What I learned on Facebook during the first week of March 2011!

(Some profound statements from my friends on Facebook this week.)

All quotes were copied and pasted from Facebook exactly as they were written.

Ryan A. asks “So... if one was trying to decide between a trip to Alaska (fly fishing, wildlife-viewing, hiking, camping, and maybe rafting) or Belize (tanning, snorkeling, fishing, wildlife-viewing, hiking, and umbrella drink drinking) in the next year or so, which should it be?”

Ryan A., I would split the difference, a compromise of sorts. I would go to Nebraska in August. You could eat corn, watch the Cornhuskers prepare for the coming football season, and visit Cabela’s main store in Sydney. They have cold beer in a can, but bring your own umbrellas.


Samantha D. startles us with “It's a very Sunday kind of Sunday :)”

And you know, tomorrow will be a very Monday kind of Monday, and the next day will probably be a very Tuesday kind of Tuesday. But I’m just guessing about all that.


Gus G. is curious if there “Was there a Rally to Save the American Dream yesterday in New Orleans?”

People from New Orleans have a dream. They simply hope that the city is not sitting permanently in 1-2 meters of ocean water by the end of the century. In the meantime, go to Mardi Gras, eat jambalaya, and burn lots of oil. If New Orleans is flooded, more people will go to Nebraska with Ryan A. for vacation.


Nancy S. instructs us “If you LOVE ME:) Comment this status* If I'M A GOOD FRIEND:) Like this! If you ever had a CRUSH on ME* POKE ME! If you HATE ME+ Message ME saying WHY? If your BRAVE POST this as your STATUS!!”

Well Nancy S., I guess I am just not that brave. I do love you, but this business of asking people to “poke” me, in public, on a social network is way too loose and liberal for me. I prefer the privacy of my own home.


Cynthia S. ask about how we feel with “Do you need to be rich and famous or would rich be enough for you ♥ Know what feels best for you. It's easier to receive when you know what you are looking for :)”

Is this some kind of trick question? Are you kidding me? I need to be rich AND famous. Why do you think I write these stupid blogs? I want people to click on the ads so I make money, and I want them to talk about the guy who wrote these hilarious quips so I become famous. Come on Cynthia S., don’t make me choose.


Marleen Ⓥ van B. implores us with “You will begin your journey on a new path with the willingness to step off a cliff into the unknown. You will bring little provisions with you, ready to create or find what you need along the way. The sun at your back, your dog to accompany you, Your carefree pose stands testament to this search for the new adventure, to the faith you have in yourself to forge a new path”

I think that young hiker did all of this a couple of years ago, the one who got trapped under a rock for days. They just released a movie about his real-life experience, where he had to cut off his arm with a pen knife. No Marleen van B., I’m going to step off a cliff in my living room in front of the tv, with a bag of taco chips, and a Bud Lite. But I’m going to “forge a new path” by trying a bag of those blue corn chips for the first time.


Jenny L. N. complains that “I don't mind living in a tiny house. In fact, I hear it's cool to live in a house that's way too small for you. I do mind living next door to a moron who apparently has a lot of time on his hands. I say the time he spends tearing up his yard racing radio-controlled trucks around could be better spent shoveling up the giant piles of dog crap that have been accumulating in his backyard for nearly two years.”

But Jenny L. N., you are missing the point entirely. Your neighbor is trying to perfect his skills with the radio-controlled truck by guiding it through his dog shit-strewn yard without hitting any of those piles. That’s way more fun than setting up Lego obstacles.


Lizzie D. tempts us with “Cooking black bean stew w Green chile roasted in New Mexico and spicy rice :)”

Lizzie D., are you married? I have two single sons who love spicy Mexican food.


Doc Karen P. L. admits “I'm hungry. Hmmmm. What to eat...what to eat....”

Doc Karen P. L., if you like blue taco chips, come on over to my house. If you want something more substantial, go to Lizzie D.’s.



Abbie H., Margaret H., Jenni S. and 56 others like this.

Why Muammar Qaddafi is only a Colonel

(Why he never promoted himself to General, I'll never know.)

Did you ever think about this?  Muammar Qaddafi has been the supreme ruler and dictator of Libya for more than 40 years.  He is the commander in chief of the armed forces, the high potentate, the big pooba, the cat's meow.  Officially, he is Brotherly Leader and Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya.  The President of the United States doesn't have a title nearly that long, and look at what a big deal he is.

By contrast, in my house, I am officially the lowly Firewood Gatherer, Floor Cleaner, Wall Painter Second in Command to Blond Management Person, and I left the Army with the rank of Sergeant. Certainly, Qaddafi should be ranked as high as possible if he is leader and guide of a whole revolution.  I don't see why the guy isn't an 8-10 star General.

I have a couple of possible explanations why Qaddafi only holds the rank of Colonel in the Libyan military.  Maybe he is a shirker of sorts.  Being a General has lots of responsibilities.  You need to review the troops, sign many important papers, and salute thousands of soldiers of lesser rank.  You need to get up early in the morning to accomplish all these tasks, and the Colonel may have decided it is just not worth it.

