I used to think that people who said global warming was a myth were either the same polluters causing global warming in the first place or just plain wrong. But after the start of this winter, those people may be on to something.
Every winter is cold of course, but this winter seems colder than usual so far. Last week, we spent more time in the single and negative digits than above them. It was colder than Anne Coulter in a meat locker. And that’s pretty cold!
The cold temperatures have been especially hard on me for one single reason: I’m a huge wimp when it comes to dealing with the cold. I’ll be the first to admit it. I just can’t handle cold weather, and I always seem to feel colder than anyone else. Slap a pacifier in my mouth, because if you’re talking about dealing with cold weather, I’m a big, big baby.
This inability to stay warm made me realize something: I’m never going to be comfortably warm again until spring arrives. Maybe when I’m driving long distances, the heater at full blast will eventually warm my car up to an acceptable level. But other than that, I’m a Popsicle.
The insulation in the walls in my apartment seems to be about as thin as Kate Moss on a diet, so there is not much refuge from the cold at home. The Tribune office can get pretty cold too, as evidenced by the frost that was forming on the inside of the windows near my desk last week.
So I may not be comfortable again until at least March, but I must give credit to the people of Park County. Last Thursday in our “Look who’s talking” feature on the opinion page, the people on the street were downplaying the frigid temperatures like it was nothing when asked what they thought of the weather. Had I been asked the same question while standing outside, my answer would have read something like “(teeth chattering) It…It…It’s fffreeezing…(more teeth chattering, then fall to the ground and assume the fetal position).”
People in Park County don’t stay indoors to get away from the cold; they have Christmas parades in it! Whose idea was it to have a parade in the dead of winter? I actually went to the parade in Powell earlier this month, and it was so cold, as I approached Bent Street I saw a polar bear walking back towards his car, saying “you’re on your own.”
Maybe it won’t be as cold as it has been all winter long. But I’m not getting my hopes up. Fortunately, many Park County residents seem to be adept at handling the cold weather. For those that are, if you see a tall skinny guy on the sidewalk in the fetal position, if you could check to make sure he’s still breathing, he’d greatly appreciate it.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Not giving thanks alone this year
Last issue, you read what Tribune columnists Alison Stewart and Doug Blough had to be thankful for, and also on this page, you’ll read Don Amend’s take on the holiday. Never one to avoid a bandwagon, I have afew things to be thankful for (besides Ashlee Simpson) that I’d like to share with you.
Of course, I have the typical things to be thankful for, like having a roof over my head. Even though over the past month, that’s about all my apartment has provided at times. I live in a very old house converted into a duplex, and as me, my rooommate and our neighbor have found out, the electrical wiring leaves something to be desired. Since I am a thrifty person (editor’s note: unthinkably cheap) we’ve been trying to heat our house with space heaters instead of using the gas heater because of astronomically high natural gas prices. But as we’ve learned not once, not twice, but three times, a space heater is too much for our electrical grid to take. And once the power has been blown, it’s not as easy to fix as throwing the switches in our breaker box. It’s our neighbor’s breaker that controlls our side of the house, and our breaker that controls hers (don’t think about it too hard, your head might explode).
The third time it happened, we couldn’t get our neighbor to flip the right switch until the next morning, so I slept with two pairs of sweatpants, four shirts and four blankets to keep warm (I was still cold). And the next morning, I showered in the dark (when showering in the dark, make sure you know where the soap is at all times).
I am also thankful I get to spend Thanksgiving with some friends this year. To be honest, Thanksgiving isn’t that important of a holiday tome, but even I felt a little sad last year alone in my apartment. Sitting in front of the television, with an under-cooked frozen turkey
saturating it.
So I’m sure yesterday was better than last year. As for our Thanksgiving spread, it may not even measure up to last year’s frozen dinner. I think we’ll have the typical turkey and mashed potatoes and the like, but my friends’ and I collective cooking skills are about as strong as President Bush’s approval rating. I hope your Thanksgiving was as good as I’m sure mine will be. After all, anything is better than siting alone, in the dark because the power has blown again, wearing four shirts and eating tear-salted turkey.
Of course, I have the typical things to be thankful for, like having a roof over my head. Even though over the past month, that’s about all my apartment has provided at times. I live in a very old house converted into a duplex, and as me, my rooommate and our neighbor have found out, the electrical wiring leaves something to be desired. Since I am a thrifty person (editor’s note: unthinkably cheap) we’ve been trying to heat our house with space heaters instead of using the gas heater because of astronomically high natural gas prices. But as we’ve learned not once, not twice, but three times, a space heater is too much for our electrical grid to take. And once the power has been blown, it’s not as easy to fix as throwing the switches in our breaker box. It’s our neighbor’s breaker that controlls our side of the house, and our breaker that controls hers (don’t think about it too hard, your head might explode).
