Monday

Today was one of the few times when I went home during lunch (it's a very short trip) to put in a load of laundry only to hear the clarion call of the beer in my fridge. Yep, one of those days. For the record, the beer's still in my fridge and I never seriously entertained the idea of consuming it, in case anyone out there thinks of me like that. Instead I consoled myself with thoughts of clean laundry, and in the car I mellowed to Eric Clapton's sweet sweet guitar playing and pining for another man's wife. Ah, the blues. I've been told that I have a few hang-ups, and I'll not argue with the assertion, but I'm still never comfortable with womens' undergarments in the laundry. I have a feeling that this isn't the sort of thing I should be admitting on the internet, but I'll draw some comfort from the fact that I never use my complete real name on this blog (that's right, you have no idea who I am). I also have a feeling somewhere in my gut that a phobia such as this isn't entirely normal, although I could be wrong, and all the same I don't feel that it's half as irrational as it is. Or isn't. Whatever. I don't have any real problem living with women (in some function or other, I've lived with women for most of my life), and the pros outweigh the cons to be sure. I like living with women. I even get free baked goods periodically (heh heh, periodically), and that can't be bad. Still, I can't seem to get past this one. Perhaps it means I'm doomed to eternal bachelorhood, but I rather hope it doesn't--I'm a terrible cook. Stop talking about this Cous, you're digging a hole for yourself that you shall never escape.
Only another 8 days until election day (should that be capitalized? I don't know), and it can't happen soon enough, as far as I'm concerned. It means that I'll stop receiving unsolicited mailings and phone calls and television ads informing me of why this is the most important election in our lifetime, and what those nasty nasty Republicrats and Democrans are doing to our country. My favorite ad so far has been a cartoon of Dick DeVos shipping a crate marked "JOBS" off to China. Silly Dick DeVos, jobs are for unions. The other catchy one is "DeVos is DeCeptive," found on the bumper of many a rusted Volvo around town. A catchy ad to be sure, but I'm not really impressed by the rhetoric. I mean, is Dick DeVos deomonstrably deceptive? I don't doubt the danger, but don't you think the mere accusation is a little... dubious? Ok, I'm reaching for that one. I'm not a D.D.V. fan boy or anthing like that (he's certainly done his share of negative campaigning), but I haven't heard any actual complaints about the man being a pathological liar or antying like that. It might as well say "DeVos stole my baby." Much as I'm sick of politics, there are actually some interesting referendums on the ballot, so be sure to read up on stuff before next Tuesday. Also, if any of the ads on television or in the mail have helped you make up your mind about the issues and candidates, do us all a favor and DON'T VOTE. Ooh, my old professor the constantly entertaining Gary "don't have to live like a refugee" Wolfram has a little editorial out on elections, you should check it out. Hat tip to Jonathan on that one, by the way. Other than that, have a good week and watch out for the mud that's getting slung left and right around here. Oh yeah, and don't drink the yellow milk. Heh heh heh, milk.

Udder Confusion

Hey kids! Sorry about the lack of posting for a while, I guess it's the price I pay for having nothing to say. For those of you who haven't read either my mother's post on the topic or the related Ann Arbor News story, or if you just want a slightly less biased (ha!) opinion on the matter, you've come to the right place. First off, I want to tell you to ignore those two links I gave you up there and listen only to the soothing sound of my typing hands, but I imagine that you've already read the news article and first-hand apology (I mean that in the Socratic sense, she's not sorry), so I'm just going to attempt to editorialize here.
Last Friday morning found my mum and sister-in-law waiting in a back alley in Ann Arbor with a largish crowd of folks with pony tails and Birkenstocks and maybe the occasional "man with no name"-style poncho, who had all driven (or perhaps carpooled to save on greenhouse emissions) there in old Volvos that are now held together only by bumper stickers which read "Free Tibet," "I break for Jake," and perhaps "I'd rather be in Ann Arbor." What, you may ask, could possibly have drawn these people away from their homeopathy boutiques and used record and book stores on this Friday morning? Milk. That's right, just like the stuff the rest of us buy at gas stations and grocery stores at our convenience. Well, almost just like it. What makes this milk so special? It's unpasteurized. Unpasteurized? Isn't pasteurization that process by which the bacteria in milk are killed? Yup, but let’s leave that for later. For now, let’s just content ourselves with the knowledge that two otherwise sane people whom I love very much were standing there on a Friday morning waiting to buy dirty milk out of the back of a truck. In an alley. On purpose. And then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, nothing happened. Seriously. The sketchy milk truck didn’t show. Close to 100 hippies were stuck there in an alley, awaiting the arrival of a truck that simply would not arrive. Awkwardly, they stood around with their hands in their pockets, probably thinking to themselves that it’s getting a wee bit cold to wear Birkenstocks, and perhaps making awkward small talk to one another about how they never forgave their parents for not accepting their lifestyle.
What had become of the truck and its high-bacteria bounty? It had been stopped en route from the organic dairy farm by sheriff’s deputies serving a Michigan Department of Agriculture warrant to seize the sketchy milk and Farmer Rick’s cell phone. They also swiped his computer back at the farm house. Little did Farmer Rick realize that his weekly back-alley drop-offs had been to 99 honest crazies trying to get their bacteria fix, and one undercover agent from the Michigan Department of Agriculture. An undercover agent, baby! Every MDA worker dreams of this kind of assignment. “Son, I need someone to infiltrate an organic dairy co-op, and they tell me you’re the best. Here’s your ‘Jerry Lives’ t-shirt, and the keys to your 1979 Volvo. In the car you’ll find an 8-track tape with further instructions, along with some live bootlegs of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young.” Hahahaha, those jokers at the MDA, what will they come up with next?
According to the news article (which, by the way, more than pushes the limits of impartial journalism), Farmer Rick has done nothing illegal, and has yet to be charged with anything. Apparently there’s a loophole in Michigan law which allows the co-op to buy the milk by leasing part-ownership of the herd, or something like that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually against laws that keep people from buying unpasteurized milk when they do so with full knowledge of what they’re buying. We can still legally buy alcohol and tobacco, can’t we? Sorry, I’m just not looking to the State of Michigan to save me from myself. That said, I personally find the whole ordeal to be about the funniest thing I’ve heard all month. I’m sorry to those of you who’d already heard the whole story, I’ll try to post something else in a timely manner. Until then, I wish you well.

Sunshine on the bottom of my feet means I must be layin' down

Rumor is that they threw out the circus clowns and brought in a bearded lady act instead, though it probably won't make any difference, that is if you're not a circus clown. Not much to report for the week really, different day with the same porridge in your bowl, if you know what I mean. That's not actually bad, mind you, although sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes the days start to feel like the mirrors on your wall looking back at you with the persistent disdain, in spite of all the Sun King's best intentions and your hard-earned respect being wasted at the feet of the lonely. Not much you can do about it really, that's just how the world turns on Tuesdays, or whatever day it is in Singapore. I'll write more when I have more to write about, sorry.