Plus, being a General means you have really become entrenched in the establishment.  You are then part of the Board of Directors, so to speak, rather than an average Joe. You have to act more dignified.  You can't just hang with the boys, smoking a hookah and eating stuffed pigeons.  What's worse, Qaddafi might have to give up his voluptuous blond companion Galyna Kolotnytska, who is his Ukrainian "nurse".  (I'll take the disease he has, thank you.)  So the lifestyle change that comes with being a General just may not be viewed by Qaddafi as desirable.

Then again, maybe the guy is just a wimp.  After all, it is reported that he fears flying over water, prefers staying on the ground floor of hotels, and almost never travels.  That is, he is afraid of heights, water, and movement.  I suppose if I had been born in a Bedouin tent in a desert country, I would have no early experience with certain elements in the environment and that I might come to fear them later in life.  But I assume his birth tent had no voluptuous blond in it either, and he apparently adjusted to the trauma of being near one of those as an adult.  And how many Ferraris were parked outside that tent?  Nada.  But Qaddafi got over his potential fear of this vehicle enough to buy some, even though camels are more useful in that part of the world.  So his early experience can't be the reason he refuses the high rank.

So it is somewhat of a mystery why the man did not make himself the head of the General staff of the military.  Maybe the guy is much more modest and humble than the West thinks.  Maybe he believes in giving credit where credit is due, and he did not see himself worthy of the rank of General.  Maybe he failed the written exam a General needs to pass, so he decided he would study harder and try again later.  But it is probably none of those reasons.  After all, when you are surrounded by a bevy of international models, you own a bunch of Ferraris, you don't have to gather your own firewood (like some of us do), and you have a nurse who is built like a brick hammam (= Arabic word for bathroom), who cares what your rank is?


Rich Text Article first published as Why Muammar Qaddafi is Only a Colonel on Technorati.

What I learned on Facebook during a snowstorm on 2/25/11!

(Facebook has taught me sooooooo much.)

All quotes were copied and pasted from Facebook exactly as they were written.

Ruthie M. G. agonizes with “Awwww...it's true, I never know what I'm gonna be in the mood to wear...The shoes are easy, black and brown sandals and flip flops in 2 colors...AND my Nikes for my long morning walks !!!” 

I hear ya Ruthie M. G.  I have a similar problem.  I’m particularly partial to my Nine West retro wooden platform sling-back with 5" heel and 1" platform with stud accents for grocery shopping.

Anna V. R. announces “Day 1 of my raw food lunch deliveries - sushi and kale chips and cauliflower rice! With wheat free sauce!” 

Congratulations Anna V. R., you have apparently developed the perfect low-cal, low-carb, low-fat, and absolutely taste-less, meal.  You should write a cookbook full of these recipes, but make the pages ink-less as well.

 

Cathy F. offers “Start with the end in mind and the journey will be easy. Clear your mind of the obstacles, focus, have a clear vision of how it would be or look like. You must Dream big, be clear on your goals and remember I m possible.
Have an AWESOME day FRIENDS !!!” 

It used to be “I’m OK.  You’re OK.”  But apparently the new mantra is “I’m possible.  You’re possible.” 

 

Elizabeth L.-A. says “There are 2 types of people in the world, those that sit at home on the couch watching TV, eating popcorn and gaining weight by the minute, And then there are those that read books like "Success in 10 Steps" so they can learn the skills to be successful in Network Marketing. http://elarmy.mentoringforfree.com/”

Help me out here Elizabeth L.-A.  In which of these categories do the peasants of Ethiopia, or the rebels in Libya, or the monks of Tibet fall?

 

Issaree S. says “There's only TWO types of people in the world; the ones that entertain and the ones that observe. Well baby, I'm a put-on-a-show kind of girl. DON'T like the backseat, gotta be first!"

OK.  Now stop.  Issaree S. and Elizabeth L.-A. need to get together and decide once and for all how many types of people there are in the world.  However, if what Issaree S. means by her second category is that she reads Elizabeth L.-A.'s book, then there would be only three types of people in the world.

 

 

Lark M. warns us “If you hoot with the owls, you can’t soar with the eagles.” 

I’m totally confused now.  I thought if you walked with turkeys you could not fly with eagles.  Besides, owls are thought to be really intelligent and wise; eagles are big dumb brutes.  No thanks Lark M.  I’ll just keep on hooting.

 

Doc Karen P. L. puts us on notice “Give me a little time. I'll be poking some people soon. Hope you've got what it takes to receive it.”

Judas Priest!  I really like this Facebook friend, but this was totally unexpected, and it seems inappropriate for a university prof.  Besides, my wife will not like this at all.

Alice B. wonders “why can't people understand how to use a traffic circle? Clearly posted is a yield sign not a stop sign! This means you don't have to stop unless a vehicle is already in the circle and you cannot enter safely...Idiots!! Now that I've vented hope everyone has a Happy Friday! ♥”

Yea, I wonder about this all the time.  When I approach a traffic circle, I usually zip directly to the inner lane, go around the entire circle three or four times as fast as I can to build up centrifugal force, and then fling out into the outer lane before exiting the circle light-headed and giddy with excitement.

Heather S. “just loves the sort of people that only have time for you when they want something and as soon as they have it, you no longer exist!”

Now that I have your Facebook quote Frank, POOF!, I have already forgotten your name.

 

Tara R. J. likes this.