The third time it happened, we couldn’t get our neighbor to flip the right switch until the next morning, so I slept with two pairs of sweatpants, four shirts and four blankets to keep warm (I was still cold). And the next morning, I showered in the dark (when showering in the dark, make sure you know where the soap is at all times).
I am also thankful I get to spend Thanksgiving with some friends this year. To be honest, Thanksgiving isn’t that important of a holiday tome, but even I felt a little sad last year alone in my apartment. Sitting in front of the television, with an under-cooked frozen turkey
saturating it.
So I’m sure yesterday was better than last year. As for our Thanksgiving spread, it may not even measure up to last year’s frozen dinner. I think we’ll have the typical turkey and mashed potatoes and the like, but my friends’ and I collective cooking skills are about as strong as President Bush’s approval rating. I hope your Thanksgiving was as good as I’m sure mine will be. After all, anything is better than siting alone, in the dark because the power has blown again, wearing four shirts and eating tear-salted turkey.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
It's been more than a week since it happened, and I'm certainly not getting any younger (as you will soon find out), so I'm ready to share something with you.
Come here, a little closer: (In a whispering voice) I recently turned 24 years old.
I know what most of you adult readers are thinking: So what? Twenty-four? I'd kill to be 24 again. How could he possibly feel old atage 24? Even Ashlee Simpson columns are better than this garbage. But put yourself in my shoes before you write off my worries. You see, up until turning 24, I've still viewed myself as a "young person." It's kind of an indefinable classification, but for me, 23 was the mythical cutoff age. Anytime I felt like I was getting older, I always thought, well, at least I'm not 24. But that reassurance was gone faster than a Scooter Libby resignation.
Even though I had this perception in my mind of being old, nothing changed after turning 24. I still look the same. And when I say the same, I mean young, like high-school aged (on a good day). I still have people say to me: it's so nice of the Tribune to let high schoolers intern there when I'm out reporting for an article.
(Side note: Unfortunately, my recently attained haircut, which made me look even younger, didn't go away when the clock struck midnight on my birthday, either. For future reference: When the stylist breaks out the books with the pictures of different haircuts and all you want is your hair cut shorter, run. My hair looked like something out of the ‘50s, which was probably when the stylist started cutting hair.)
My parents definitely still look at me as a young person, if not a kid sometimes. My mother recently e-mailed me twice to remind me to get a flu shot. That I can understand I guess, but are e-mail reminders such as "wear a coat when you go outside, you'll catch a cold," "wash your hands, they're filthy" or "stop making a fool of yourself, I'm sorry I had you" really necessary? But I guess I ask to be treated that way when I still call my parents with simple questions, such as "what does adjusted gross income" mean on tax forms and "how does one make toast?"
So, if I still look young and people still treat me like I'm young, what is the big deal about turning 24? I couldn't quite explain why 24 was such a milestone, but I only knew that I felt older suddenly. Once you're not young anymore, you're not old, but you definitely aren't young (it's really quite simple).
When you're not young, you're supposed to start acting like an adult. That means dressing nicer (appearing like a homeless person is no longer acceptable). It also means using adult words, meaning "dude" is no longer an all-encompassing way to address someone. And eventually, it means really scary stuff like having kids (I don't even think I'm ready for plants) and, gulp, becoming a Kiwanis member.
I just don't think I'm prepared to stop being young. But 24 was telling me otherwise. Then, a simple online survey changed my whole perspective.
The survey asked for my age, and I started from the bottom of the list up, thinking my age group would come sooner that way. Not so. I scanned all the way to the top before finding my age group: 18-24! I was still grouped in with young people! And the lowest possible age group! My spirits were lifted. I immediately stopped the survey to call AARP and cancel my membership.
As it turns out, society does still consider me a young person. All it took was a survey to prove to myself that I wasn't done being young yet.
So I've got one spectacular year of being young left. Then, I'll turn ... I can't even say it ... twenty-f... twenty-fi... twenty ... quarter of a centur......
Dude, I love being 24.
Come here, a little closer: (In a whispering voice) I recently turned 24 years old.
I know what most of you adult readers are thinking: So what? Twenty-four? I'd kill to be 24 again. How could he possibly feel old atage 24? Even Ashlee Simpson columns are better than this garbage. But put yourself in my shoes before you write off my worries. You see, up until turning 24, I've still viewed myself as a "young person." It's kind of an indefinable classification, but for me, 23 was the mythical cutoff age. Anytime I felt like I was getting older, I always thought, well, at least I'm not 24. But that reassurance was gone faster than a Scooter Libby resignation.
Even though I had this perception in my mind of being old, nothing changed after turning 24. I still look the same. And when I say the same, I mean young, like high-school aged (on a good day). I still have people say to me: it's so nice of the Tribune to let high schoolers intern there when I'm out reporting for an article.
