• Regret with cause

    You usually don’t have regret without some cause, but I thought it sounded good… so there you have it.

    Earlier in the week my wife said she needed to get a gift for a shower she was attending. I told her I would get it for her… because that’s just the kind of guy I am. Armed with a name and coordinates of ground zero for the registry, I made my way to everyone’s favorite Minnesota-based retailer. Thirty minutes later I was standing in line to purchase a gift. I placed the gift on the consumer goods treadmill, with the registry printout placed conspicuously ON TOP of the gift. When my turn came, the cashier picked up the printout, handed it to me, scanned the gift, and asked for my money (with a lisp, speaking around a conspicuous decorative ornament piercing his tongue) – which I gave him. Without the heretofore expected (and assumed obligatory) “have a nice day,” the appointed face of corporate good will turned to address the spending needs of the next customer.

    “Ah, wait a second,” I interrupted, “Don’t you need to do something with the registry?”

    “If you had told me about it before I would have, but now it’ss too late.” (Note the lisp.)

    “I’m sorry. You’re right; I probably should have said something, but I thought you might have noticed the registry when you picked it up to hand it back to me. Are you sure it’s too late?”

    “…” (Astute readers recognize this as the sound of the blank stare of condescension.)

    I almost used a variation of a tactic I’ve learned is extremely effective with my school age daughter… “If I went and spoke to your supervisor, do you think he would say the same thing?” Alas, I proved to be just as lazy as Mr. Tongue; I left without further comment or effort. In my defense, I was really tired – but this entry isn’t about excuses, it’s about accepting blame. There’s a poor gift recipient out there with a duplicate gift that needs returning, and I must face the fact that I am partly to blame.

    Still, I wouldn’t have minded taking a tug on that kid’s tongue ring, saying “Do you want to sound like you’ve lost motor control over your tongue? Throw in a Philly accent and you could be in the next Rocky movie.” (Provided I had a pair of surgical gloves with me).


  • An excerpt from a favorite writer of mine

    Tuesday Morning Quarterback has long been on the placebo case. In 2004, I noted studies showing that placebos are efficacious and said it was unfair that only those who participate in clinical trials enjoy the benefits of placebos. I asked, “If sugar pills actually work, why aren’t placebos a standard treatment given by doctors and hospitals? The answer is that placebos aren’t expensive enough!” At the risk of quoting myself, let me quote what followed: “Therefore I plan to make my fortune by marketing the incredible new drug Placebon. A patented, proprietary formula consisting entirely of sugar, Placebon will revolutionize medicine. Elaborately packaged in individual foil doses, Placebon will be obtained only with a doctor’s prescription. Placebon will be the subject of a multimillion-dollar marketing campaign consisting of costly television advertising and full-page magazine ads with hundreds of words in disclaimers. In the TV ads, smiling multicultural people will run through fields of wild flowers laughing and embracing, but the announcer will never give the slightest hint what the drug is for.”

    Here was the rest of my plan: “Placebon will be extremely expensive, thus increasing demand. Pharmaceutical companies will treat doctors to lavish dinners, send them on all-expense-paid cruises and hand out handsome ‘consulting’ fees to get them to prescribe Placebon. Controlled clinical studies will fail to show that Placebon is any more effective than breathing, but the manufacturer will lobby the Food and Drug Administration not to report this. Celebrities will be hired to have public breakdowns, then make spectacular recoveries by taking Placebon. A saccharine version, Diet Placebon, will be marketed. Initially, many insurers will refuse to pay for Placebon. But as senior citizens stream across the Canadian border to buy low-cost government-subsidized Placebon, politicians will demand that insurers pay, and the health care share of the GDP will rise again. Eventually a generic will be available at discount, while the patent holder makes a tiny molecular change in order to maintain proprietary pricing of advanced Placebon 24″, a longer-lasting version. By converting the placebo from cheap to extremely expensive, Placebon will expand the benefits of the placebo effect from a tiny few who participate in clinical trials to millions of Americans.”

    Warning: Do not take Placebon if you are pregnant or not pregnant. Product not suitable for anyone who is tall or short or not tall or not short. Side effects may include pneumonia, cancer, bubonic plague and amputation. If you had trouble getting dates in high school, Placebon may not be right for you. Do not operate tunnel-boring machinery or artillery after taking Placebon. Never take Placebon or any prescription drug without first paying a large sum to a doctor.

    – Gregg Easterbrook, ESPN.com


  • Inappropriate metaphors

    (Author’s note: this entry makes a little more sense knowing it was written two weeks ago.)

    Your body is not a bank. In so far as you are not made up of mortar, timber or stone, this is pretty obvious. The bank as a metaphor for your body’s function doesn’t work well, on many levels. You see… with a bank you can’t continue to make withdrawals without the occasional deposit. The horrible reality of my body is that I can continue to make withdrawals long after a bank would have cut me off. The occasion of this observation is an example of bad judgment, whose consequences I reap at this very moment. Last night I offered my sleep on the altar of sacrifice to the football gods, in hopes that the fortunes of at least one of my favorite teams would improve (the mighty – if slightly overrated – Gators not withstanding; their accomplishments having faded with the awful performances witnessed yesterday).

    Earlier in the day the home team (the Bucs) came to the stadium pick up their paychecks. They stuck around for a few hours, shedding a few pounds of pride, and making a few fans nostalgic for the days of Sam Wyche. Later that evening, my alternate team took the field in prime time, looking to spoil the perfect start of the team formerly from Baltimore. They spent the first half playing to the strengths of the Equus Shoes… stacking the line and playing single-coverage on their exceptional wide-outs on defense, and attacking the edges of their undersized (but fast) defensive line on offense. It was during this display of the Patriot’s coaching staff out-smarting themselves that I made the decision to make my sacrifice. Rather than go to bed (like a sane person), I stayed up to watch the whole thing.

    The butcher’s bill for the evening (besides a couple of disappointing football scores) was three and a half hours of sleep.

    Assuming my wife has any pity for me (she doesn’t), my kids could play quietly after dinner (I don’t have anything else to say about that), and the bank metaphor of physiology holds more water than your average fork; I could just go to bed around six this evening to balance the books. Even if I could… I just can’t. After working all day, coming home to chores, child bed-time prep, and dinner; going straight to bed feels like betrayal. I can’t just go to sleep with out doing something just for me.

    No, I won’t be catching up on my sleep anytime soon. In fact, I may make matters worse tonight (I’ve been itching to play Halo 2 again).

    My mind is cruel this way, when it comes to sleep. The truly troubling aspect of this ordeal is that I knew all of this going into last night, and I still stayed up late to watch the Patriots lose to the Equus Shoes. I knew I’d spend all week not catching up on my sleep, regretting it every single morning, and repeating the performance the following night.

    Hello. My name is John and I’m an idiot.