What I learned on Facebook on President’s Day 2011!

(The stuff you hear on Facebook is enough to make your ears burn.)

All quotes were copied and pasted from Facebook exactly as they were written.

Daphne C.-H. told us that she “Just participated in the Free Preview of "Flabulous to Fabulous in Fifteen" With The Fitness Angel Free Online Class ...IT WAS GREAT”  

I love alliteration as much as the next guy, but the flabulous to fabulous thingie is a little off-putting.  I suggest this Fitness Angel change her slogan.  What about “Tonnage to Funnage in Ten”?

Peter G. describes his whereabouts by the nano-second, when he says “it is a spectacular day here in los angeles. out on the boat in marina del rey. the ocean is glistening and santa monica bay has never looked better. off to speak tonight in thousand oaks. tomorrow in redondo beach and tuesday in pasadena. and then...to new york for cbs. hope everyone is having a great and well deserved weekend”  

I think we get it; you’re in California.  Man, this guy should be a Travel Correspondent.  Oh, he is.

 

Marwa W. El-F. stated that: نطالب المجلس الأعلى للقوات المسلحة المصرية التدخل الان قبل غدا لحماية الجالية المصرية في ليبيا من بطش شديد من النظام الدموي الليبي .. لقد سمعنا جميعا التحريض السافر في خطاب نجل العقيد القذافي علي المصريين المتواجدين في ليبيا .. نكرر الوضع خطير ويجب التدخل الان قبل غدا، حفاظا علي ارواح اكثر من مليون ونصف
مواطن مصري
منقول - برجاء النشر

Aside from the misspelled words and poor grammar in Marwa W. El-F.’s statement, I refuse to marry a woman who whines incessantly about needing a man.  (P.S. There is no way anyone will know who this woman is, given the way I abbreviated her last name.)

 

Paula O. sent me and 76 other friends this one: 

“A new fortune cookie has been delivered to you.

Click the cookie to find out what it says!

Read your fortune: Click here”

Thanks Paula O.  But if you don’t mind, I am going to save this and not open it until I have dinner at the Peking House on Friday.

Lorraine D. informs all of us who never took an astronomy course: “However long the night, the dawn will break.” African proverb

 

Carol D. brags that “my ferrets have run of the house. also have a very big walk in run and living quarters. they are totally loved and cuddled.”  

I’m not impressed.  For 30 years, the mice from the forest surrounding our house have had the run of our house, and I don’t have to take the time to love and cuddle them.

 

Narine H.  advises “Always act as you are waring (sic) an invisible crown.”  

I tried this yesterday, and it worked.  The pawn broker looked at me like I was crazy, and refused to give me any money for the diamond-studded thing I told him I had on my head.

 

Wesley S., a former student of mine, announced “Hi all I went to a party at 7pm and I am still drunk please comment when you see this.”   

Given that it was only 7:05pm when Wesley S. posted this, it must have been one hell of a party.  And what comment could I possibly offer?  Drink slower!

 

Ruth S. puts all men on notice with “Whatever u give a woman she will make it greater. Give her sperm, she will give u a baby. Give her a house, she will give u a home. Give her groceries, she will give u a meal. Give her a smile and she will give u her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what she is given. So if u give her crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit. Hope 2 see every girl on my friend list repost this :)”  

But I’m not sure this system Ruth S. describes is all that fair.  I have given my wife sperm thousands of times, and she has given me only three babies.

Cathy K. and 6 others like this.

Article first published as "What I learned from Facebook on President’s Day 2011!" on Technorati.

What I learned on Facebook the weekend of 2/19/11!!

 (Facebook.   You gotta love the banter.)

All quotes were copied and pasted from Facebook exactly as they were written.

Kelly Z. had Edward Abbey over for dinner, but I wasn’t invited.  Besides, I thought that guy died a couple of decades ago along with the rest of the Monkey Wrench gang.  Bon appétit.

Patricia H. told everyone “Good night…..xoxo”.  

I love getting kisses from strangers, as long as the tests don’t come back positive.

The Toronto Raptors reports that “DeMar DeRozan put down two impressive dunks in the 2011 Sprite Slam Dunk Contest on Saturday, but it wasn't enough to the finals, where Blake Griffin took the crown.”  

I had been wondering about this event for months, wrote it in my appointment book, but then forgot to watch it.  Nice reporting Raptors.

 

Sherry C. R. told us that “Marie Antoinette was beheaded for less….” in response to a political outrage by another FB poster.  That poor French girl’s head has been used in this way for 200 years.  I suggest we let the poor thing rest in peace and not use her “la tête” for a while.

 

Darcie G. warns her friends “who so kindly insist on setting me up with their dear friends: I will make it easy. Think Denzel Washington, Luis Miguel, Adam Rodriguez and Mof Def all wrapped into one. Ready, set go ... ; )”  

I had to google Mof Def to find out who he is.  But then I learned that Darcie G. misspelled his first name.  It is Mos Def, but I still didn’t know who he was.  Here is the scoop: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mos_Def.  Darcie G., you will not get fixed up with a cool guy if you can’t remember his first name.  Guys are funny that way.

 

“DO NOT COPY or download to your computer without prior written permission from Jack R. B.”  

