The Daily Procrastinator

A woman in Indonesia has given birth to a 19.2 pound baby. The boy, named Akbar (which means “the great” in Arabic”) is 24 inches tall.

That kid is a TANK.

Much to his mother’s relief, I’m sure, he was delivered via Cesarean section. According to medical professionals, Akbar’s tremendous size is linked to his mother’s gestational diabetes. The abnormally high levels of glucose in her blood allowed the baby to absorb far more nutrients than most while in utero. Dr. Binsar Sitanggang, who delivered the baby, said, “He is greedy and has a strong appetite, nursing almost non-stop.” Thanks for the enlightening update, doc. Who’d have thought that BabyZilla would eat a lot?

I don’t have anything especially insightful to say about this baby except, “Look at that baby! He’s freakin’ huge!” Just thought you should know.

FlashCap and Juggernaut are identical twins. This does not mean, however, that they are exactly alike. What follows is an online conversation between the two brothers that, had they been in the same room at the time it was occurring, probably would have devolved into a fistfight. Thank God for the internet.

Message Board Thread: “Your POS Politician of the Week”

Juggernaut: Stay classy, Van Jones:

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FlashCap: Geez, sounded like a joke to me. And that he’s playing to a largely Democratic crowd. I’m sure NOTHING like this has EVER happened at a Republican meeting.

/this was not your best one, J.

***

J: Wrong.

J provides link to Van Jones’ apology

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FC: Oh, bullshit. Here’s his very next line:

“Well, the answer to that is, they’re assholes,” Jones said, to uproarious laughter. “That’s a technical, political science term.”

It’s a joke. And plenty of people beyond politicians have been forced to apologize for jokes. Come on, J, get real.

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J: Noticeably absent from his apology were the words, “It was a bad joke.” Or “It was a poor attempt at humor.” Or any other explanation that supports your belief that this was a joke. To this end, I’d be more willing to take it as a “joke” if he had said, “but so are most everybody in DC” or “and the Democrats ain’t much better.” But no: he limited to Republicans, using the term as an insult, then defined himself as an asshole as if it were some kind of badge of honor (but of course, Obama isn’t).

Without having this devolve into one of our patented online fights, you have got to understand that there are people on the far left that believe this. They’re radicals. They’re lifers. They’ve drunk the kool-aid. And they are part of the problem. And this guy is one of them. Do you know anything about this guy?

Of course there are people on the other wing that are equally as nasty/classless (Ann Coulter, anyone? Or is she just joking?). And I’ll call them out if I notice them. But this guy made the list as a POS for the comment.

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FC: But he did call himself an asshole, in the exact same way as he used it to describe Republicans, so by your logic he’s got an extreme problem with self-loathing. I don’t buy it.

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J: Did you even read my post?

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FC: Yes, and I obviously don’t agree with you. I think that’s obvious with my post, isn’t it?

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J: The only thing obvious is that you’re being an apologist for this guy. And you have not responded to anything in my last post except to make something up about his mental state.

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FC: J, the guy said “I can be an asshole, too.” In my experience, people who refer to themselves as assholes are saying they can be obstinate and unwilling to compromise. Guess how this guy feels some Republicans are being? He appropriates the same term he used for Republicans and uses it on himself.

He said something that got laughs – he then said that “asshole” is the “technical, political science term” for it. Another joke. More laughs. He then calls himself an asshole. More laughs.

Hey, by the way, when did you call out Bush for his “rudeness” here? Or are you gonna be an apologist for Bush? I’m thinking I remember everyone (family; friends) laughing about it – including me.

FC provides link to Bush calling a reporter an asshole.

***

FC: And here’s Bush’s comments about it:

President Bush was subsequently criticized both for the remark itself and for the way the fallout from it was handled. When his aides were questioned about the “asshole” comment, rather than offering the candidate’s apologies for what he had said, they instead defended the remark, attributing it to justifiable ire over particular items Clymer had written about Bush’s career as Governor of Texas. “There’s been a series of articles [by Clymer] that the governor has felt have been very unfair,” said Bush’s communications director, Karen Hughes.

