Irrelevant Cheetah

I realize that this may come as a shock to those of you living in warmer climes, but it’s winter. Here in Alaska, we haven’t seen the other side of 20 degrees since early October. I drive to work in the dark, I come home in the almost-dark, and I’m counting the days until December 21st. You may think of that as the First Day of Winter. We think of it as the day that the days start getting longer again.

In order to keep from going completely loopy under these circumstances (some of you may argue that it’s too late for me) it is necessary to come up with alternate forms of entertainment. Winter sports come to mind. Although I am as fond of moose-tipping and mailbox hockey as the next guy, I also like sledding, as long as the ambient temperature is in the (positive) double digits.

In my eternal quest to move my physical form faster than the piddly two to four miles per hour that seems to be mankind’s top speed, I have designed what I believe to be the perfect sled, to be built by me over the next few weeks. The construction plans, if anyone is interested, follow:

Take one large metal hubcap, saucer-shaped, perhaps from a tractor trailer, ideally two to three feet in diameter. Invert.

Take between five and ten cans of the spray foam insulation and fill the hubcap almost to the rim. Carefully cover the wet foam with plastic – garbage bags, perhaps, or the plastic sheeting used in construction. When the foam is completely covered, plop your butt right in the middle where you would be sitting if you were sliding down a hill. When the foam has molded itself to your shape, get up and let it dry according to the directions on the can. Now you have a sled that, although metal, has a “seat cushion” that is perfectly molded to your body.

When it’s dry, flip the hubcap over again so you’re looking at the bottom. And here’s the secret. Forget wax, or polishing, or other amateurish solutions. This is what I believe will allow me to break the sound barrier:

Rain-X.

You know that stuff you use on your windshield that water just refuses to stick to? It makes glass water repellent, so imagine what it could do to shiny metal and snow. I get chills just thinking about it. I’m going to use my Dremel to smooth that hubcap, and then I’m going to Rain-X the hell out of it.

I wonder if I should increase my insurance payouts first.

In the tradition of Murphy’s Law and the Peter Principle, I thought I would share Wolf’s Laws – the laws that govern everyday existence for some of us humble mortals. If you have suggestions for more, or corollaries for these, I would be glad to hear them.

Thanks for the reads.
1. Whichever side of a garbage bag you try to open first, it will be the wrong side.
2. All of the good ones are taken.
3. There’s never one around when you need one.
4. She’s smiling at the guy behind you.
5. The windshield wiper always works better on the passenger side.

I was informed the other day by a semi-reliable source that sickness happens when the bugs that normally live inside your brain get out and start taking over the rest of your body. If you’re healthy it means that the bugs are safely ensconced inside your brain. If they get out, though, watch out! Of course, this is the same source that told me once that God lives on a shiny cloud and that girls are icky, so you might want to take that with a grain of salt.

Makes sense to me, though. And those f***ing bugs have escaped and purchased a nice set of two-bedroom condos, one in my chest and two in my throat. The ones in my chest are like the television commercial about mucus – slovenly and irritating but not much more. The ones in my throat, however, have apparently taken up tap dancing. With cleats.

Not much else to report. If I wasn’t forced by economic necessity to visit Cubicle Land for hour after hour and pretend to work, I’d be home right now. As it is, I hop myself up on cough syrup and Echinacea and plod through the endless day.

Okay, that’s enough. Pass the Nyquil.

I have recently discovered that I am most likely afflicted with Raynaud’s Phenomenon. What this means, in a nutshell, is that when I get cold and/or stressed, my fingers (and sometimes toes) lose circulation in a big way. They turn white and splotchy and lose all feeling until I either warm up or remove my stress by whatever means necessary, up to and including the use of small arms fire. There’s no real cause for the condition; nor is there a cure. It just happens, and I have to live with it, annoying as it may be.

This is fine. It is just an annoyance, after all. But what it brings up is this: Who is Raynaud? And why does he get a Phenomenon named after him?

I assume that he is (was) a scientist or doctor of some sort that either discovered the condition in himself or was just lucky enough to name it before some other schmuck got to it. So presto – Raynaud has himself a phenomenon. No, actually, he’s got himself a Phenomenon, with a capital P.

Yes, I could do with my own Phenomenon. But there’s other loot that interests me. How about a Syndrome? I would like my own Syndrome. There aren’t many named after people, so that would be a score.

But the real booty here is a Maneuver. Think about it. How many Maneuvers are there? Just the one – the Heimlich Maneuver. And who was he? Was he a doctor? Just some (un)lucky bastard whose roommate tended to choke a lot, so he got really good at dislodging corn dogs from his esophagus? Whoever he was, he got the Granddaddy of treasures: the one and only Maneuver.

How do I go about getting one? Do you think it needs to have a medical reason for existence, or could it be something like the Macarena? Because that whole “Saturday Night Fever” move is pretty recognizable, but you don’t hear it being called the Travolta Maneuver.

This is something I must contemplate further. Thus far the only ideas I have would probably get me jail time if I performed them in public. Keep your eyes and ears open for the Donat Maneuver, however.

I promise it’ll be legal in 2/3 of civilized countries.

As I sit here listening to my cubicle mate’s battered copy of “Engelbert Humperdinck’s All Time Smash Hits to Hum,” I am forced to come to grips with several painful aspects of my life.

First of all, yes, I do inhabit a cubicle for a full quarter of my week. Don’t remind me.

Secondly, I must admit that Humperdinck’s rendition of “We Made It Happen” still far outshines Snoop Dogg’s version of the same, titled “Us Boys Still Ug-Ug ‘Round The Hood.”

And lastly, I must give credit where credit is due and thank a co-worker (not my cubicle mate) for saving me from a lonely, unenlightened existence. Thanks to him, I am now painfully aware that Deep Creek is not only a great place to catch trout in Alaska, but that it is also more than that. It is a state of mind. It is a reaction to all of the wanna-be outdoorsmen that travel here, live here for a mere twenty or sixty years, and then attempt to call themselves true Alaskans. They are nothing more than, and I quote, “L.L. Beaners.”

You see, this co-worker of whom I speak has been around longer than, well, God. Well does he remember “back in the day” when the wheel was no more than a glint in Grog’s eye, not to mention the whole “sliced bread” concept. In fact, I believe I have heard him mention on occasion that Einstein would still be fooling around with silly patents were it not for him.

Now, you may be right in suggesting that I leave this old produce buyer (who was, indeed, instrumental in breeding the present shape and size of apples which we enjoy today) to his own devices, and I would do so, except for the fact that he is more than willing to hunt you down and explain to you at the drop of a hat not only how little you know, but also how much he knows about any particular subject. I have managed to extricate myself from these conversations by feigning a near-death-experience on several occasions, but that’s not going to work forever. Luckily, he much prefers to discuss matters with the copier technician down the hall, and I am able to tune out the monotonous drone which signifies another lecture in progress.

On a side note, “Tom Jones and Engelbert Kick It Down in Dance Party 11” is probably not the greatest CD I’ve heard lately. Just my opinion – do with it what you will…