(Side note: Unfortunately, my recently attained haircut, which made me look even younger, didn't go away when the clock struck midnight on my birthday, either. For future reference: When the stylist breaks out the books with the pictures of different haircuts and all you want is your hair cut shorter, run. My hair looked like something out of the ‘50s, which was probably when the stylist started cutting hair.)
My parents definitely still look at me as a young person, if not a kid sometimes. My mother recently e-mailed me twice to remind me to get a flu shot. That I can understand I guess, but are e-mail reminders such as "wear a coat when you go outside, you'll catch a cold," "wash your hands, they're filthy" or "stop making a fool of yourself, I'm sorry I had you" really necessary? But I guess I ask to be treated that way when I still call my parents with simple questions, such as "what does adjusted gross income" mean on tax forms and "how does one make toast?"
So, if I still look young and people still treat me like I'm young, what is the big deal about turning 24? I couldn't quite explain why 24 was such a milestone, but I only knew that I felt older suddenly. Once you're not young anymore, you're not old, but you definitely aren't young (it's really quite simple).
When you're not young, you're supposed to start acting like an adult. That means dressing nicer (appearing like a homeless person is no longer acceptable). It also means using adult words, meaning "dude" is no longer an all-encompassing way to address someone. And eventually, it means really scary stuff like having kids (I don't even think I'm ready for plants) and, gulp, becoming a Kiwanis member.
I just don't think I'm prepared to stop being young. But 24 was telling me otherwise. Then, a simple online survey changed my whole perspective.
The survey asked for my age, and I started from the bottom of the list up, thinking my age group would come sooner that way. Not so. I scanned all the way to the top before finding my age group: 18-24! I was still grouped in with young people! And the lowest possible age group! My spirits were lifted. I immediately stopped the survey to call AARP and cancel my membership.
As it turns out, society does still consider me a young person. All it took was a survey to prove to myself that I wasn't done being young yet.
So I've got one spectacular year of being young left. Then, I'll turn ... I can't even say it ... twenty-f... twenty-fi... twenty ... quarter of a centur......
Dude, I love being 24.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Call it a comeback
If you see me around town this week and I seem to be in a particularly good mood, don’t worry. I’m not on anything. My high spirits will be a product of the culmination of an incredible comeback.
That’s right, Ashlee Simpson is back. As you regular readers of my column (editor’s note: he means his parents) likely remember, Ashlee is one of my favorite musicians. Even though I don’t own any of her music. It was her now completed MTV reality show, “The Ashlee Simpson Show,”that made me a fan for life. But after the final episode of the show aired last winter, I’ve basically lost touch with Ashlee. Her name never seemed to come up in the news, which, after the year she had, was probably a good thing.
As I’m sure most of you know, Ashlee had a less than favorable experience on Saturday Night Live last year when a backing track she was using to support her almost completely lost voice played the wrong song. Of course, the sensationalist media unfairly painted Ashlee as a lip syncher. Then, Ashlee was booed during her halftime performance at the Orange Bowl worse than Karl Rove at a CIA picnic.
After two embarrassing instances like that, nobody would be surprised if Ashlee’s career plummeted lower than the cut of her more famous sister Jessica’s shorts in The Dukes of Hazzard movie. But Ashlee is proving them all wrong. Her new album, "I Am Me" (a title so simple, yet so true), hit stores Tuesday, and is sure to be a huge hit. But before that could happen, Ashlee had to return to the scene of last year’s debacle.
Yes, the set of SNL. Most people in their right mind wouldn’t go back to a place with such bad memories. But Ashlee’s not like most people. She summoned all her courage and took the stage, this time with a healthy voice and no need for a backing track. And she belted out “Catch Me When I Fall” off her new album, which, as she briefly explained, was written following her first SNL experience. There probably wasn’t a dry eye in the studio following the performance (I’m not afraid to say I shed a few tears).
Though “The Ashlee Simpson Show” won’t be making a return on MTV, Ashlee made a one-time reappearance on the network recently with a special chronicling her 21st birthday celebration and private performance. Some things have changed, like her hair color, from black back to her natural blonde. I really liked her black hair, but sometimes, you have to return to your true self. I should know, as I dyed my own hair blonde not too long ago, in part to return to my earlier days when I had natural blonde hair (Ashlee and I are keeping it real).
With her album now released, Ashlee’s comeback is one of the most impressive in recent memory. (Maybe second only to Michael Brown, the ousted former director of FEMA. Somehow, after horribly and tragically mismanaging the federal government’s response to Hurricane Katrina, Brown was back being paid by the federal government as a consultant to find out what went wrong with the hurricane response. Seriously, can’t we find a better job for this guy? Since Bush can’t ever really get rid of a crony, and since Brown has a background with horses, can’t he muc kout the stalls at the ranch in Crawford? Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job with that hay.)