This guy had a nice photo of a male Hooded Merganser, but I can’t show it to you, due to his warning.

 

David A. warns Sean:  “Sean, look at what the GOP House is passing. This is what they'll do if they win the Presidency and Senate. These aren't cosmetic differences. They're the difference between neoliberal (admittedly bad) and batshit insane.”  

Now, I’ve been a mammalogist for about 40 years, but I knew nothing about bat shit making you insane.  Exactly how does that work?

 

Mark L. asks “Anyone remember what this green stuff underneath the snow is called?” 

Mark L., you must be a student who never sees any money, but you were lucky enough to find a $20 bill.  Way to go buddy.

 

The Ottawa Senators tells us: “Just a reminder to bring a pack of diapers to tonight's game against the Bruins & win great prizes! Check out this amazing cause by learning more at: http://huggies.nhl.com/.”  

Are you kidding me?  I quit carrying diapers around more than 25 years ago, and I’m not starting up again now.  This is why I never attend hockey games.  They are as insane as batshit.

 

Susan S., Margaret H., and 77 others like this!

Is the behavior of sports fans explainable?

 (Aaron Rodgers, quarterback of the world champion Green Bay Packers.  Hang out with this guy to really enhance your status.)

I warned you in my first blog about 18 months ago that we would eventually get to some gritty topics about human behavior.  Up to now, we have been mostly just messing around with the humorous aspects of the human condition.  But I want to tackle some fascinating elements of our species (at least they are fascinating to me, and this is my blog, and you are not the boss of me).  And although I am not a professional card-carrying behavioral ecologist, or sociobiologist, or evolutionary psychologist, I have followed this literature for nearly 40 years.  It is about the most interesting non-fiction reading there is, in my opinion.

My closest colleague at Cornell, Paul Sherman, does carry a valid card of the type listed above, and I have been strongly influenced by his thinking.  He proved to me that asking questions about animal behavior (humans are animals) and then posing possible answers by thinking about how natural selection works can be productive and stimulating.  I think it is a fun type of thought experiment.

I have been in wonderment for decades about the motivation of those who so passionately root for and idolize their favorite football or baseball team.  I just don't get it.  Sure, I supported my teams in high school, and hoped they would win the regional or state tournaments.  I wanted the football team to win rather than lose when I attended Ohio State University.  But as those years passed, I found that I couldn't care less if any particular team won or lost and, in fact, I got to the point where I can't stand to watch any sports on tv.  So I am naturally curious about this conspicuous human behavior displayed by tens of millions of people worldwide, and which enables a relative handful of star athletes to become famous and fabulously wealthy.

In particular, it is curious how a person can become so emotionally vested in a team on which you have never been a player, or excited about the outcome of a team from a school you never attended, or remain overtly loyal to a team from a city in which you have never even lived.  To a behavioral ecologist, this is all extremely interesting.  (Realize that this little essay is not about the person who loves the game of baseball or football or basketball so much that they could watch any two teams play and love every minute of it, and not even care who wins.)

I don't have a lot of data on which to build a little theory about this fascinating behavior of humans, but there are some observations about which we can probably all agree.  Here they are:

1.  the majority of fans that follow most teams are men; most of the most passionate fans are men

2.  the most avid male fans are of prime reproductive age (15-50)

3.  the passion is so elevated that in many (or most ??) cases, fans of one team literally hate other teams and/or hate the fans of opposing teams, hurl incredibly insulting epithets at them, etc. (for spine-chilling evidence of this, check out the numerous Facebook fan pages of sports teams, but don't let your young children read them)

4.  in many (or most ???) cases, fans advertise their commitment to their favorite team by wearing jerseys, jackets, ball caps, or belt buckles, and put team bumper stickers on their car

This behavior is interesting, because we ecologists are always analyzing what organisms do in terms of cost-benefit analysis.  So in this case, how do fans benefit from supporting their favorite team?  They must get more than it costs them in terms of time and money, or it seems unlikely they would continue their support?  Aside from the fan who bets money on the outcome of a game, most fans stand to receive no immediate material benefit from their team doing well.  So where is the reward?

Now, most of you are not students of natural selection, I assume.  So, you are probably saying that people follow their teams because "it feels good", "it is enjoyable", or "I feel a sense of pride when my team does well". But the behaviorist wants to know why it feels good.  If it is enjoyable, then it almost certainly serves some other purpose biologically.  Why do we like sugar?  Because it is sweet.  But biologists then ask why does it taste sweet?  The biological answer is that it tastes good to us (and probably to most mammals) so that we will seek it out and ingest certain foods that contribute to our nutritional well-being and, thus, our survival.  The same kind of answer follows the question about why sex feels good.  If sex were painful, humans would have intercourse less often and, presumably, have fewer children on average compared to a group of humans where the act was pleasurable.  I am simply asking the same question about why so many humans follow their favorite sports teams so passionately.

