Convene a fact-finding mission!

I was reading through the news today and came across a preposterous article about fisticuffs in the National Hockey League. For the sports illiterate out there, the prevalence of fighting in the NHL can be summed up by the old joke Rodney Dangerfield used to tell: I saw a fistfight the other night, and a hockey game broke out!

It seems that more and more people are calling for the league to curtail fighting, since it slows down action and seems somewhat foreign to new fans of the league. Here's the money quote, though, from NHL commissioner Gary Bettman, reacting in the wake of a player being taken off the ice on a stretcher after a fight recently by saying he doesn't want to see fighting disappear from its traditional place in the game:

The discussion that we've been having is about player safety and injuries," said Bettman. "We've had a number of injuries resulting from fighting recently.The question is whether or not that's an aberration or whether or not it's something we need to be concerned about."

Gee, that's a real puzzler commish. I wonder if there is any link between fighting and injuries. We should really call for a team to investigate whether or not players who fight intend to hurt each other or not.

I'm not on the truck, so send me some internets on the tubes

I finally decided to jump into that series of tubes known as Myspace. If that link fails to take you straight to my profile you can search for me by name, Andy Robinson, but be aware that my location is listed as Vatican City; alternately you can search by email, kaivopuisto@hotmail.com.

And in case you are wondering about my tubes mention, that means you missed out on the time when Ted Stevens, Senator from Alaska and then Chair of the Senate's Committee on Commerce, tried to describe his understanding of the internet thusly:

I just the other day got, an internet was sent by my staff at 10 o'clock in the morning on Friday and I just got it yesterday. Why?

Because it got tangled up with all these things going on the internet commercially...

They want to deliver vast amounts of information over the internet. And again, the internet is not something you just dump something on. It's not a truck.

It's a series of tubes.

Yup, sounds like he has an iron-clad grasp of the situation.

UPDATE: Apparently this is the visual aid Senator Stevens decided to use to help out with his presentation. So, if you have sent me an internet and it doesn't get to my in a timely fashion, it is bear in mind the possum in the tree is somewhat unreliable, so it may take some time for it all to get through the tubes to me.

Segregation works

The weather is unseasonably warm here in Idaho, and I'm reminded of last summer in London when it was unbearably hot for weeks on end, when riding the Tube became a gamble for life and olfactory safety. There isn't any air conditioning on the London underground, and given the vastness and age of the system, various lines will be broken down during different parts of the day, meaning it is entirely possible that one can be stuck on a 100 degree train deep under the earth for some time. Even if you aren't stuck for an extended period, one faces the problem of people who don't seem cut out for this sort of climate. Let's just say they are flowers, blooming into fragrant goodness in the summer sun, but instead rot like fetid garbage.

After one trip on the Tube I declared to some people that I was coming out as a full proponent of segregation: from now on, there would be "Stinky/Non-Stinky" carriages on the system. "No Stinkers Allowed" signs, coupled with visual aids like crossed-out stick figures with stink lines rising from them, would make it clear to anyone they need to step aside. My friend quickly seized on this opportunity to blackmail me, holding me for ransom over the quote "I'm in favor of segregation", but I'm taking the opportunity to clear up any confusion and get in front of this nascent scandal in case I ever run for office (county coroner, maybe?).

Recently I had a run-in with some foodstuffs that caused me to again come out in favor of segregation of items. Have you ever had chocolate covered fruit? You know, it comes in a bin and there are various sizes and colors of candy coating over the chocolate, each which identifies it as strawberries, blueberries, etc.? I had grabbed some of these, and had also picked up my daily vitamin pill, and was walking down the stairs to use the computer. Absentmindedly I popped in my vitamin and bit down; I think I should make it clear that my vitamins are the big, fluid-filled ones. Once my teeth pierced the soft gel coating, the innards sprayed out every which way. I can't recommend staying away from tasting the inside of a vitamin strong enough.

So, everyone, let's keep our vitamins and candy separate, yeah?

Life at the rodeo

As I said earlier, I finally attended the rodeo for the first time on Saturday, and actually rather enjoyed it, though I admit my expectations were a wee bit skewed. Over-the-top would be an apt description for what I expected to be on display, and for a brief moment at the beginning of the rodeo I thought I was about to get it. Just as the national anthem was about to start, a man in garish clothes came out positioned standing astride two horses, one foot on the back of each. As he charged towards me, my eyes widened as I came to the (faulty) conclusion that this man would be singing the national anthem while standing on two trotting horses. Alas, this was not to be the case, as some elederly chap serenaded us instead. Damn.