When directly asked about his remark, Mr. Bush responded, “I regret that a private comment I made to the vice-presidential candidate made it into the public airwaves,” which was not an apology. When pressed as to whether he would apologize, he replied, “I was making a comment to . . . Cheney. I didn’t realize, obviously, the mikes were going to pick it up.”

Not even an apology for using the term. Stay classy, President Bush.

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J: If you can’t see or acknowledge the difference between these two scenarios, you are either blind or being willfully obstinate.

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FC: I have no idea how these two scenarios are different except for the R and D labels, which apparently makes all the difference for you.

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J: That’s crap and you know it.

Let me point out the two obvious differences since you refuse to acknowledge them:

1) Bush’s comment was directed at a specific individual for specific cause. Are you familiar with Clymer’s articles? Or are you just going on the basis of the use of the word “asshole”?

Meanwhile, Jones’ comment was a categorical characterization of all Republicans because . . . um, because he doesn’t like the fact that Republicans haven’t rolled over to Obama’s agenda? Nice.

2) Bush’s comment was not meant for public broadcast (but shit happens). Jones’ comment was made during a public presentation while being videotaped.

You know I am not a fan of Bush. But I sure as hell can appreciate calling someone an asshole when they wrong you. And surely you can, too.

***

FC: it’s because he’s black, isn’t it?

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J: LOL

Juggernaut [Editor's Note: who will be acting as editor on this post] and I are identical twins – we were born 2 minutes apart [Editor's Note: I'm 2 minutes older] a little over 37 years ago and grew up sharing the same bedroom until we left for separate colleges. (sidenote: our younger brother had his own room, the little bastard. Thanks, Mom and Dad). As twins, we’ve received our fair share of inane questions: “Do you feel it if your brother gets hurt?” (answer: no. Punching myself in my face apparently hurts only me); “Why aren’t your names alliterative?” (answer: because our parents loved us); “You and your brother want to try a threesome?” (answer: actually, we’ve never been asked that before. [Editor's Note: Thank God.] And the answer would be NO – even though Juggernaut’s my brother, that’d STILL be the bad type of threesome).

Beyond the stupid questions, though, I’d still say I’ve enjoyed being a twin, and it’s going to be awfully hard on me when Juggs dies first. I’ll miss him. [Editor's Note: THE ONLY WAY I'M DYING FIRST IS IF YOU KILL ME.] We do have a closer relationship with one another than I think most siblings have (much to our wives’ chagrin), and it’s led to occasional wonderment on the part of our mutual friends when they see us together, which is rare as we live in different cities and Juggernaut seems to think he never has to come visit. [Editor's Note: Unlike some people, demands are made of my time and I don't have summers and every school holiday off.] We do tend to know what we’re going to say or how we’ll react to a given situation. We also have many of the same mannerisms, which is probably to be expected seeing as how we lived in the same room for 18 long years (thanks again, Mom and Dad!). BigRedPoet will tell you that Juggernaut and I are indistinguishable on the phone. BRP once spent a couple minutes talking to Juggernaut thinking he was me as he was driving up to Dallas to meet us for a concert. We don’t intentionally dress alike (in fact, quite the opposite: in school we would go out of our way to make sure we were not wearing similar clothing, which probably accounts for the fact that we rarely fell into the various clothing fads during high school), though one time I returned home from college and walked in the door to find Juggernaut dressed in identical clothing, right down to the brown woven belts we both wore. He immediately changed his shirt. [Editor's Note: Absolutely true story. The family's laughter still rings in my ears.]

The point is that while we’re twins and share the same DNA, we’re different people. [Editor's Note: For example, I outweigh FC by about 40 lbs. I actually spend time in the weight room.] Though just how different is something I wonder about at times, and maybe Juggernaut does, too (psychic link isn’t working right now). [Editor's Note: Not working on his end, apparently.] So I’ve devised a test of a suitably trivial nature in order to satisfy my curiosity about our “connection,” so to speak. Juggernaut and I are going to each individually create a CD containing 20 songs and trade the discs next time we get together. There will be no communication about what songs we’re including, and there will be no list when the discs are traded. There will also be no “rick-rolling.” We each are attempting to give the other a collection of music that we believe the other one will enjoy.