In an article in the New York Daily News, Ashlee recognized who stood behind her (me), and who tried unsuccessfully to drive her out of the business. “It’s so weird,” Ashlee recalled. “I have awesome fans, and the people who were not nice to me after that SNL thing were, like, old men. They don’t listen to my music anyway, so it’s like, leave me alone!” I couldn’t have said it better myself. This fan will always have your back, Ash, even if you fall again. Us blondes have to stick together.
That’s right, Ashlee Simpson is back. As you regular readers of my column (editor’s note: he means his parents) likely remember, Ashlee is one of my favorite musicians. Even though I don’t own any of her music. It was her now completed MTV reality show, “The Ashlee Simpson Show,”that made me a fan for life. But after the final episode of the show aired last winter, I’ve basically lost touch with Ashlee. Her name never seemed to come up in the news, which, after the year she had, was probably a good thing.
As I’m sure most of you know, Ashlee had a less than favorable experience on Saturday Night Live last year when a backing track she was using to support her almost completely lost voice played the wrong song. Of course, the sensationalist media unfairly painted Ashlee as a lip syncher. Then, Ashlee was booed during her halftime performance at the Orange Bowl worse than Karl Rove at a CIA picnic.
After two embarrassing instances like that, nobody would be surprised if Ashlee’s career plummeted lower than the cut of her more famous sister Jessica’s shorts in The Dukes of Hazzard movie. But Ashlee is proving them all wrong. Her new album, "I Am Me" (a title so simple, yet so true), hit stores Tuesday, and is sure to be a huge hit. But before that could happen, Ashlee had to return to the scene of last year’s debacle.
Yes, the set of SNL. Most people in their right mind wouldn’t go back to a place with such bad memories. But Ashlee’s not like most people. She summoned all her courage and took the stage, this time with a healthy voice and no need for a backing track. And she belted out “Catch Me When I Fall” off her new album, which, as she briefly explained, was written following her first SNL experience. There probably wasn’t a dry eye in the studio following the performance (I’m not afraid to say I shed a few tears).
Though “The Ashlee Simpson Show” won’t be making a return on MTV, Ashlee made a one-time reappearance on the network recently with a special chronicling her 21st birthday celebration and private performance. Some things have changed, like her hair color, from black back to her natural blonde. I really liked her black hair, but sometimes, you have to return to your true self. I should know, as I dyed my own hair blonde not too long ago, in part to return to my earlier days when I had natural blonde hair (Ashlee and I are keeping it real).
With her album now released, Ashlee’s comeback is one of the most impressive in recent memory. (Maybe second only to Michael Brown, the ousted former director of FEMA. Somehow, after horribly and tragically mismanaging the federal government’s response to Hurricane Katrina, Brown was back being paid by the federal government as a consultant to find out what went wrong with the hurricane response. Seriously, can’t we find a better job for this guy? Since Bush can’t ever really get rid of a crony, and since Brown has a background with horses, can’t he muc kout the stalls at the ranch in Crawford? Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job with that hay.)
In an article in the New York Daily News, Ashlee recognized who stood behind her (me), and who tried unsuccessfully to drive her out of the business. “It’s so weird,” Ashlee recalled. “I have awesome fans, and the people who were not nice to me after that SNL thing were, like, old men. They don’t listen to my music anyway, so it’s like, leave me alone!” I couldn’t have said it better myself. This fan will always have your back, Ash, even if you fall again. Us blondes have to stick together.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Bowling for my bank account
Getting together with friends at the local bowling alley. The exhilaration of seeing that last pin teeter over for a strike. Inhaling two packs worth of second-hand smoke.
Yes, a night of league bowling can be a lot of fun. But don’t' have too much fun, and you better bring your checkbook (or a mortgage).
About a month ago, my co-workers and I joined a Thursday night bowling league. When they approached me to join, I thought "sure." I enjoy bowing and shouldn't turn down any social invitation. Little did I know the financial commitment I was making.
The first night of bowling costs $25. Ten dollars for three games and $15 for "membership" in some national bowling association. Each additional night is $10. Now that's a lot of money to roll a ball down a lane. And granted, it is fun, but I'd like to know where that money is going. Supposedly there will be a party at the end of the league (sometime in February or something), but I will believe that when I see it.
And get this; even if you can't make it for a week and can't find a substitute willing to pony up the money (yes, subs have to pay the one time $15 too), you still have to pay! What kind of racquet is this? And where is the money going? The lanes still look the same as they did back in 1945 or whenever this place was built. They take the name "Classic Lanes" quite literally. And there are only two employees that I can tell: The owner who distributes shoes and a lady at the food counter. I don't know where the money is going. It's not on the owner's wardrobe.