Interesting note: at the rodeo, the national anthem has been pushed out of the limelight by "I'm Proud to be an American" song. The former is played while a dozen or so gals in sequined red, white, and blue outfits ride about in different patterns while each carrying a large American flag; the audience, meanwhile, dutifully places hat over heart for the duration. Quite the spectacle. The actual national anthem, in contrast, is quickly run through after this, with only the double-horse guy doing laps to commemorate it.

A few things I can't quite fathom about the rodeo, though. One was the scoring system for the timed events. As I understand it, each day the riders participate in their event, and the cumulative scoring determines who eventually wins on Saturday night. During the afternoon session I attended, scores from each event were posted, along with the leaderboard. The puzzling aspect was that the "average" scores on display were all much higher than any of the individual times I witnessed. For instance, if people were routinely scoring, say, 15 seconds on a given event, the leaderboard nevertheless showed the top riders as having an "average" time of 30 or more seconds. Don they mean aggregate time, instead of average? Anyone with more rodeo familiarity out there care to help me out?

Also, I'm a little troubled by the "No Time" designation for those who fail at an event. Wouldn't "no time" (i.e. zero) be a boon to those determined by average time. Wouldn't infinite time be more appropriate as a punishment? But this lends itself to a logic problem: what is the average of a given number plus infinity? The mind boggles.

Finally, I was dismayed that the bulls were considerably more tame than I desired. Perhaps it is because I just watched "The Last Unicorn" recently, but expected nothing less than bulls with glowing red eyes and steam being snorted out of their nostrils to be chasing hapless rodeo clowns around the arena, goring them and otherwise tossing them over the barricades into the audience. Instead they furiously buck for a few seconds, and then benignly trot back to their pen. Boo. How about this instead?




See? That's much more like it.

Entropy

I find I'm having a tough time giving away my favorite pair of pants, even as they disintegrating at the atomic level right before my eyes. Part of the problem is that I want them to go out with a bang; I need to win the lottery or get Angelina Jolie's phone number while wearing them. Something.

Wearing these jeans has become a chore akin to wearing a skirt, since the entire crotchal region has two mammoth tears in it, so I have to wear boxers under them and keep my legs crossed while seated. Disastrous is the only term that I can think of to describe the situation that would arise if I had my bikini underwear on or, worse, an ancient pair of boxers that also had the crotch worn out.



With the shame of my shabby underwear looming over me, I went to JC Penney's to buy some new underwear, and it turned out to be the most expensive packages of boxers ever purchased. I paid with a $50 bill, but got into a conversation with the elderly woman behind the counter, and in doing so distracted her from her change-related duties, meaning that I never got any money back from the transaction. I eventually got it back, but trying to tell people you didn't get your change invariably results in you being looked at like a crook. Ugh.

Double pimping

And so another St. Patrick’s day has come and gone, with this year’s edition being notable for three things: I attended the first rodeo of my life, there was a minor scandal concerning the greenness of my shirt, and I was (for the second time in my life) officially dubbed a pimp by total strangers.

I’ll address the rodeo in a different post, so let me speak to the wild accusations made last night that I was not actually wearing green for St. Patrick’s Day. To this I can only say, “balderdash”. Some rubes claimed olive and mint don’t pass muster for this booze-soaked holiday, but I say my shirt was clearly green enough to ward off any pinching. I’ll let you be the judge, but I maintain that their preposterous claims are entirely spurious.

Of note, though, was the person who came up to me and told me, “shaved heads are pimp.” Oh? Well, I’ll have to accept this person’s judgment, since they clearly are more in tune with extremeness than I am, since this girl sky dives and rides a bullet bike. I, in contrast, have been considering taking up unicycle riding. Clearly one of us is more a product of the Mountain Dew Generation than the other.

This is the second time I have been dubbed “pimp” by the general populace, the first time being at Idaho State University’s campus, when I was walking by a group of ISU athletes and they took time out of their busy schedule of loafing to tell me my clothes were “pimping”. I believe their exact words were, to the best of my recollection, “yo man, that shirt be pimping right there, man.” All this was punctuated with this chap popping the collar on his shirt to emphasize his favorable impression of my attire.

All this has made me wonder how I can best capitalize on my apparent pimpness, since I must admit it hasn’t done much for me recently. I’m still hopeful that I can find an aging “sugar mama” who can fund my vagrant’s lifestyle, though I’m not sure a “pimp” is what most elderly gals are looking for. Any suggestions?

So cute

While waiting in a hospital lobby the other day, I overheard the two elderly ladies working the reception desk talking about movies they were interested in, and they brought up Amazing Grace. The thrust of this movie concerns attempts to end slavery in England, and the view these two gals had was summed up by this line, which I quote verbatim: "It's a cute movie. A cute movie about slavery."

Yes, human bondage certainly is fodder for cute movies.