Now, the real question is this: how many of the songs we each select will be the same (if any)? Also, will there be a discernible pattern to the songs in how they’re arranged on the disc? Consider this: both my twin and I have access to over 75,000 songs on our separated-by-150-miles hard drives (b/c a former student loaned me the hard drive of a defunct classic rock station), so it’s not like we’re just selecting music we’ve bought over our lifetimes – we have access to pretty much everything. Also, while both of us are longtime metal heads, we’ve both agreed not to merely give a CD containing 20 Anthrax/Slayer/Metallica/Megadeth songs, no matter how awesome that might be. [Editor's Note: And it WOULD be awesome.]

We’ll each report back once we exchange the discs and have a chance to give some thought as to our selections. [Editor's Note: This sounds suspiciously like a way to force me to write another post.] If nothing else, it should be entertaining to hear what Juggernaut has to say about the songs I’ve selected for him.

When I was a child, Hershey’s Kisses were the coolest thing ever.  Perfectly bite-sized milk chocolate.  And the symbolism!  How could you go wrong?

For Valentine’s Day, my Nana — sweet as anything at 90 — sent me a package filled with Kisses.  Aww, so cute and kitschy, especially since I’m well past my grandma-sends-me-Valentines years.  I put them aside as a reminder of her warmth and generosity.

You know, they never look this well-wrapped and shiny in real life.

Last night, I was on deadline.  It was 11 PM, my energy was waning and there was just one thing that would save that whitepaper: chocolate.  I was lamenting the lack of chocolate in my house when I suddenly remembered my Valentine’s Day gift.  Salvation!  Chocolate!

I opened the lid, unwrapped the first one (an easy task as it was already partially unwrapped on its own) and popped it in my mouth.  A look of confusion crossed my face, and I spit it into a napkin.  Was this what Kisses tasted like?  There was no chocolatey mouth feel; it tasted almost like it was made with imitation chocolate flavoring.  In fact, the entire experience made me think of the Nutrimatic Drinks Dispenser from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

When the ‘Drink’ button is pressed it makes an instant but highly detailed examination of the subject’s taste buds, a spectroscopic analysis of the subject’s metabolism, and then sends tiny experimental signals down the neural pathways to the taste centres of the subject’s brain to see what is likely to be well received. However, no-one knows quite why it does this because it then invariably delivers a cupful of liquid that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.

But wait.  This can’t be right, I thought to myself.  I LOVED these as a child.  Maybe it was just stale somehow, since it had come partially unwrapped.  I searched for one that was still tightly sealed, opened it expectantly and discovered that no, the first one was not stale.  Did I really have such poor taste as a child?

I’m not sure what was more disappointing: the complete lack of chocolate to support my late night craving, or the complete distortion of my childhood memories.  Maybe next time I can convince Nana to send Ghirardelli squares.

Do you remember when you first heard the story of Nadya Suleman, the mother of the octuplets?  The first news that we heard was that they thought there were seven babies, and suddenly, mid-delivery, they discovered that there was an eighth baby hiding out in there.  Wow, quite a story, right?  Women everywhere were shaking their heads and thinking that there was no way in hell that they would ever want to be in a position where they were giving birth to the equivalent of a full litter, especially since multiples tend to be premature and have health problems.  How on earth could any one couple take on octuplets?

But then we learned more.  There was no couple; she’s a single mom.  And this wasn’t a fertility drug mishap where too many eggs fired off at once.  This was a deliberate placement of twice as many embryos as recommended for a woman her age (six were placed; two embryos split into twins).  In a woman who already had six other young kids, one of whom is autistic.  An unemployed woman who lives with her mom.  I mean, short of the kids being the spawn of some alien life form, the story could not possibly get any more bizarre.

And while the public turned on her, and the media exposed every strange corner of this woman’s life, one thing echoed in my mind: this is going to ruin reproductive medicine for other women, all because this woman and her wild card doctor went too far.