Given the bank breaking fees, you would think you could at least do what you want on the lanes. Not so. Bowlers are some of the most uptight people, and they take their customs very seriously. First and foremost, you better stay at least five feet away from the lane if someone on either side of you is getting ready to bowl, finishing a bowl or even thinking about bowling. Because if you are anywhere near them, you will throw off their entire concentration for at least 10 minutes.
I learned this the first night when I began approaching the balls but didn't even step up on to the lane and the guy preparing to bowl next to me had to step away, walk around the front part of the building and regain his composure before he could bowl. Then, after I failed to hit my fifth strike in a row, I fell to the lane dejected. The uptight bowler couldn't handle this either and told me to get off the lane when I was finished.
I mean seriously, this is bowling. A sport where the most accomplished members of our league are a fat guy whose crack shows every time he rolls and old ladies with blue hair who have to bring an oxygen tank with them to the lanes while they continue to smoke between rolls. How much concentration can this game really take?
And you can't touch the video screen, either. On the second night, I was trying to enter our team name (Which is "Headline Bowlers." Does that make us nerds?) on the screen, just for fun. But I pressed a wrong button. Before I knew it, a member of the team sharing the lane with us came up from behind me and said, "what do you think you're doing?" With the press of a few buttons, the screen was back to normal but our team name was still blank. "Sorry, I won't touch it anymore" I said with a trace of sarcasm in my voice. How annoyed this person who I originally thought was a man but later found out was a woman (I think there's a reason they don't go bowling on The OC) seemed with my antics. I'm surprised she didn't slap my hand with a ruler and send me to some sort of holding cell in the back for delinquents (I bet it exists).
As for the bowling, somehow our team is in third place overall out of eight teams. So I guess all the money spent will be worth it if we can claw our way to first place and beat all the uptight bowlers.
More likely, I'll get suspended for my behavior after I cough while someone is bowling. But I'll still have to pay the $10 a week.
Yes, a night of league bowling can be a lot of fun. But don’t' have too much fun, and you better bring your checkbook (or a mortgage).
About a month ago, my co-workers and I joined a Thursday night bowling league. When they approached me to join, I thought "sure." I enjoy bowing and shouldn't turn down any social invitation. Little did I know the financial commitment I was making.
The first night of bowling costs $25. Ten dollars for three games and $15 for "membership" in some national bowling association. Each additional night is $10. Now that's a lot of money to roll a ball down a lane. And granted, it is fun, but I'd like to know where that money is going. Supposedly there will be a party at the end of the league (sometime in February or something), but I will believe that when I see it.
And get this; even if you can't make it for a week and can't find a substitute willing to pony up the money (yes, subs have to pay the one time $15 too), you still have to pay! What kind of racquet is this? And where is the money going? The lanes still look the same as they did back in 1945 or whenever this place was built. They take the name "Classic Lanes" quite literally. And there are only two employees that I can tell: The owner who distributes shoes and a lady at the food counter. I don't know where the money is going. It's not on the owner's wardrobe.
Given the bank breaking fees, you would think you could at least do what you want on the lanes. Not so. Bowlers are some of the most uptight people, and they take their customs very seriously. First and foremost, you better stay at least five feet away from the lane if someone on either side of you is getting ready to bowl, finishing a bowl or even thinking about bowling. Because if you are anywhere near them, you will throw off their entire concentration for at least 10 minutes.
I learned this the first night when I began approaching the balls but didn't even step up on to the lane and the guy preparing to bowl next to me had to step away, walk around the front part of the building and regain his composure before he could bowl. Then, after I failed to hit my fifth strike in a row, I fell to the lane dejected. The uptight bowler couldn't handle this either and told me to get off the lane when I was finished.
I mean seriously, this is bowling. A sport where the most accomplished members of our league are a fat guy whose crack shows every time he rolls and old ladies with blue hair who have to bring an oxygen tank with them to the lanes while they continue to smoke between rolls. How much concentration can this game really take?
And you can't touch the video screen, either. On the second night, I was trying to enter our team name (Which is "Headline Bowlers." Does that make us nerds?) on the screen, just for fun. But I pressed a wrong button. Before I knew it, a member of the team sharing the lane with us came up from behind me and said, "what do you think you're doing?" With the press of a few buttons, the screen was back to normal but our team name was still blank. "Sorry, I won't touch it anymore" I said with a trace of sarcasm in my voice. How annoyed this person who I originally thought was a man but later found out was a woman (I think there's a reason they don't go bowling on The OC) seemed with my antics. I'm surprised she didn't slap my hand with a ruler and send me to some sort of holding cell in the back for delinquents (I bet it exists).
As for the bowling, somehow our team is in third place overall out of eight teams. So I guess all the money spent will be worth it if we can claw our way to first place and beat all the uptight bowlers.