At this point, I need to introduce the concept of "status", which has a special meaning in biology.  There are many factors that can contribute to an elevated status in humans: wealth, notoriety, physical beauty, intellectual acumen, physical prowess.  Status is important, especially for males, because females are attracted to men with high status.  High status males have more mates during their life, copulate more, and leave more children (or at least they did before the era of easy access to contraceptives in developed societies), which is the all-important currency that drives evolution.  Thousands of scientific studies show this relationship for non-human animals.  The data for humans are more difficult to obtain, but if you search Google for scientific studies by P.W. Turke and L.L. Betzig 1985 (Those who can do: Wealth, status, and reproductive success on Ifaluk), E.A. Smith 2004 (Why do good hunters have higher reproductive success?), or R.L. Hopcroft 2006 (Sex, status and reproductive success in contemporary United States), you will find convincing evidence that status matters a great deal to humans.  But you already know that status is important to humans, and that we try to raise ours all the time.  This is true of humans in every culture and society everywhere in the world.  And if I asked you why we seek status, you would probably say something like "because it feels good".

There is little doubt that professional athletes have high status.  The Super Bowl that I watched Sunday exhibited some of the elements that contribute to the status of the participants, aside from the obvious financial payoff.  The President of the United States watched the game at home, and a former President was in attendance at the game along with numerous high-status movie stars.  Then, there is the presence of the U.S. military, which I have never understood.  Regardless of how that association ever got started, the military pageantry just before the game, the singing of the National Anthem, the military fly-over, and the segues to our soldiers in Iraq who watched the game lend credence to this football game as an important event in America.  That is, the Super Bowl is a really big deal, watched by more than 100 million viewers.  As Michael Douglas stated in that somewhat emotional segment before the kickoff, "This is so much bigger than just a football game."  If you think that the "head man" or chief of a Paleolithic village of a couple hundred people had high status among his villagers, then the status of the quarterback of the winning Super Bowl team must be off the charts.

What then about the fans?  I have long thought that the idolization of celebrities that is so common among humans is a status-enhancing behavior.  Or, at least it is a behavior that is a vestige of an age-old desire to be close to the source of power, wisdom, or wealth.  Perquisites that enhanced survival and/or reproductive success must have flowed to those who were confidants of the clan or tribe's chief throughout most of human history.  Today, if I were a close friend of Warren Buffett or Bill Gates or the Queen of England, I would likely obtain some tangible benefits.

And so we are strongly attracted to famous, wealthy, and powerful people, even if it is from afar.  We celebrate them, idolize them, dream about being with them or at least seen with them-------of somehow having our lives and our fortunes touched by theirs.  To help prove this point, imagine that you flew from New York to LA, and you happened to sit next to Angelina Jolie on the plane.  I will bet you my next three Social Security checks that the first words out of your mouth when you joined your spouse or friend at the terminal would be: "Guess who I sat next to on the plane?"  It would probably be the most significant event that happens to you all month, and you would talk about it with whomever would listen.  Importantly, your status would be enhanced, at least for a little while, because of this experience you had with the famous celebrity.

We may not be conscious of the possible enhancements to our well-being if we were to be befriended by one of these high-profile people, but that lack of awareness does not lessen the potential benefits of such an association.  Anyone with higher status than ours is a person with whom it is worth fraternizing, so in a global world the number of such people is extremely high.

It should be obvious by now that my hypothesis is that our tendency to follow a sports team, and to advertise that fact to others, is just another example of attempting to enhance one's social status.  It is a cheap and easy tactic to use; being a sports fan is the poor man's approach to bettering your position.  But there are certainly other explanations for this behavior.  For example, maybe people (essentially men) become a visible fan of a team because nearly everyone else in their social group or community is already a fan.  By NOT being on board, you could be viewed as a weirdo and, of course, your status would suffer accordingly.  But that is essentially the same idea; namely, maybe your status will not soar because you became a fan, but it might decline if you do not.

I have not discussed how we might test this idea or other predictions we could make based on it, but this blog is already too long.  Another time. I could be dead wrong about all of this, and I strongly invite your alternative explanations.  However, as I have long believed, the wrong hypothesis is better than no hypothesis at all.

Not the Super Bowl again!

(Maybe the Super Bowl frenzy is all about the snacks you get to eat while watching.)

This year I am trying to get pumped up for the big football game.  I guess the Steelers and the Packers are involved. 

You see, I hate football and I just can’t watch it on tv.  I tried to watch a couple of Super Bowl games over the years, but I never seem to make it past the first quarter.  I think I have watched maybe two football games in their entirety in the past 40 years. 

I know there must be something wrong with me, and I am seeing a specialist about this.  But she just doesn’t know what to prescribe as an antidote.  So I have taken treatment into my own hands, before I go so far as to check myself into the Mayo Clinic to find out what is wrong with me. 

My wife and I are ready.  I cleaned the tv screen with Windex to make the image as inviting as possible.  I vacuumed the carpet in the living room so I am not distracted by lint on the floor as I sit there during kickoff.  And I went to the grocery store yesterday and bought some great snacks.  We are going to have shrimp cocktail, one of my favorites.  I wonder if this is how most people make it through a game---they just buy lots of comfort foods and gorge themselves for three hours until the final gun.

But I am simply tired of being left out of conversations in public places.  This next week, everyone will be talking about the fumbles, the TDs (I just googled TD and found out that this is short for “touchdown”), the interceptions, and the half-time show. 

