Nightmare on Main Street

Main Street

By Jack Edwards

Our family had a brilliant idea. We would spend New Year’s Eve at Disneyland watching fireworks explode over the castle. Only, one little problem. Eighty-four thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-six people, people we didn’t even know, and certainly never invited, had the same brilliant idea.

That’s the cut-off. 85,000. This is proof that Disney runs Anaheim like the Mob runs Vegas. Just kidding! The bones in my legs are perfectly fine in their current, unbroken condition! (I’m referring to Disney. Not even the Mob is heartless enough to charge you $5.00 for a small soda.)

In order for 85,000 people to simultaneously experience the Wonder and the Joy that is the “Magic Kingdom,” each of the theme park characters is contractually required to carry at least one guest on his or her back to conserve foot space.  (Snow White is required to carry seven.)

There are only two possible explanations for Anaheim’s Fire Marshal signing off on Disney herding 85,000 victims into this human corral. Either old Walt had some dirt on the fire marshal, or the fire marshal is currently driving around in sparkling new Lamborghini with a bumper sticker that reads: “I brake for Mickey!”

The tragic result of this story, which will soon become ironically, and sadly, apparent, is that our family didn’t even need to suffer this tragedy.

Let me explain. When our family checks into a hotel, we ask for the best view available. Unfortunately, the best view available in our price range is a view of the hotel’s dumpster. Imagine our shock then of getting a room with a panoramic view of the Disneyland castle. We briefly discussed staying in our room to watch the fireworks, but decided that wouldn’t capture the full New Year’s celebration experience. As we soon learned… No, indeed, it would not.

We were warned that Disneyland usually cuts off entry around midday on New Year’s Eve when it reaches capacity. (Did I mention capacity was 85,000?) A Disney representative told us that if we left the park there was no guarantee of being allowed to reenter. This meant we had to head in early in the day, and remain in the park until midnight. If you’re beginning to get the sense that our whole plan was a bad idea, you would be sadly and absolutely correct.

Once in the park, warning signs were everywhere. We were 14 hours from midnight, and people were spreading blankets and staking out territory like it was the Middle East. Those of you familiar with Disney parks know that they have what they call a FASTPASS system with their more popular rides. You can go up to them and get a ticket to return at a later time (usually two or three hours when it’s busy) and then bypass the regular line. We struggled to Space Mountain for a FASTPASS at about 11:40 a.m. Our FASTPASS told us to return for the ride at 10:45 p.m. We were like those buffoons in the horror movie who stumble across a dead body stuffed into a dog house, but instead of fleeing for our lives, we simply shrug our shoulders and go, “Humm, that’s odd. The landlord told us this vacation rental didn’t allow dogs.”

The good news was, the temperature was nearly freezing.

Finally, midnight arrived. You know those pimentos that they shove into an olive? Yeah. We were 85,000 pimentos shoved into a gigantic Disney olive. In the end, the best view I could get was watching the fireworks through the thick branches of a tree on Disneyland’s Main Street. I stood there freezing, longing to be in my warm hotel room gazing out at my customary of the hotel dumpster.

Rose Bowl Bound

Football Final

By Jack Edwards

I dream that one day technology will advance to the point where I will not be forced to travel long distances, expend thousands of dollars and trudge through throngs of intoxicated sports enthusiasts to enjoy watching a college bowl game. Call me a crazy optimist, but I believe that, one day, perhaps a day in the not too distance future, we will be able to view sporting events from the convenience and comfort of our own living rooms. Yes, this will likely mean that I will not get to experience the pleasure of marching with my fellow football fans toward the stadium’s entry as I tiptoe around fresh puddles of vomit left by the truly dedicated “students of the game.” Or spend quality time with that crack squad of security professionals as they rummage through my knapsack searching for dangerous contraband, like water bottles.

This year, during Oregon’s Civil War football game, I cheered enthusiastically for Oregon State, not because I cared deeply, but because my family members are rabid University of Oregon Duck fans, and I knew I was in great peril of being coerced to fund an all-inclusive trip to the Rose Bowl if the Ducks won. Alas, fate was not on my side. In pro wrestling terms, the Ducks pulled one of those moves where they jumped down into the crowd, picked up a folding chair, crawled up onto the ropes and then came down on the Oregon State Beavers like the Angel of Death.

