Regular Life

Those reading “Bernie” will find Part Nine picks up where Part Eight left off. Handy, eh?

Last weekend, Ben plays coming off a week’s battle with the flu.
(click to enlarge)

In this space, I often post long missives whose message might be conveyed in far fewer words. I once read an article that stated the average Internet user has the attention span to read about 500 words. Yikes! That isn’t much space to convey my message. For those of us not doing this for money, making time to write short pieces is tough.

“What? It takes more time to write fewer words?” you might ask.

Yes, indeed. But don’t take it from me. Read the following quotes from two great minds of the past.

I have made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it shorter.
Blaise Pascal, 1623 – 1662

I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.
Mark Twain, 1835 – 1910

Apparently Twain was so terribly short on time that he didn’t have time to come up with an original quote.

In storytelling, there’s obviously a little more wiggle room because it’s often better to describe a place for the reader rather than merely state its name. For letters, e-mails, or essays — particularly for work, wordiness is far from Godliness.

For those with a little more time on their hands, here’s an informative (and mercifully brief) piece geared toward writing concise essays (because, after all, aren’t blog posts like little essays?), but that could prove useful for other applications:
http://www.paulgraham.com/writing44.html

I once read that a blog was a place for one to share interesting and timely links with others, perhaps within a comment or two on the topics covered. Considering that almost zero of the blogs I read actually fit that description, I laughed and ignored this.

But here I am fitting in the mold cast by that particular columnist (*cough* *cough* PC Magazine’s John C. Dvorak *cough*). And, because it’s timely, I made a rare lunchtime post (which needed to be short for obvious reasons).

Mainly, I wanted to be the first one (as far as I know) to make this joke. I just found a new meaning for the song, “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” On a more serious note, you’ll be amazed by such a medical breakthrough. My title suggestion for the movie based on this man’s story? My Left Tooth

Another eye-catcher (oh, sorry), is the new mnemonic phrase created by a 10-year-old. She won a National Geographic contest to help people remember the names of the 11 planets of our solar system, in order of distance from the sun. Gee, when I went to school there were only nine. Her winning phrase?

My Very Exciting Magic Carpet Just Sailed Under Nine Palace Elephants.

My only problem with it is the word “very,” because it is forgettable, but I can’t come up with anything better. It makes sense and should serve well, especially after Lisa Loeb releases her song based on it. That last part is no joke, apparently.

If you don’t believe me, or you just want to know the names of those two extra planets, and see a cool artist’s rendering of all 11, then read it yourself.

UPDATE: Link in last paragraph changed to different site, same story.

Historically I’ve taken it easy on the United States’ northern cousin, because I didn’t know much about it. I’ve seen numerous comedies making fun of Canada, from the way they talk to their traditions. After I got to know a couple people from “the Great White North,” I realized that those comedies had a lot of it right — but only the endearing parts. I don’t think Canadians (Canadiennes?) are any more likely to mindlessly consume beer than Americans, and I can chalk up funky headwear to the bone-chilling cold. I try not to judge things I haven’t experienced firsthand.

So now, I reach out again to build understanding (or point the finger, as the case may be). Bear with me, there’s a sound clip.

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Part Eight of my latest online story is available. It is the longest chapter yet, and though I still have an idea where I’m going, all of this sprung forth fresh on Monday. Here’s hoping it doesn’t suck lagoon water.

I started a post for this space, but Bernie carried me away and I didn’t quite get the sound clips ready. So, consider this your chance to get started on or caught up on her story, or read another tale on my story blog.

Wondering just who is Jeff Stivins, this man Bernie plans to meet? It won’t take you long to find out in “Talk With a Killer.” Hint: It’s set in a time after “Bernie.”

Do you think people who wait tables for a living can be all that smart?

That was the exact sentence, minus the question mark, that someone typed into a Google search. I know because it lead them to my post called “I Don’t Wait Tables Anymore“, which appears to be the only hit on the first results page that covered a related topic. No, I didn’t address the intelligence of wait staff, but it was about being a server.

More than looking for an answer, the question seems to be positing a hypothesis. Because, let’s face it, when a question like that comes out of somebody’s mouth, he or she already has an opinion on the matter. Hostility is inherent in the wording.