And anyone who did not see all those highly-touted commercials that cost $3,000,000 is considered un-American.  During WWII the Allies would ask an intruder who won the World Series.  If they didn’t know, then they were assumed to be a German soldier.  I have always worried that I might be stopped by some authority who would ask me to describe the Bud Light commercial on last year’s Super Bowl.  But because I would not know, I would be arrested as a subversive terrorist from Yemen.

So I have my snacks and my cleaning supplies at the ready.  I also have a little cheat-sheet with the names of the two teams and their colors written down to avoid confusion when the two lines of players run together and get all mixed up.  But as a backup plan in case I run out of snacks, I am checking HBO to see what movies might be showing Sunday evening.

Article first published as Not the Super Bowl Again! on Technorati.

Sleep-talking, the fun I have after dark

(After dark is when my fun really begins.)

I have always been able to find ways to entertain myself.  When I was a kid, I collected things: baseball cards, soda bottle caps, coins, stamps.  I played baseball, cowboys and Indians, and pretended I was Peter Pan saving Elaine, the cute little girl next door, from something bad.

More recently, with the children grown and gone, I play hide 'n seek with our black lab in the house, kibitz with people I don't know on Facebook, read a couple of books a week, and stroll through the forest around my house as though I were a Cayuga Indian stalking a deer with a bow.  I've never actually met a Cayuga Indian, if any still exist, but I pretend that I'm walking stealthily around on dry leaves as I assume they must have done in this very location.

Mostly, I love to tease my wife and play my own brand of games with her, something which she often sees coming, but which she understands is a part of our relationship.  For example, she always wants to read in bed at night, and I don't.  So before she gets to bed, I often hide her book somewhere in the room, and pretend that I am asleep.  But she knows that one too well.  "Tom, where did you hide my book?  I know you are not asleep."  Or, I will unscrew the light bulb in the bedside lamp so that when she tries to turn it on to read---well, you get the picture.  Or, when she is ready to go to sleep, she insists that I turn over and face the wall nearest my side of the bed so she can cuddle for a while.  But instead of turning 180 degrees to establish the position she wants, I actually turn 360 degrees to end up in exactly the position I was in originally.  So, in pitch black dark, I'm excited with anticipation when she discovers that her face is not near the back of my head, but it is actually touching my face.  I get giddy just before she lets out a little scream of surprise when she realizes her nose is unexpectedly touching another nose.  I love that one.

But on occasion, I also have another opportunity for entertainment because my wife has this interesting ability to talk in her sleep.  In the middle of the night, she will utter a perfectly coherent, complete sentence that wakes me from sleep.  I awake quickly enough that I hear and understand every word she says.  I wish I had written all these down over the years, because by now I would have enough material for a book titled "A Sleep Talker's Guide to the Universe".

It is also obvious that her utterances are a direct manifestation of what she is dreaming or thinking about.  Last week, our 2-year old grandson had tubes put in his ears to reduce the incidence of ear infections to which he is prone.  Two nights ago, Management spouted off the following sentence: "There should be a shine off the tympanic membrane." Realize that my wife used to be a Registered Nurse, so she must have been dreaming about ear anatomy and its characteristics, although I don't know if the tympanum ever shines.

But the best utterance was years ago when my wife still worked as a R.N. in the Emergency Department at the local hospital.  She was always bringing the stories of her work home with her---the amputated arm of the day, the broken bone protruding through the leg, and the usual heart attacks, kidney failures, and drug overdoses.  After 20 years of that, I felt I had learned so much about the medical profession that I almost went into private practice to treat trauma patients.  Follow that up with watching the tv series ER for about five years, and I could have taught medicine at a university.  One night while we were sleeping, the sleep talker went into action.  "Give him .5 of epi (meaning 0.5cc of epinephrine), STAT!", I heard her say with obvious panic in her voice.  This time, I thought I would try to talk back to her to see if she registered my response.  So I said, "No, make that 10cc of epinephrine, STAT!".  She definitely heard me.  She became immediately agitated, started moving her arms and legs like she was trying to stop the lethal injection about to be given by this new doc in the ER who looked a little like her husband, and she repeatedly said "No. No."  It was great.

I realized then that I had unleashed the power.  So for many years since then, when my wife starts her monologue, I whisper into her ear something like "Cheese omelette with mushrooms", and the next morning she asks me if I would like an omelette for breakfast.  "Oh sure, that sounds nice", I say naively.  Or, "A Porter-Cable rotating sander for my birthday".  When she presents me with my birthday gift a week later, I act totally surprised.  "Wow, I've been wanting one of these." And, "You probably have as great a husband as anyone you know."  For the next couple of days she keeps telling me how lucky she is to have a guy like me, and that I'm so special, although she can not remember exactly why.

Last night when we went to bed, she announced that she was going to read before turning off the light.  And then, "Tom, did you hide my glasses?"  Of course I did.  That was entertaining, but the real fun begins AFTER she goes to sleep.

Article first published as Sleep-talking, the fun I have after dark on Technorati.

The Odd Couple goes West

(DrTom and Paul Sherman could have played the parts of Oscar and Felix naturally, and did.)

Paul Sherman and I were colleagues at Cornell University.  For several years, Paul and I drove the 2,200 miles from Ithaca, NY to the OX Ranch in western Idaho to conduct research on Idaho ground squirrels. We lived there for two months a year for most of the 1990s. Have you ever spent four days in a truck with Paul Sherman, followed by two months in a bunkhouse 30 miles from the nearest town (pop., about 600), followed by another four days in the truck to get home? Of course not, because your mama didn't raise no fool. Apparently, mine did.

