Ranger TV

When I awoke the other day, I recalled a strange dream in which my son and I were walking around Walmart late at night with three uniformed firemen, shopping for a mailbox.

One of the things I have really enjoyed in my new home near Manassas, VA is having campfires in my backyard. Note the use of the past perfect tense. The fire I had there the previous night was my last, at least for the time being. While I was basking in the warm glow of my personal inferno, I heard the sounds of a diesel engine and air brakes, saw the red flashers reflecting off of the neighbor's windows, and immediately knew the game was up.

I usually work on the "forgiveness" side of the "forgiveness vs. permission" equation, i.e., I'm one to just do what I want (within reason, ethics, morals, yadda yadda), and if I'm violating some important regulation or cultural more, someone will surely let me know. I have also learned, particularly in governmental circles, to be careful whom you ask about the rules, because doing so will get you:

(a) the actual rules

(b) some misguided notion of what the rules are or might have been at one time, or

(c) what they wish the rules were, regardless of whether they know the actual rules.

I've found that some combination of (b) and (c) is about ten thousand times more likely than (a).

So with these parameters in mind, I haven't exerted myself too much in finding out what the actual rules are regarding outdoor fires in my county, and over the past year or so have enjoyed numerous backyard fires under the mandate of my personal dispensation.

That is, until the previous night, when one of my #&%$@ bedwetter neighbors called the fire brigade, who came and made me extinguish my fire. I can't complain too much - they weren't overly authoritative about it, and they did leave the door somewhat ajar: they advised me to find out from the fire marshal what the acceptable parameters are for burning in a backyard fire pit. Okay, I'll add that to my list. At least (apparently) there is some legal way for me to continue to feed my inner pyro, although something tells me that dropping a few hundred more bucks at Lowes will factor into the equation.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang again, and this time the firemen sheepishly explained that they had knocked over my mailbox with their engine. They sure did - the 4x4 post was snapped off at the base, and the mailbox itself would have required some serious coat hanger wire and duct tape therapy. They were very apologetic, and if they had been a volunteer department (they weren't, I asked), I would have told them to not worry about it. But they were actual paid county employees, so I didn't let them off the hook. When they told me that they called the police I suggested that they just fix it under the table and not bother with them. They said no, they have to do things by the book and get a proper accident report. But upon further reflection they must have thought better of it, as they knocked on my door a few minutes later and wanted to discuss scenarios by which they could take care of it themselves. I figure they realized that in their profession it would be a good idea to keep their driving records clean. What we arrived at was, I'd accompany them to El Walmart and they'd buy me a new mailbox and post.

That's what we did. Young David came along - I thought he'd appreciate the unique cultural experience of having firemen buy you a mailbox at Mulletmart on a Saturday night. I told the firemen not to worry, I'd install it; they seemed genuinely disappointed that they couldn't come back in the morning and do it themselves. I think they must have a pretty dull job. While we were chatting,they said they only got three calls in the previous shift. Not the best thing to tell a taxpayer...

Anyway, what do you think? Too big a fire? I snapped this pic with my cell phone camera shortly before the FD arrived.

So moments after awakening from what I thought was a strange dream I realized that …sometimes dreams come true!

Guest Editorial: Exchange Rate Conspiracy

For today's dispatch, we enjoy the clever rantings of a guest writer, namely Uncle Judlow, brother-in-law of Bruck. In it, the BILOB waxes reckless on the perils of computing exchange rates while "under the influence," throwing in a touching dash of creative paranoia to render his epistle even more bruckworthy. But I'll shut up now and let him tell the story:

I recently went on a business trip to England where I fell victim to the exchange rate and complete breakdown of my math skills. Most of the third-world dumps that I end up visiting treat American Dollars as if they were gold bars (ie, one American Dollar is worth 31 Thai Baht, 1,234 Iraqi Dinars, 49 Afghan Afghanis, 44 Philippine Pesos). At first, the fact that the American Dollar is worth about one half of a British Pound seemed like no big deal. I dealt with it and just took comfort in the fact that I was receiving per diem based on London's rates for food and lodging (which would turn out to be exactly not the case). Twenty-ish American Dollars for a decent breakfast of beans and toast, eggs and bacon, and the ever-present sautéed mushrooms soon lost its shock value, and I prepared my budget by planning to spend less on beer… really, that was the plan.