More likely, I'll get suspended for my behavior after I cough while someone is bowling. But I'll still have to pay the $10 a week.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Lesson learned from the bouncing bear
It was almost two years ago that a single bear fell from a single tree and made one of the greatest video clips of all time.
This week in Missoula, Mont., state government officials showed they have learned some important lessons from the "bouncing bear" as they avoided a similar incident.
For those who have forgotten, the bouncing bear was a 2-year-old black bear who made his way down from the mountains surrounding Missoula and found his way into a tree in a residential area. After being shot with a tranquilizer by Fish, Wildlife and Parks officials, the bear fell from the tree. Unfortunately for the bear, somebody had the idea of placing a trampoline to break his fall. What ensued was the bear catapulting into the air and onto the ground (it's okay to laugh at it because the bear wasn't injured).
The clip aired all over the country and likely embarrassed the FWP people to no end. Monday, FWP had its chance for redemption. According to the Montana Kaimin, a young female bear had once again wondered into town by accident, this time with two fellow bears. My guess is they were paying homage to the bouncing bear so close to the two-year anniversary. They probably wanted to re-enact the event that mad that bear more famous than Smokey.
Or maybe these bears were trying to become famous themselves by doing the same thing. You know the kind of bears I'm talking about. The ones that think they are so Hollywood.
Officials rounded up the other two without incident, but the baby was resilient and made its way into a tree. Before stunning the bear with a "jab stick," I'm sure FWP officials had a meeting to discuss their course of action.
Okay, we need to avoid the embarrassment of the bouncing bear that replayed all over the world last time. So how can we get 'R done this time?
Well, how about a trampoline, surrounded by smaller trampolines to help break the fall. This way, the second trampoline hit will only create a minor bounce.
Yes, yes, I like it.
Um sir, how about we just catch it with a net?
Hmmm...
Pure genius. Instead of using something designed to make things bounce, the officials went for something that is designed to catch things. The bear plummeted again, 25 feet, but landed safely in the net. She was then placed in a carrier for large dogs.
Unfortunately for the FWP, there were apparently no cameras around this time to catch the successful capture. The bouncing bear and the trampoline that made him famous will live on forever.
As for the new bouncing bear wanna be, the smart thinking of the FWP ruined her plan for fame and fortune. Sometimes fortune shines upon you and sometimes it stabs you with a jab stick.
This week in Missoula, Mont., state government officials showed they have learned some important lessons from the "bouncing bear" as they avoided a similar incident.
For those who have forgotten, the bouncing bear was a 2-year-old black bear who made his way down from the mountains surrounding Missoula and found his way into a tree in a residential area. After being shot with a tranquilizer by Fish, Wildlife and Parks officials, the bear fell from the tree. Unfortunately for the bear, somebody had the idea of placing a trampoline to break his fall. What ensued was the bear catapulting into the air and onto the ground (it's okay to laugh at it because the bear wasn't injured).
The clip aired all over the country and likely embarrassed the FWP people to no end. Monday, FWP had its chance for redemption. According to the Montana Kaimin, a young female bear had once again wondered into town by accident, this time with two fellow bears. My guess is they were paying homage to the bouncing bear so close to the two-year anniversary. They probably wanted to re-enact the event that mad that bear more famous than Smokey.
Or maybe these bears were trying to become famous themselves by doing the same thing. You know the kind of bears I'm talking about. The ones that think they are so Hollywood.
Officials rounded up the other two without incident, but the baby was resilient and made its way into a tree. Before stunning the bear with a "jab stick," I'm sure FWP officials had a meeting to discuss their course of action.
Okay, we need to avoid the embarrassment of the bouncing bear that replayed all over the world last time. So how can we get 'R done this time?
Well, how about a trampoline, surrounded by smaller trampolines to help break the fall. This way, the second trampoline hit will only create a minor bounce.
Yes, yes, I like it.
Um sir, how about we just catch it with a net?
Hmmm...
Pure genius. Instead of using something designed to make things bounce, the officials went for something that is designed to catch things. The bear plummeted again, 25 feet, but landed safely in the net. She was then placed in a carrier for large dogs.
Unfortunately for the FWP, there were apparently no cameras around this time to catch the successful capture. The bouncing bear and the trampoline that made him famous will live on forever.
As for the new bouncing bear wanna be, the smart thinking of the FWP ruined her plan for fame and fortune. Sometimes fortune shines upon you and sometimes it stabs you with a jab stick.
Monday, September 26, 2005
An afternoon in the Park County Courtroom
By spending one afternoon in a courthouse, you can see the whole spectrum of human behavior, emotions, and acts of desperation by reasonably desperate people.
As the cops/courts reporter at the Powell Tribune newspaper in Wyoming, I write about crimes and the justice (or lack thereof, depending on who you ask) that follows on an almost daily basis. But between the weekly trip to the district courthouse and typing up the police report (chock full of animals running at large), the topic can get rather boring.