The good news is that I managed to pay top dollar for marginal quality game tickets. Being an idiot, I ordered my tickets through the U of O’s athletic department. This assured me of paying the full face value. Meanwhile, apparently because scores of other boneheads did the same thing and then, realizing that if Oregon beat Florida State, it would play for the national championship in Texas twelve days later, and they couldn’t afford to attend both games, decided to flood the market with Rose Bowl tickets. The last I looked, Rose Bowl tickets were going for a buck ninety-five, and they were throwing in a voucher for a free medium drink and souvenir seat cushion.

Fortunately, this trip will allow me to do research for my next career. It turns out that the highest paid public employee in every state and the U.S. Territory of Guam is being a head college football coach. So I’ve been watching these guys with an eagle eye all season.

Here’s my resume:

1. I’m balding. No, I’m not sporting the classic three-quarter bald top with a spiffy comb-over, but I’m working on it. And if this turns out to be a deal breaker with the athletic director, I can always pick up a can of Nair.

2. I’m average height. (The height of every bank robber since the beginning of time.)

3. I have an innate ability to look indignant and stomp around when I get upset. (My wife will write me a character letter attesting to this quality.)

And,

4. Most importantly, and perhaps making up for my lack of practical “on field” experience, I have a very noticeable “paunch.” Few men currently coaching at the NCAA Division 1 level can compete with me. I look like I’m entering my second trimester.

To those of you who won’t be able to enjoy spending half of your retirement savings attending the Rose Bowl this year, don’t worry, while we wait for the technology to advance to the point where you too can enjoy watching back home, I’ll take plenty of photographs to share with you when I return.

My Retroactive Christmas

Gift Final

By Jack Edwards

Like most men, I enjoy shopping. Especially for Christmas gifts. In fact, guys enjoy few things more than wandering aimlessly through one store after another in an endless search for the perfect gift. Over the past few years, my wife and I have found ourselves doing less of this shopping for each other because in the months leading up to Christmas, we have gotten into the habit of alleviating the guilt we feel about purchasing expensive items for ourselves (i.e. My new Bose QuietComfort 25 headphones) and then telling our spouse not to get us anything for Christmas because That will be our present.

Well, this Christmas season, I have decided to take this concept to a whole new level. My decision may come as a surprise to certain people, for example, people who have grown used to my purchasing a Christmas present for them each year, like my kids. I am going to sit down with a stack of Christmas cards and apply this same concept to them. It may cause a bit of confusion at first, due to my just now deciding to do this, and my not having previously warned them, but I’m sure they’ll understand.

My card to my Uncle Bob will read like this, “Dear Uncle Bob, remember the Saturday last July when you asked me to come over to your house and help you haul that busted freezer out of your basement? And I skinned my knee in the process?  Remember how sunny and beautiful that day was?  Before you called, I had been planning on fishing that day. Well, Merry Christmas! That was my present to you.” And I’ll enclosed a printout from Accuweather documenting that the temperature that day was a perfect 78 degrees.

My card to my eldest daughter will include the following heartfelt message, “Remember when you got that speeding ticket last May? The one where the cop clocked you at 87 mph? Remember how Mom and I didn’t actually kill you? We let you live? You’re still alive? Well, Merry Christmas! P.S. Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again.”

Some people get their pets a gift, and I don’t see why my faithful mutt Willie should be left out in the cold. I know he can’t actually read, so I’ll read it to him, “Dear Willie, you know the shelter I found you at last August? The one where you were fast approaching execution because, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re not he most attractive dog in the world? Pope Francis recently declared that animals have souls and can go to heaven. I don’t know if you’re Catholic (for all I know, you’re Jewish or agnostic), so I’ll hedge my bets by saying, ‘You’re welcome, Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas!’ And by the way, that was a pretty big gift, so let’s call this good for the next ten years – 70 of your doggy-years.”

My new retroactive gift giving policy, of course, will not come as a surprise to my wife, but this year, I’ll be taking it one step farther. “Dear Beautiful, remember that diamond earring? The one the size of a walnut? The one with the loose clasp that you had been meaning to have fixed? The one that fell out of your ear and washed down the shower drain? And more importantly, remember the new one that just arrived from New York that replaced it? The one you said would be your Christmas gift this year? Well, Merry Christmas, Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy Anniversary and Happy Birthday! (by the way you don’t look a day over 29!) I love you!”