Tiny fingers.

Over the years, I’ve had several friends who’ve undergone reproductive therapies, ranging from fertility drugs right on through to IVF.  When it works, the result is nothing short of a miracle: a beautiful baby when nature alone wouldn’t allow it.  But even under the best of circumstances, the process is brutal, gut-wrenching and physically, emotionally and financially draining for the couple involved.  I’m worried that going forward, access to reproductive treatments will be limited, possibly taking away one last option from someone who so desperately wants it.

I’m hoping, for the sake of those other women, that the public will be able to distinguish between Suleman and the vast majority of women undergoing treatment.  I don’t want to see the reproductive rights of responsible individuals curtailed just because of one woman and one doctor who pushed things too far.

I’m a thinker. I like to know about my world and understand how and why it works. In my continuing quest to achieve these ends, I have discovered yet another facet of life that baffles me. Simply put, I don’t understand nurseries. I know that a family which is about to welcome a new baby into their lives needs a room in which to keep the baby’s bed, his or her diapering supplies and such, tiny clothes, etc, but I don’t understand the need for a nursery, in the modern sense.

It's the presidential suite at Chez Baby!

Look at the above room. Notice the various “cute” decorations. Perhaps my status as an unmarried and childless man has led me astray once again, but I just don’t understand what’s going on in that room. Notice the letters “S-E-A-N” arranged atop what appears to be one of those handy racks upon which one could hang a jacket or car keys. The baby cannot read his name, and his parents are likely to introduce him to anyone who visits. “Hang on, Marge…they didn’t tell us the baby’s name…this is going to be awkward…Oh, wait…look there…apparently, he’s called Sean.” Also, the baby cannot reach the peg-hooks to hang up his coat or car keys.

Continuing to examine the room, one notices several pictures of frogs. Baby Sean has never been to the swamp, probably, and certainly has absolutely no idea what a frog is. Indeed, the large tapestry featuring the Benevolent FrogFather smiling down on Sean’s crib just might lead him to grow up believing in some sort of omnipresent, poorly-drawn amphibious god. Other accoutrement present in the nursery include a reading lamp that Baby Sean can use when he hits the books after sundown, blue ribbons which he requires in order to accent the color of his eyes, and a chandelier, which is handy because, well, chandeliers are swanky.

The fact that everything in the room, with the exception of the crib, serves no purpose whatsoever to the baby contained therein seems ridiculous to me. Newsflash, Mom and Dad: Sean won’t remember a thing about this room when he’s six years old, much less when he’s 16 or 36. You’re decorating this room for yourselves and for your friends. This is where my understanding of the situation falls apart completely. Go to your favorite search engine, gentle reader, and search the terms “nursery decorations.” You’ll find that, generally speaking, they’re quite expensive. I’d wager that Mom and Dad have spent at least $500 on painting and decorating Sean’s nursery, a room that he won’t remember in the least. Five hundred bucks isn’t exactly a fortune, I know, but for a family that’s about to spend literally thousands and thousands of dollars on diapers, baby food, formula, tiny clothes, strollers, cribs, car seats, bottles, and hundreds of other baby items this bachelor has yet to even discover, it seems that five hundred dollars could be made much more useful.

Am I a stick in the mud? A curmudgeon? A utilitarian? Perhaps. I’m just trying to understand the world.

Picture the scene, if you dare: It’s a warm and humid central Texas evening, and a throng of adults are sitting on uncomfortable wooden benches surrounding a tiny baseball field. Strewn about the field are around fifteen four-year-old children. Several are playing second base. Several others are picking flowers, picking their noses, or otherwise engaged in some non-sporting activity. Standing near home plate, wearing a helmet that occasionally falls down and covers his eyes, there’s a little boy hacking away at a baseball on a tee. He doesn’t yet possess the dexterity to tie his own shoes, but his parents have decided to publicly declare him coordinated enough to play teeball. Clearly, they’ve misjudged his capabilities, though, as he can’t seem to make contact with the ball, despite the fact that it’s not moving.