Until you spend some time in court, observing the legal process in action. In my more than a year on the job, I have yet to cover an actual jury trial here in Park County. But even the simplest of hearings can say so much about the people involved in the case and the problems they have caused to themselves or to others.
Today was no different. The hearing I was there to cover, a preliminary hearing for a 17-year-old young man (boys don't move out of the house) accused of setting fire along with another to a local state criminal investigations office in Powell.
For starters, the hearing was delayed one and a half hours because the defendant was in transit from the nearest jail that had the capability to house a juvenile, hundreds of miles away in Lander, Wyo. That speaks volumes about the limitations of the justice system in Wyoming. Not only that there are no closer facilities to hold juveniles in, but that somehow, this transit issue wasn't taken into account when the hearing was scheduled. This isn't the first such blunder I've seen with inmate transportation to the courthouse (one time, the wrong inmate was shackled up and brought over by mistake).
So before the hearing, I sat in on a sentencing hearing for a man who admitted to and was found guilty of domestic battery. Though the crime was a misdemeanor, domestic violence is taken seriously by the courts, the defendant represented himself. A bold move, considering court-appointed counsel is free to those who truly cannot afford it.
So by himself, the man pleaded his case to the judge on how he was sorry. In reality though, he wasn't alone in the courtroom. His wife, the woman he admitted to beating, was sitting right behind him in the first row of the public seating area. She even spoke on his behalf, pleading with the judge to let her husband return home rather than serve more time. She said here sons and elderly mother needed the man's support, as did she, having recently been in a coma. She also said she had forgiven him for what he did. But that didn't seem to be the main issue.
The man, while quiet and seemingly embarrassed, showed no real remorse for what he did. But what was his wife to do other than accept him back. Live soley off welfare and whatever Medicaid she was eligible for? Poverty was forcing her to take back an admitted wife beater. When the judge sentenced the man to one year probation instead of jail time, his wife seemed pleased, but certainly not overjoyed.
The judge himself seemed as though he wanted to be harsher with his sentence, what could he do? Deny this family their only plausible source of income? But what message does this send to the man's sons (their ages were not discussed)? That as long as you bring home the bacon, you can slap mom around a little when you get angry? Ultimately, the wife will have to make the decision to cut the abuser out of there life, because a provider is not worth living with the degradation, both physical and mental, of being married to an abuser. At least that's easy to say from my removed seat across the courtroom.
Friday, September 23, 2005
A blog about advice, not an advice blog
Somebody once said that a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I definitely agree with that. Believe me, no part of my mind ever goes to waste. I have to use all of it to complete daily menial tasks, like walking and remembering to eat.
But almost as tragic as wasting a mind, good advice is a terrible thing to waste. And I fear my 23 years of wisdom and experience are currently serving no greater good. Because in order to give advice, you need someone to take it.
I am an older brother, but my brother Corey doesn’t usually take my advice. For example: I went to visit Corey at college in Indiana recently and tried to get him to flirt with this girl who was totally flirting with him. Well, I guess it’s debatable if she was flirting with him or just talking to him. And she was working in a customer service field at the time, checking out sports equipment. But people who flirt (talk) with you even if they’re working aren’t just doing it because they sort of have to, are they? Like waitresses? If that’s true, I’ll be crushed!
Sean’s brain: Of course that’s not how it works. Waitresses flirt with you because you are a cool guy. Here, let me release some endorphins.
Okay, good, that’s better.
Anyway, I think the reason Corey often ignores my advice is he’s seen my body of work. Sure, I’ve made my fair share of not-so-smart decisions. And my brother knows about most of them. But the way I see it, somebody needs to benefit from my trial-by-error experiences.
Just because I wasn’t necessarily a “ladies man” in college doesn’t mean I don’t know how to react when a girl is flirting with you. I told my brother he just had to be confident and ask the sports equipment girl what her name was, where she lived, etc, and get her phone number. Unfortunately, as I was giving him this advice, she was still standing directly in front of us. But that just provided more trial-by-error advice for him: tact is very important.
But really, I’m surprised Corey doesn’t want to be a younger version of me because in many ways, we are very alike. First of all, no matter how reluctant we are to admit it, we look a lot alike. Yes, there is another person out there blessed with these looks (you can stop laughing now). Case in point, when I was visiting my brother I told him I wanted to see if I could still blend in as if I were a college student at age 23 (which I’m sure would work, since most people seem to think I’m either an NWC student or, more frequently, a high school intern). So I told him for this weekend, I wasn’t his brother visiting, I was his cool friend. Five minutes later, a lady in the dorm cafeteria asked us “are you guys twins?” It didn’t take long for that cover to be blown.