My Ticking Telomere Timebomb

DNA Final

By Jack Edwards

Dr. Oz says that my telomeres are fraying, and he’s very worried about them. This “fraying” is apparently caused by stress. Sadly, now that he has alerted me to my telomere fraying problem, I have discovered a whole new level of stress.

Let me explain. Every Monday I read a column in my local paper supposedly written by Drs. Mehmet Oz and Michael Roizen. I say “supposedly,” because with Dr. Oz spending all that time in the make-up room at his television show, creatively named “The Dr. Oz Show” and with Dr. Roizen busy doing real medical work as the chief medical officer at the Cleveland Clinic Wellness Institute, I figure that the column is really written by one of Dr. Roizen’s third year residents, that or one of Dr. Oz’s assistant make-up artists. It takes a lot of time to knock out a weekly column. I should know, and mine doesn’t even involve any research; let me emphasize this – NO research whatsoever. In fact, all my comments here are based on a single casual reading of this week’s column in which I may have missed the entire point due a mishap of spilling a glop of cereal onto what may have been the most crucial paragraph in the column. On top of that, I was still very sleepy.

Let me further explain. My usual Monday routine involves reading the morning paper, which as I have said includes Drs. Oz and Roizens’ column, and then committing myself to following their advice for the remainder of my natural life. I hold fast to this new, deeply held commitment until lunch. Then I remind myself that I’ve lived okay so far with my habit of, for example, basing my diet on animal fat and empty junk food calories, and ask myself why I should be listening to medical advice from Dr. Oz’s assistant make-up artist anyway.

Back to telomeres. Besides being a popular children’s television show, telomeres are the “caps” on the ends of our DNA. The longer your DNA caps the better. They help you ward off ailments, including heart disease, diabetes and, as I understand it, the danger of becoming a zombie or even a vampire. (I just made up that last part for your amusement – the part of about becoming a vampire. It really does help from becoming a zombie.) These telomere caps “fray” and get shorter as you age, but, BIG PROBLEM ALERT HERE, stress can accelerate the fraying! Naturally, I figure I’m already down to the nubs.

For those of you unfamiliar with Drs. Oz and Roizens’ column, they sneakily divide it into two parts. In the first part, they scare the hell out of you telling you that you’re doing everything all wrong (like not eating enough kumquats) and that it’s unlikely you’ll survive the day, and then the second part, which always begins with the word “fortunately.” This column did not disappoint.

“Fortunately…” the column continues, and goes on to list ways to reduce stress. The list includes mediation, deep breathing, time with friends, music and what they refer to as “just chill.” (Notably absent was the suggestion that people stop reading their column.)
They explain how to do “deep breathing,” and I have to confess that I was a little disappointed by the description. You’re supposed to breathe in through your nose counting to four, and then out through your mouth slowly counting to eight. Here’s how they describe the big payoff: “You’ll instantly increase the oxygen level in your blood by up to 3 percent. Not bad!” They actually say, “Not bad!” Three percent? Honestly? It sounds really bad. Terrible, in fact.

So, after considering my options, I’m going to focus my telomere saving efforts on music and “just chill.” In fact, I’m going to make them a permanent part of my lifestyle. At least until lunch.

My Christmas Light Joy

Christmas Lights Final

By Jack Edwards

 Every year, I delay putting up the Christmas lights on the outside of my house, and every year, a very important person who will remain nameless (my wife) lovingly suggests that this may be due to my laziness. This is emphatically Not True. No one enjoys untangling lights in freezing temperatures and risking his life hanging from a shaky aluminum ladder more than I do, especially while important sporting events are playing in my warm living room. Yes, to the untrained eye, this may appear to be laziness, but it is actually my use of a carefully calculated, four-part formula to determine the precise date and time to enjoy this special holiday tradition.

The time honored test to determine when to put down the remote control and march out into the elements to once again “celebrate” this particular aspect of the “Magic of Christmas” is as follows:

One. “Preserve precious resources.” I don’t want to get too technical and start throwing around a lot of high tech mumbo-jumbo, so stop me if I start to lose you, but Christmas lights require copious amounts of “electricity.” And the production of electricity consumes vast quantities of precious resources, and by “precious resources,” of course, I mean my money. The longer I wait, the more I am able to “sustain” my resources.

