. That and the Bic pen, crystal, blue, medium point, but I digress.

The index card is a great size, three inches by five inches. We call them 3 by 5 cards. One slips into your pocket because of it’s handy size. Yet it’s sturdy enough to survive a day’s work - in the pocket, out of the pocket, back in, now out.

There’s enough room to write a To Do List, or a grocery list, or an outline of a short presentation. Longer presentation? No problem, add a card. Or two. Jot a note to yourself, or to someone else. Or draw something.

You can file them. They make boxes just for that, for filing. You can preserve your lists, notes, drawings and whatnot. What a great invention, that sturdy little card.


Or it was.

Have you seen what they’ve done to index cards? They are ruined! They aren’t card stock anymore, at least not that I’ve found! They are like paper! Thin, rough, BAD PAPER!! I came across these so-called index cards a few weeks ago and I hate them! So I returned to the store to find better ones. I searched for some indication of the weight or thickness of the stock, but I couldn’t find any. And you just can’t tell how good they are in the wrapper, they are bundled up so tight. They look good, but it’s deceptive.

I found some in a two-pack from Oxford and I bought them. I thought, “They are from Oxford, a reputable brand in the office supply world. They’re probably OK!” But, NO! They are terrible! Thin, papery, lousy slips of paper with lines. Call them lined scraps of 3 by 5 paper. They are not worthy of the name, “Index Card.”


I am bereft.

So, I'm appealing for help. If you know of a manufacturer still making Index Cards worthy of the name, please tell me.