Me and my brother even share the same enormously gigantic head (thanks to our dad). You think I’m exaggerating, but that photo of me above had to be shrunk by 500 percent to get it to fit. Our head size leaves us both susceptible to head injuries. It’s a proven fact. He’s lived a relatively head-trauma free life so far, but not so for me. I think it’s just that our heads are so big, the odds of something happening to them increase exponentially.
That’s why the only person who’s ever randomly had a light fixture fall from the ceiling of a parking garage and hit them in the head is yours truly (about five years ago). The gravitational pull from my head must have caused it to come crashing down. This is yet another area where my advice could be helpful: recovering from head trauma.
Though I wish my advice had an outlet, the truth is, Corey is doing fine for himself without it. Except maybe in the girl department. Instead of actually asking out the sports equipment girl, he “facebooked” her. For those who don’t know, Facebook is a popular Web site where you can post a profile about yourself and list other facebookers as your friend, and see if they respond in kind and list you as theirs. Last I heard, sports equipment girl had yet to respond to my brothers’ facebooking.
No worries, though. The final piece of advice I gave my brother was: “There are plenty of girls out there who would be ecstatic to be facebooked by you. If sports equipment girl doesn’t want to facebook back a good looking, albeit big-headed guy like yourself, that’s her loss.”
See what good advice I give? But since my brother doesn’t really listen to me, I’m available as a mentor if anyone’s interested. Just facebook me, I promise I’ll facebook you back.
But almost as tragic as wasting a mind, good advice is a terrible thing to waste. And I fear my 23 years of wisdom and experience are currently serving no greater good. Because in order to give advice, you need someone to take it.
I am an older brother, but my brother Corey doesn’t usually take my advice. For example: I went to visit Corey at college in Indiana recently and tried to get him to flirt with this girl who was totally flirting with him. Well, I guess it’s debatable if she was flirting with him or just talking to him. And she was working in a customer service field at the time, checking out sports equipment. But people who flirt (talk) with you even if they’re working aren’t just doing it because they sort of have to, are they? Like waitresses? If that’s true, I’ll be crushed!
Sean’s brain: Of course that’s not how it works. Waitresses flirt with you because you are a cool guy. Here, let me release some endorphins.
Okay, good, that’s better.
Anyway, I think the reason Corey often ignores my advice is he’s seen my body of work. Sure, I’ve made my fair share of not-so-smart decisions. And my brother knows about most of them. But the way I see it, somebody needs to benefit from my trial-by-error experiences.
Just because I wasn’t necessarily a “ladies man” in college doesn’t mean I don’t know how to react when a girl is flirting with you. I told my brother he just had to be confident and ask the sports equipment girl what her name was, where she lived, etc, and get her phone number. Unfortunately, as I was giving him this advice, she was still standing directly in front of us. But that just provided more trial-by-error advice for him: tact is very important.
But really, I’m surprised Corey doesn’t want to be a younger version of me because in many ways, we are very alike. First of all, no matter how reluctant we are to admit it, we look a lot alike. Yes, there is another person out there blessed with these looks (you can stop laughing now). Case in point, when I was visiting my brother I told him I wanted to see if I could still blend in as if I were a college student at age 23 (which I’m sure would work, since most people seem to think I’m either an NWC student or, more frequently, a high school intern). So I told him for this weekend, I wasn’t his brother visiting, I was his cool friend. Five minutes later, a lady in the dorm cafeteria asked us “are you guys twins?” It didn’t take long for that cover to be blown.
Me and my brother even share the same enormously gigantic head (thanks to our dad). You think I’m exaggerating, but that photo of me above had to be shrunk by 500 percent to get it to fit. Our head size leaves us both susceptible to head injuries. It’s a proven fact. He’s lived a relatively head-trauma free life so far, but not so for me. I think it’s just that our heads are so big, the odds of something happening to them increase exponentially.
That’s why the only person who’s ever randomly had a light fixture fall from the ceiling of a parking garage and hit them in the head is yours truly (about five years ago). The gravitational pull from my head must have caused it to come crashing down. This is yet another area where my advice could be helpful: recovering from head trauma.
Though I wish my advice had an outlet, the truth is, Corey is doing fine for himself without it. Except maybe in the girl department. Instead of actually asking out the sports equipment girl, he “facebooked” her. For those who don’t know, Facebook is a popular Web site where you can post a profile about yourself and list other facebookers as your friend, and see if they respond in kind and list you as theirs. Last I heard, sports equipment girl had yet to respond to my brothers’ facebooking.
No worries, though. The final piece of advice I gave my brother was: “There are plenty of girls out there who would be ecstatic to be facebooked by you. If sports equipment girl doesn’t want to facebook back a good looking, albeit big-headed guy like yourself, that’s her loss.”
See what good advice I give? But since my brother doesn’t really listen to me, I’m available as a mentor if anyone’s interested. Just facebook me, I promise I’ll facebook you back.
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