On the trip out, Paul enjoyed working mentally on evolutionary problems---aloud.  Why do opossums play dead?  Why do humans nearly everywhere believe in some kind of a god?  Why do humans keep pets?  Paul liked to listen to Linda Ronstadt tapes in the truck; I liked to hear Jon Secada. He drove 55 mph; I drove 65. He liked to eat at McDonald's; I hated the place. I smoked; he hated that. He is fastidious, organized and neat; I'm not so much that way. He has a Type A personality, if you know what I mean; my type is yet undefined, but it can't be higher than a C.  And Sherm worried a lot more than I did about what other people thought.

When we arrived at the bunkhouse at the OX in March of the first year, I threw my jacket on the chair near the front door as we entered the old clapboard structure. Paul asked me if I was going to do something with that. I told him I intended to leave it there until May when we packed up to go back to New York.  And so it went for the next 55 days, and for the next eight years---Sherman as Felix Unger and I as Oscar Madison of the old tv series, The Odd Couple.

When friends or biologists visited our squirrel project, they invariably asked if we bickered like this all the time. No, we've cleaned up our act quite a bit for your visit. You should have heard us yesterday arguing about whether the kitchen floor needed mopping yet. And the day before that it was whether ketchup really needs to be kept in a refrigerator. Of course not, I said. But I repeatedly found it in there getting all cold as soon as I turned my back.  And Tony Randall worried whenever I left the Crock-Pot on all day. "Paul, it is a crock-pot. That's what it does. You cook slowly with it on ALL DAY." And tomorrow, we have to decide who drives the 30 miles to town to get groceries. And whose turn is it to call the ranch foreman and invite him and his wife for dinner?  "Tom, isn't that firewood a little close to the wood stove?" I started going to bed at 8pm so I could get some peace and quiet.  "Tom, did you brush your teeth before you went to bed?"  Judas Priest!!!!

One year we decided to take a more northerly route back to Ithaca.  We went through Montana.  At the end of a long day of traveling, we were ready to stop for the night.  We were both exhausted from a day of negotiating about the best route to take, which octane gas we should buy, and who gets to read the Missoulian first while the other drove.  I detected the unmistakable smell of testosterone as we hit the city limits of Bozeman; a few minutes later we discovered why.  We noticed that there were few vacancies at motels as we proceeded down the main drag.  We stopped at the only place that did not have a "No Vacancy" sign flashing.  That was the good news.  There was a rodeo in town, and nearly every room in town was taken.  The only room they had left was the honeymoon suite, the bad news.  I kid you not!  The friggin honeymoon suite.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter snickered and told me with as straight a face as she could summon that she would give us a discount.   The lobby was full of cowboys in western shirts, huge metal belt buckles with bighorn sheep and other animal heads on them, wide-brimmed hats curved up at the edges just right, and the obligatory boots with stiletto toes.  There was probably more testosterone per cubic foot in that motel at that moment than any place on earth.  "Lady, please keep your voice down.  We're considering this because we are dead tired, but let's not let this develop into a group decision between the university profs who study squirrels and have New York license plates and all these hombres who just rode in here on wild mustangs they only roped this morning on the open range."  Agreed.  But as we were walking away from the check-in desk she shouted: "Do you want flowers sent to the room?"  

Sherman and I accepted the deal, but we took a circuitous route to get to the room, and then waited until the hall cleared before we unlocked the door and slipped inside faster than a Google search can bring up the results for "lynch mob". The room was much nicer than the room my wife and I had stayed in on our wedding night 40 years earlier; there must be some kind of moral or life lesson in that fact, but I can't begin to figure out what it is.  The Bozeman room was so feminine, so flowery, so over-the-top nuptial that I blurred the memory of the place almost as soon as we checked out.  I do remember that there was a heart-shaped bed on a raised platform in the middle of the room and a pull-out couch.  Sherman and I flipped to see who got the bed.  He won the toss, or lost the toss, depending on your point of view.  We both agreed not to discuss the incident for at least 10 years.

Back in Ithaca, Sherman and I rarely spent any social time together.  An occasional email or phone call where the words "dickhead" and "whacko" were flung about was the extent of it.  Living together for two months a year pretty much exhausted what we had to say to one another.  During those years, we discussed every topic known to man, and we pretty much solved all the world's problems.  Professors in biology are often loners, so to live and work together closely for a significant period of time, far removed from your families and routine concerns, fosters a mutual dependency.  When it was all said and done, we were both wiser for the rare opportunity that comes with two adults jointly seeking answers to questions on a daily basis.  It takes a compromising spirit, but in the end it was all good, and life-long memories were made.  I still think that ketchup should be kept at room temperature, however.

The incredible cinnamon buns of Frank the cowboy

(Frank Anderson, my favorite cowboy and pastry chef, on his favorite quarter horse, Magic.)

