18 June 2008

Sir Real

Part One

As a young boy with nothing more to my name than a monkey puppet, a cotton/wool blend cardigan (which directly violated the rule of Shatnez, but hey, how was I supposed to know? Leviticus 19:19 specifically says "...neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woolen come upon thee," and my garment was cotton and woolen, right? Not linen. But then Deuteronomy 22:11 has to weigh in with, "Thou shalt not wear a garment of divers sorts, as of woollen and linen together," turning the whole thing into a generalization about the evils of mixing fabrics, which actually kind of makes me wonder about the 3% of lycra in my underwear right now. I am wearing the Devil’s boxer briefs!!! No wonder it’s so warm in there...) – and a terry cloth bath towel that gave only one command: Dance! - I had one dream: to bring a little surrealism into the lives of those many stark realists out there, of whom I was certain the world was full.

Little did I know that the nature of reality is surrealism.

For example, check out this flyer I saw posted on the bulletin board of my local Starbucks:

Yes. This is a benefit for a 14 year old boy, the only son and only baby brother of some local family. But it isn’t the usual sort of benefit where you gather to raise money to pay hospital bills or for expensive medications and such, because the kid is already dead!

But that isn’t the surreal part. That’s just hard luck. The surreal part comes right after "Benefit for 14 year old (boy’s name) to help with our only son and only baby brother’s burial, funeral, and head stone costs," where the grieving family invites you to "Come Join The Fun."

Come join the fun?!

Their 14 year old loved one, mowed down even before the prime of his life, and they want to party?

They must be Irish.

Part T

Today someone at work was trying to put a 5 gallon jug of water into the water cooler when it slipped and crashed to the floor, inundating the lab in what many saw as a mockery of the rising floodwaters right outside our door. Seriously, the river behind our building has gotten so high it comes right up to the bottom of the bridge, forcing all the dirty birds who nested down there to relocate to the fire escape outside my office. On the one hand, they eat the river flies that are probably already in the process of dying out for the season. On the other hand, they are little crap machines, pooping all over the place and generally threatening my health and safety with untold plagues.

A dirty bird eating bugs from my screen while the throbbing, aching, engorged river pulsates in the background.

Sandbagging has begun in earnest in the community, but that would not have been an appropriate response to the spill in the lab, so instead we got three mops and mop buckets (the kind with wringers) to see to the spill. It was sort of a team building experience, with three people mopping and three people wringing, and one of us – the one known as Magnetron – suggested that we add competitive mopping as an Olympic event, in addition to what she called "water weighing."

I had to laugh. The sport is not called "water weighing." Silly girl. The correct name is "Precision Water Drinking," and it is a sport my buddy Johnny K and I invented.

The game is played thusly: Each competitor has a cup of water. The judges decide on an amount of water (in grams, because we are scientists, yo, and water has a density of 1, so 1 gram of water is equivalent to 1 milliliter at standard temperature and pressure) that the players have to drink, and then one by one the players place their cups onto a scale, zero them out, take a drink, and then reweigh the cup to see how much they drank. Whoever hits the closest to the target weight gets the point.

One lunchtime we were standing in one of the labs, chatting, when a round of Precision Water Drinking broke out. The judges were calling the numbers, the competitors were sipping and guzzling (two of the many techniques called into play by Precision Water Drinkers), and things were getting a bit raucous (as these things are wont to do.)

Suddenly the boss came into the room to see what was up. We explained the game and demonstrated with a couple of rounds. He had seen enough.

He got his own cup and joined us.

And let me tell you, I was worried. I was worried because I had been winning, hands down, and now this young upstart pops onto the scene and starts taking round after round! I was mentally preparing myself for an aqueous humilitation.

It didn't help that I have been blessed with an unusually large buccal cavity. I kick ass at the larger volumes. When the judges call out, "72 grams!" or "135 grams!" or "208 grams!" I am all over that. But they suddenly started calling out numbers like, "35 grams!" or "15.5 grams!" or "7 grams!" I totally overshot every time. But the boss whaled on those, so he got point after point.

Fortunately for me, the judges started calling out more mid- to high-range volumes and I ended up taking the contest. But it was close. A little too close.

Part Your Hair

And in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am riding a giant turtle.

Or perhaps it is a tortoise.

Or a terrapin.

At any rate, it is what I am riding. The state rests.