Two. “Put others first.” Remember, it’s not all about you. It’s not all about your needs. Be the first to step up and be an inspiration to others. Somewhere out in your neighborhood is a home that is not adorned with Christmas lights. In that home is a guy sitting in his Lazy Boy with a cold beverage and a bag of chips tuned into SportsCenter. Think about that guy.  How is he going to feel when he sees you outside putting up your Christmas lights? Think about the pressure and needless stress you’ll be inflicting on this poor soul. Every day you delay putting up your lights is a precious gift to this man. It’s called the Golden Rule folks. Start obeying it!

Three. “Celebrate the sweet sound of your wife’s voice.” In the history of the universe, no guy has ever, not one single time, even considered putting up the Christmas lights without his wife telling him. The only exception to this is…. Actually, there is no exception to this. And if you are like me, the sound of your wife’s voice is like sweet nectar. You crave it even more than Sour Cream flavored Pringles. You simply can’t get enough of it. If you also deeply love your wife, then you, like me, delay putting up the lights, not because you’re lazy, but because you love your wife too much to do anything that will lessen the pleasure you receive hearing her remind you, again, and again, and AGAIN, to put up the ever-blasting Christmas lights already! This is referred to as the “pleasure factor.”

Four. “Let the pie settle.” God wants us to celebrate the true meaning of the holidays. That’s why He created Black Friday. Nothing induces reflective thought more than storming over the top of less hardy shoppers who have fallen in our path as we rush forward in a blood-quest to save 35 percent on a high definition television. It’s right there in the Bible. So, here’s the rule: If there is still meat on the carcass of your Thanksgiving Day turkey, it’s too early for Christmas lights.

Taking all four factors carefully into account, and double checking my math, I was able to determine the optimum date to put up my Christmas lights within a one-day margin of error. That date is December 27th.

Pigs in Flight

Pig FinalBy Jack Edwards

The national media paused briefly from its focus on the seemingly endless nightly unrest and rioting in the Kardashian household to cover another story of equal international importance. This involved a woman who boarded a commercial flight accompanied by her “emotional support” pig. It should come as no surprise that this created quite a stink (Ba-da-bump! I’m here all night folks!)

This story is true. You can read all about it in recent New York Post article written by Natalie O’Neill titled, “Woman Kicked Off flight after pet pig stinks up plane.” According to Ms. O’Neill’s story, passengers reported the pig “pacing around and stinking up the cabin.” The crew asked the woman and her porkly companion to disembark prior to the flight’s departure, which they did.

If you’ve ever wondered what your elected officials in D.C. have been working on during their grueling three-day work weeks, wonder no more. According to the article: “Emotional support animals — including pigs — are allowed on flights, under federal rules drafted in 2012. Monkeys, cats and even miniature horses all qualify as ‘emotional support’ animals.” (Horses, folks. These dingbats were so afraid of some noisy special interest group that they gave the go-ahead to emotional support horses!)

My first question regarding an emotion support pig on a commercial aircraft was probably the same as yours, was he in coach? I can tolerate a being treated equally to a pig in coach, but I have to draw the line at suffering the indignantly of sitting back in coach knowing that a pig is drinking champagne and wiping his hooves with hot towels up in first class.

In a story written by Bill Keveney in USA Today, a passenger reported an additional pertinent fact. The “emotional support” pig was incontinent. Mr. Keveney said that a passenger reported that the woman the pig was emotionally supporting tried to “clean up after the animal” before she got off the plane. I can only interpret the description of “tried” to mean that the pig left a souvenir for everyone to enjoy.

Adam Carolla, a long time chastiser of “support” creatures of all ilk, was quick to tweet out a link to an ABC News story to his half million followers. It contained a picture of a woman hauling a pig over her shoulder as the pig looked toward the photographer with (and I’m no expert here) a dazed look on his face.

I am usually on the same page as Corolla, and was shaking my head at the gall of somebody hauling a pig onto a flight, when I stopped and thought it through. And, frankly, I did a one-eighty. ‘Could it really get any worse?’ I asked myself. I mean the commercial coach flight experience. With or without a pig, does it really matter? I’ve sat next to plenty of people who I would have gladly traded for a moderately incontinent pig. Think about it:

1. A pig is unlikely to have a carry-on and take up overhead bin space.

2. He’s unlikely to start an inane conversation.

3. The average pig’s butt is several sizes down from any number of fellow passengers I’ve had the pleasure of flying with. (Note to the airlines: You know those metal framed units you have sitting next to the boarding gate for people to check if their carry-ons will fit in the overhead bin? Put one next to it with a sign that says, “If your behind won’t slip nicely into this space, buy another ticket.”)