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Benjamin felt much better in this picture than he has this week. Thursday night I put him to bed with a mild fever, this flu refusing to let him go.

As I walked out his bedroom door he croaked, “Daddy, would you please rub my back?”

“Of course I will,” I said.

A few hacking coughs erupted from his mouth. He managed to cover the last few. “Sometimes you sing songs when you rub my back, but not today,” he said.

“Okay, not tonight.”

I can’t wait for the day when he feels like riding again. He’s still my boy when he’s sick, but he certainly isn’t himself.

(Note: No new installment of Bernie today, but for all you who aren’t caught up, Part Seven got a “most engaging chapter yet” comment. If you aren’t reading it, then give it a try, and if you are, then eke out a few minutes to keep going.)

Do you always wash your hands before exiting a restroom?

Bear with me here. I’ve had the beginnings of this post “in the can” for a while now (pardon the pun, if you will), and flu season seemed like the perfect time to post it — if there’s ever a perfect time to write on such a topic.

Statistically, even if you answered “yes,” to the opening question, there’s a fair chance you’re lying. A sign in the restroom at work states that, “Nine out of 10 adults claim that they wash their hands upon exiting, yet only 6 of 10 actually do so.”

I gotta think that in certain restrooms, the main goal should be do not touch anything at all — even the sink — without at least a paper towel or a tissue in your hand (and even that’s not a reliable germ barrier). Motion-sensing sinks and drying systems make washing up worry-free, but are in regrettably short supply.

When I worked in IT at a hospital, the Infection Control folks taught us that once you’ve soaped up and rinsed your hands, then you re-contaminate when you touch the faucet to turn it off (believe it or not, those of us with brains already suspected this). That institution may have retro-fitted the restrooms to touchless by now, but back in the mid-1990’s it was old-school, so they urged (nay, implored) us to have a paper towel in hand before turning off the faucet.

Then, of course, you have the door to get out. Hands-free models are my favorite here, because you never know who did or didn’t wash up. I’ve noticed a trend of placing trash cans near the door, convenient for those of us who like to use a paper towel as a buffer. No door at all? Even better.

My hypothesis is that the knob or handle on the door to enter the restroom is no more contaminated than on the door to enter the building/room/etc. The knob or handle for exiting? Whole ‘nother story.

Those who think you’re getting around all this hand washing by using a clever combination of knees and feet or a part of your shirt as a buffer, just remember, the germs are then on whatever you used. Plus, guys, even if you’ve only used the urinal, you’ve at least touched yourself where few others ever should, so no matter how clean you think you are, let’s not share that with everybody else. (I have flushed many public toilets with my foot, sometimes using that famous Karate Kid-style move on urinal flushers, so keep that in mind the next time you use your hand and then even consider not washing up.)

Thoughts?

(All those reading “Bernie,” you may continue on to Part Seven)

A new park opened near us.

See for yourself (and click to enlarge a pic)…

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(All those reading “Bernie,” please continue with Part Six, where you’ll find out more about Kenneth Wymer)

Anna challenged us back on January 31 to post five images we’ve never used before and tell a little about each one. I’m a sucker for a meme that doesn’t suck, so here goes. (If I’ve used any of these before, then forgive me now.)

As usual, cleek to make eet beeg.

Taken back in September, 2007, in our living room, above is the seventh picture I snapped with my new Canon a560. I bought it to have something small to use on work trips or any time lugging a DSLR around isn’t convenient.

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Now I know why they call them hail stones.

We lay in bed at about 6:30 a.m., not long after Shannon and I got back from giving Ben cough medicine. Something banged hard against the roof, and something smacked our bathroom window. Repeat, really fast.

“Mommy!” Ben cried from his room.

“It’s okay, Ben. Come in here!” I shouted.

He did, and it resulted in what usually happens on the rare occasion that Ben climbs into bed with us. He gets between us under the covers, then won’t be still (or quiet) and none of us gets back to sleep. At 7 o’clock I got up with him and let Shannon sleep a little longer. There was nothing unusual about that, but I had been awake since 6 a.m. when Shannon’s attempts to give Ben the medicine woke me through the baby monitor.

But this is about the big hailstones.

(click pic to enlarge)

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