These children are not going to grow up to be professional baseball players. In fact, they almost certainly won’t remember anything about their teeball league once they turn 15 or 16 years old. I surely don’t remember anything from when I was four years old, and if you’re honest with yourself, I doubt you do, either. So why do parents do this to their children? And why do they do this to themselves?

Today, as I had lunch with my coworkers, I overheard a woman who’s perfectly rational in every other aspect of her life confess that her two small children have athletic activities six nights a week. I nearly fainted. Moments later, another certifiably sane coworker confessed that she had signed up her four-year-old son for soccer, but she’s not sure he’s ready to play because the first time they went out to the yard to practice, his kicks didn’t go where he wanted them to, and he flopped down to the grass weeping. I suspect that countless such stories of suffering (on the parts of both children and parents) could be overheard at lunch tables and break rooms everywhere. It stuns me.

I grant that I may misunderstand this situation, since I’m not a parent myself, but I really just can’t make any sense out of it. Why in the world would a parent want to spend multiple nights each week to shuttle a child to practices and games for a sport he or she isn’t even old enough to play yet? If four-year-olds were meant to play baseball, they’d be able to hit the damn thing when it was thrown to them.

I suspect the “toddler sports” phenomenon has something to do with America’s obsession with remaining constantly busy. It seems we’re not allowed to just sit still. We feel obligated to schedule things for every hour of our days. What can the kids and I squeeze in between 5 p.m., when I get off work, and 9 p.m., when they need to go to bed? On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we can take little Ricky to soccer practice. On Mondays and Wednesdays, we can take Sally to dance practice. On Friday, though, Mom and Dad will each need to take a separate car because the soccer game and the recital are both scheduled to happen at 7. What kind of insanity is this? Kids (and adults, for that matter) need time to decompress, to relax. There’s no need to go-go-go during every waking moment.

The compulsion to put kids in organized sports programs from the time they’re old enough to wear their first pair of big-boy-undies unsettles me for another reason, too. I don’t believe kids that age need to be in competitive sports. Four-year-olds don’t need an adult coach instructing them on the finer points of playing shortstop; they need to be playing together without adult direction, inventing games, learning to socialize and interact appropriately. There’s a reason that kindergarten is dedicated almost entirely to learning social skills and how to play nice with others. Sure, we could try to teach them long division, but they have neither the need nor the capability for such a skill. I think the analogy is obvious.

Here’s something else that drives me nuts about this entire situation: Remember the aforementioned mom whose two children have sports six nights a week? She also told me that the first meeting for soccer (Soccer? Honest to God? Who plays soccer?) was rather interesting because the organizers distributed two sheets of rules to the parents. These rules do not govern the kids, though. The sports parents themselves apparently require two entire pages of rules to avoid making jackasses out of themselves in public. She listed rules like “The children are here to have fun. Please let them do so.” and “Do not argue with the referees. It undermines their authority in front of children and the other parents.” In other words, don’t be a jackass. The implication here is that, unless specifically instructed otherwise, parents will actually sit on the sidelines at peewee soccer games and heckle the referees. I don’t even know what to say about this, except to tell you that I’m shaking my head as I type.

News flash! As I was sitting here typing that last paragraph, another of my coworkers came in to ask a work-related question. After that discussion, I referred her to my topic for this entry. She informed me that a boy who plays on the same soccer team as her eight-year-old son has started tackle football this year. She and her husband bumped into the boy’s parents at the local sporting goods store, where they were no doubt investing hundreds of dollars in tiny football gear. Somebody needs to tell Dad that he didn’t make it to the NFL, coach didn’t put him in the game during the fourth quarter of 1987 bi-district championship game against the Bilgewater, Texas Fighting Flounders, and his career in accounting is pretty much locked in for life.

Wow. Now I just sound angry. Does that hurt my ethos? It probably does…but I’m prepared to take that chance because this is ridiculous!

My advice: Go out in the back yard and play catch with your kid. If your kid isn’t old enough to catch a ball, play tag.