All-in-all, I’ve made up my mind. Emotional support or no emotional support, I’ll take my chances sitting next to a pig.

Crater Lake Crayfish Crisis

Crayfish final

By Jack Edwards

Loyal readers know that I nearly lost my life at Crater Lake National Park last summer hanging on by my butt cheeks as I traversed Rim Drive to brave my way to the Rim Village Gift Shop (AKA Future Garage Sale Item Warehouse). I have not been eager to return, but my help may now be needed to address the rapidly emerging Crayfish Crisis recently reported by journalist Lee Juillerat of the Klamath Fall’s Herald and News. It appears that a Rumble Down Under is in full swing. The lake’s crayfish are locked in an epic battle with the lake’s newts. So far, it’s a bit lopsided. It looks like a battle between Seal Team Six and the Cloistered Sisters of Perpetual Peace.

Crater Lake newts aren’t just any pedestrian newt. They are special Mazama Newts, only found in Crater Lake. They are darker than the common newt and “less toxic” (just ask any Crater Lake crayfish). No one knows how these newts got into the lake, but scientists believe they may have been there for thousands of years. The crayfish on the other hand are nothing but a bunch of crustacean carpetbaggers. They arrived in 1915 and have been swaggering around acting like they own the place ever since. “[Y]ou can hardly pick up a rock without finding one,” the article quotes Mark Buktenica, who worked as Crater Lake National Park’s aquatic biologist for 30 years. These crayfish are the pit bull of crustaceans. Juillerat’s article references a YouTube video that depicts crayfish as, “voracious, efficient killers” presenting a scene “reminiscent of a horror movie.”

Proof, the scientists say, that the crayfish are driving out the Mazama newt, is that the newts used to hang out near the lake shore sipping tiny umbrella drinks and mugging for park visitors, but now the only places you can find newts are the few places where the crayfish thugs have not yet arrived. While I am not a fully licensed crustacean biologist, I have my own theory. It’s called “Mazama newt flight.” I think the Mazama newts, with all their old money and traditional ways, are simply stuck-up and think they’re too good to live near the crayfish. The newts are packing up their tiny station wagons and moving deeper into the lake. Scientists have spotted them living 820 feet beneath the surface living in miniature three bedroom, two bath subdivisions.  (Okay, the article only mentions the newts found at 820 feet.  Mr. Juillerat was vague on their accommodations, leaving me draw logical inferences).

Park aquatic biologist, Scott Girdner is quoted in Juillerat’s article pondering the effectiveness of possible solutions, “We don’t know if anything would be successful. Will newts exist or be driven to extinction.” I think I speak for everyone who never heard of a Mazama newt before reading this article – I don’t want to even THINK of living in a world without Mazama newts.

Lucky for everybody, I visited New Orleans last year. The New Orleans City Code requires every resident to consume twice their body weight in crayfish each year. Crayfish are in every dish that comes out of the kitchen except chocolate cake – and I think I even had a piece of that with a crayfish that tripped and fell headlong into the batter. So here’s my plan. We import a team of crack, yet rotund, Cajun chefs from New Orleans and turn them loose in Crater Lake National Park. Trust me on this folks, crayfish are De-Lish. Within a month, the only surviving crayfish left in Crater Lake will be wearing Mazama newt disguises and tiptoeing lightly near the nether reaches of Wizard Island. I’m already suggesting they rename the place Gumbo Crater Lake National Park. Visitor numbers will shoot through the roof. And they can use the extra money to finally fix that deathtrap they call Rim Drive.

In 90 Seconds or Less

90 Seconds Final

By Jack Edwards

Every once in a great while, you come across a book that changes your life. One of those books crossed my path this week, and I will forever be grateful to the author, Nicholas Boothman. The book is How to Make People Like You in 90 Seconds or Less. You may recall from your high school psychology class something called Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Maslow created a pyramid listing, in order of importance, basic psychological needs. These include “Self-actualization,” “Esteem,” and at the top of the chart, of course, “The need for people to STOP BOTHERING YOU.”