Frank Anderson is a cowboy.  I mean, he is a real cowboy.  Frank and his family used to run cattle in the wide open landscape of eastern Oregon.  They were out on the range for weeks at a time, ate from a chuck wagon, punched cattle from horseback---the whole nine yards.  Years later, when his kids attended a proper school for the first time in their lives in Eugene, the teacher called Frank and his wife in for a conference.  She told them that their kids were great.  So what's the problem?  Well, they tell these unbelievable stories about living on the range like the cowboys of old.  The teacher quipped: "No one has lived like that for 100 years."  But Frank snapped back: "Mam.  That is exactly how we lived."

I got to know Frank while he was working for the OX Ranch near Council, Idaho.  For many years during the 1990s, Paul Sherman and I drove from Cornell to the OX where we conducted research on Idaho ground squirrels for two months every spring.  The OX was an operating cattle ranch with only a couple of full-time cowboys; with the well-trained cattle dogs they used, you just didn't need many men to keep those cattle from misbehaving.  Frank was in his 60s then, but he still mounted a horse early in the morning and didn't get off until evening.  Sometimes he had to sleep on the ground in the early spring cold, rather than take the time to come back to the house, if the herd was far away.  In the morning after those nights, he didn't walk completely upright.

Frank is built like most men would like to be built who were 40 years his junior.  Probably about 5'10" tall, 200 pounds, not an ounce of fat.  He sports a huge handlebar moustache, bushy eyebrows that he can raise so high they knock off his cowboy hat, and a flattop haircut.  He could easily pass for a Marine Corps drill instructor at Parris Island.  He is a horse whisperer and a dog whisperer.  He owns a team of four Belgians that he used to pull a wagon.  It is no small feat to control 8,000 pounds of horse with four independent brains, but Frank used to enter competitions with his "boys" where you did just that.  His son actually "breaks" horses for a living.  Once when Frank was driving fence posts into the ground he lost the tip of his index finger to the first joint.  He politely produced the severed finger from his pocket to the doctor when he finally got to the medical office.

But on Sundays, Frank transforms into something else.  He is usually home that day, and he bakes.  He made fantastic pies when we worked on the ranch.  One Sunday, I entered Frank's kitchen to find a plate of the most delicious-looking cinnamon buns you ever saw.  They were huge, tipping the scales at about half a pound each, oozing with cinnamon-flavored gooeyness, and warm.  In my entire pastry-consuming life, I never tasted a cinnamon bun that was that good, and I consider myself a cinnamon bun aficionado.  I was astonished at Frank's accomplishment, I ranted and raved about the creation, and I praised the cowboy profusely.  He nodded with pride and modest self-satisfaction.

My son Matt, who was working with me at the time, whispered to me that we need to trap squirrels in the location of Frank's house every Sunday, especially on the side of the house where Frank can see us through a large picture window, and that we should look hungry and in need of hot coffee.  We agreed that we would rehearse the forlorn look of a hungry squirrel biologist that very night back at our bunkhouse.  After a few Sundays, Sherman began to see the pattern, and accused us of planning our research schedule around the activities of the cowboy's kitchen.

When we returned to Ithaca, I told everyone about the cowboy's buns.  I bragged to my wife, I exclaimed to my department chairman, and I repeated the story of the Most Excellent Cinnamon Buns to my students and to anyone who would listen.  The following year we went back to the OX to study the wily ground squirrel.  On Sundays, I trapped near Frank's house.  I was hoping to score again.  Apple pie was good, but those buns.................  Had it all been just a wonderful dream?

And then one Sunday it happened.  Frank had cinnamon buns!  But wait.  They were good, but not great.  Was Frank slipping?  Had he lost the original recipe?  Had he changed ovens or mixers?  Was he using a metal spoon now instead of a wooden one?  And the following year, it was the same.  Good buns, but not great buns.

A few years after this, when our squirrel project was over, Frank visited my wife and I in Ithaca.  And then the truth came out.  The old cowboy confessed.  The wonderful cinnamon buns that I remembered were not Frank's.  He had purchased them at a local church bake sale a few days before.  When Matt and I went bonkers over how good they were, and how amazed we were that the cattle-puncher could produce such a thing, Frank took the credit.  The whole story took on a life of its own.  Frank heard us tell his foreman what great buns his employee made.  His culinary reputation throughout western Idaho was growing far and wide, as well as through the halls of the Ivy League back East.  Frank let the acclaim get the better of him, his head swelled to the size of a 10-gallon hat.  After that inaugural bun year, Frank knew that we would be expecting those pastries, so he learned how to make cinnamon buns in an attempt to create a seamless bun history.  The "good" buns were his.  The "great" buns came from the bake sale.  And he hoped we would not know the difference.  OMG!

After his confession, I thought I would never trust any cowboy I met again.  To be honest, I have not met another cowboy in the 15 years since this incident, but if I ever meet one, he will have to prove himself to me.  But then, I cogitated the facts of this case a bit longer and I realized something.  Frank knew we were counting on having cinnamon buns at his house on Sunday.  So he took the time to learn how to make them.  He realized he now had a bun reputation to uphold, and a man's reputation was worth fighting over.  In fact, where Frank comes from, men used to shoot each other over such things not so long ago.  So in the end, I thought--bravo Frank.  Well done.  May the memory of your buns live forever.

P.S.  Sadly, Frank passed away in 2015.  My sons and I will miss him forever.