Those who know me best, know that I don’t like people, and I’m not particularly interested in any of them liking me. (For example, I don’t know this Maslow guy, and I’m sure he’s nice enough and well-groomed, but I probably wouldn’t like him). So I realized immediately, that if I embraced the techniques in this book, and then conducted myself in the precise opposite, people would finally leave me alone. Peace and quiet – tranquility itself – would finally be mine.

I dove into the book like a starving man into a vat of SPAM.

I quickly discovered that I didn’t need to master anything beyond the first lesson: The greeting.

Mr. Boothman explains that the greeting can be broken down into five parts. (Yeah, I know. Somebody had some time on his hands). He abbreviates the steps of an effective greeting as follows: 1. Open, 2. Eye, 3. Beam, 4. Hi, and 5. Lean.

“Open” refers to opening your heart with a positive attitude. This causes your body to send out all kinds of warm and welcoming signals to the other person. My usually attitude should suffice.

“Eye” refers to being the first to make eye contact. To quote the author: “Eye contact is real contact.” ‘Nuff said. High, low, left or right – I’ve got plenty of options.

“Beam” refers to a warm smile. Okay, remember Joe Friday on Dragnet? Remember his expression when he finally confronted the suspect and made the big arrest? Time to channel me some Joe Friday.

“Hi.” Here’s where the author shows us his real expertise – his in-depth knowledge of human psychology. He explains that we should say, “hi” when we meet someone. Thanks, Nicholas. I’ll be grunting my greetings from here on out.

“Lean” toward the person as you open your heart, make eye contact, smile like a maniac, and say hello. I’ve signed up for lessons at the local gymnastic school to learn how to lean backwards. My instructor tells me that this may not be possible without putting fishing weights in my front pockets.  I’m stopping by the sporting goods store later today.

According to Boothman, the real key to making people like you in 90 seconds or less, is your attitude. Apparently, your body can’t help but send out about million nonverbal signals per nanosecond that you’re a swell chap worthy of instantaneous lifelong friendship if you have the right attitude. He suggests doing a drill where you sit in a quiet place and visualize a moment you’ve had where you felt an overwhelming sense of whatever positive attitude you want to greet people with, and then recall that sense when you greet someone. The moment I’ve chosen is the time a drunk transient riding a bicycle ran into the side of my pickup truck causing a severe amount of damage to my front right quarter panel with her head. The dent is still there, so it’ll make it easy to recall each time I greet someone new.

It is, therefore, with enthusiasm that I highly recommend Mr. Boothman’s book. Mr. Boothman, wherever you are, thank you for telling me How to Make People Dislike Me in 90 Seconds or Less. Just don’t get the idea that if you were in the area that I’d like to actually meet you. We’re good from right here.

Adventures in Soap Making

IMG_5992

By Jack Edwards

My Michigander sister is always busy – the type of person that is so active she makes you feel like, well, the television watching slouch that you are. She has a barrel load of hobbies. The three things she looks for in a hobby are: 1. Convenience (something she can do at home), 2. Productivity (the creation of useful product), and 3. The opportunity to permanently blind herself or a loved one.

Amateur soap making fit the bill perfectly because it involves using lye. For those of you who don’t read books about pioneers or who aren’t aficionados of Little House on the Prairie reruns, lye is a key ingredient in soap. Only one problem, lye is a teensy bit toxic. Take a look at the warning label on the bottle. The first thing you’ll notice is that the warning label is the size of Kansas. The second thing is that Rule #1 is that under no circumstance should you handle the bottle unless you’re wearing one of those Ebola protection suits.

Perhaps I’m overstating the concern. The warning on the bottle simply mentions that you shouldn’t let it touch any part of you or your clothing. And warns you to wear chemical resistant gloves, protective clothing and goggles (chemical resistant goggles I suppose). The warning includes a laundry list of the types of accidental exposure, and after each, it directs the victim (i.e. amateur soap hobbyist) to seek medical attention IMMEDIATELY. Under “Ingestion,” it says that you may give the soap maker sips of water if the person is “conscious,” but emphasizes that you should not give the person sips of water if the person is “unconscious or convulsing.” So, as you can see, amateur soap making sounds like a lot of fun. It’s really just like bread making, that is, if accidentally ingesting yeast caused you to collapse into a writhing, convulsing coma.

My sister came out to Oregon to visit and tried to get our mother to start making her own soap. But our mother pointed out that she can afford 69 cents to buy a bar of soap, and flatly announced, “I’ll pass.”
On the other hand, the thought of mixing toxic and potentially explosive chemicals naturally appealed to me. So I eagerly volunteered for a soap making apprenticeship.

There was much to learn. First off, you might think that soap is soap. But it turns out that soap isn’t soap. There are about a bazillion decisions to make. What do you want it to smell like?  (You have three trillion choices).   What color do you want it? (If you want your soap to look like dirt – put honey in it; it’ll come out brown – not a good brown, more of a… yeah, that shade of brown. I like my soap white – the way God intended). I stood back and watched my sister mix and stir and boil and finally pour the concoction into a plastic mold. She handed it to me and told me to leave it in the mold until it was dry, and then she took off back to her soap making headquarters in Michigan.

This is where the trouble started. I let it dry, and then for the life of me, I couldn’t get it out of the mold. I shook it. I pounded on it. I slammed it against things. I used a butcher knife to slice it into bars. Over several days, I fought an epic battle with my soap to remove it from the mold. It wouldn’t budge. It’s sitting there now, mocking me. This temporary setback aside, it has been a very positive experience, and I strongly recommend soap making as a hobby. Trust me. I wouldn’t lye to you. And I’ll even loan you my Ebola suit.

My El Capitan, “Actually”

Driving

By Jack Edwards

I belong to a pot-bellied demographic that doesn’t need to seek out thrills to satisfy my desire for excitement. I don’t need to climb Yosemite’s El Capitan free handed, run with the angry bulls or skydive from the edge of space to feel the rush of adrenaline. You see, I’m teaching my 15-year-old to drive. My daughter Emma has a “strong sense of self” and pretty much declared after her first lesson that she was good to go. Unfortunately, as much as I dread clinging to the passenger seat and praying for just one more day of precious life, I had to insist on additional lessons to fine-tune a few essential skills. Little things, like not ramming into stationary objects. My work continues, and the status of my situation can best be described using a term you hear a lot  at the US War College: fluid.
Things got off to a rocky start. At the beginning of Emma’s first lesson, she hopped in and began situating herself – not by positioning the mirrors, but rather the stereo. I, still clinging to the hope that I might survive the experience, flipped the stereo back off, only to be met with the type of reaction you might expect after zapping someone with an electronic cattle prod. Emma, with the type of energy only a high school sophomore can radiate, quickly and excitedly explained that the stereo helps her concentrate and, “actually” would help her drive safer (or more precisely, “Music helps me concentrate, actually.”) This is the same logic she uses when she studies, but because my life is not in immediate peril of slamming into an oncoming semi in those circumstances, I acquiesce. Here, no can do.
Timing is still an issue. One minute we are sitting at a stop sign waiting for a vehicle that has the right-of-way bearing down at a distance of three miles away – a speck on the horizon, really – enough time for us to finish our lesson and put the car back in the garage before it arrives. Sea creatures have crawled up on the shore and evolved legs in less time than she sometimes declares the road clear to turn. However, don’t let this apparent sense of over caution fool you, because the next minute she’ll see a light turn from green to yellow one town over and she punches the gas to try to make the signal – only to be deterred by my high-pitched shriek of terror.
The biggest mystery is her parking technique. My daughter has proven extremely consistent in her parking. She manages to turn into the spot and put her right tires directly onto the right divider line. Not occasionally. Every time. She’s 100%. Like a pirate lacking depth perception because of his eye patch. She has what I call Pirate Parking.
One thing I have to give her credit for is her ability to adapt to the changing environment. Case-in-point, and I don’t know why, I routinely tell her to turn right, when I mean left and vice versa. Not only does she know what I mean, which as I have said is the opposite of what I’ve told her, she usually just ignores my mistake. But when she does correct me, she does so politely, at least for a high-schooler, “It’s right, actually.”
Side note: If you are a person of faith, desiring to lead a diehard atheist to a belief in God, try letting them take your daughter on a driving lesson. They’ll be applying for seminary by the time they pull back into your driveway.
Well, I gotta go. It’s time for another lesson – actually.