I should admit straight off that I am no math wizard by any means. Really, I suck at it, especially when I drink. For example, when I mix alcoholic beverages in my mathematical computation skills, I increasingly lose the ability to understand simple ratios such as 2:1. The current exchange rate is 2.02 USD to 1 GBP, which gave me a handy 2:1 ratio to keep in mind as I toured the pubs of Bristol, Portsmouth, Hereford, and London. It failed me time and again... as did my London per diem rate.

I could begin an evening outraged that I just paid 20 pounds or 40 American dollars for dinner, but after a few rounds of Guinness, Boddingtons, and various ciders with alcohol contents the likes of which Utah residents can only dream about (beer can only be a max of 3.2% in Utah), the outrage seemed to fade along with my math skills and soon 3 pounds for a beer started to seem pretty reasonable. In usual fashion the beer drinking summoned the "good idea fairy" who prompted me to switch to Jack and Coke for a "reasonable" 5-6 pounds per drink… you can see where this is going. It only took three or four nights of that kind of behavior followed by intense confusion and panic each subsequent morning before I came to the realization... not that my math skills are lacking and my money was gone, but that I was a victim of a cruel conspiracy against American tourists.

Bruck, I have a hunch that the British Pound is ingeniously valued to be easily confused with American Dollars when one is intoxicated. When one is faced with difficult drunken decisions such as whether or not to pay 5 monetary units for a cocktail, the easy answer is, “of course!” …when in reality, you are actually paying ten American Dollars for the drink because the 5 monetary units happen to be British Pounds. One would think that this incredibly easy ratio of 2:1 would not fail even the drunken self, but alas, I am living proof that not only does it break down under conditions of substance abuse, it reverses itself to make the most expensive things seem like great deals. “Six pounds? …does that make this drink twelve dollars or three dollars? …probably three… I’ll have a round of those for all my new friends here at the Slug and Lettuce Pub.”

Thanks for letting me vent and warn you and your readers of the dangers of mixing alcohol and math especially in England.

No, thank you, Uncle Judlow, and we look forward to hearing more from you in the future!

Zumanity on the VRE

Faithful reader(s): I apologize for the relative dearth of VOBs lately; it's certainly not for lack of human folly upon which to pontificate, nor am I suffering from writer's block. Rather, I've been going through a real busy stretch at work and have actually had to use my spare time constructively, go figure. Anyway, please enjoy today's little missive:

One of the current Cirque du Soleil shows is called, “Zumanity,” which supposedly offers an array of entertainment even more colorful and disturbing than the regular Cirque shows. Their website has an "over 18" firewall - that's all I need to know! Notwithstanding the fact that my inner cheapskate would never allow me to spend $125.00 on two hours’ worth of entertainment that didn’t at least include a massage, why should I pay anything to witness the broad spectacle of human diversity when I can get it for free every day on the train? My daily commute on the Virginia Railway Express provides great opportunities for people-watching, and it’s my privilege to share the results with you, at no cost either expressed or implied:

Turboschlub

I don’t know if I’ve defined the term “schlub” for you yet. A schlub is an overweight, middle-aged commuter who manages to slow down his fellow travelers. He does not physically block you, but does manage to force you to go his speed or expend undue effort getting around him. A schlub can be employing any mode of transport, but in this case it's walking. Turboschlub is a fellow who follows my same route and fits the description, except that he’s really hurrying in his own right, but in the process making it nearly impossible to get past him. I’m sure it’s not intentional, sort of like the way manslaughter’s not intentional.

The Gay Cowboy

A fellow train commuter, whom I’ve also seen around my office building, is tall, in reasonably good shape, and has long, wavy, salt and pepper hair. A cowboy hat and boots always accessorize his somewhat flamboyant business suits. He may be intending to come off as a lean, rugged Texan, but it looks to me more like Bette-Davis-fan-plays-an-extra-on-the-set-of-Blazing-Saddles.

Coyote

Coyote is his actual name, printed right there on his USAF flight suit. Actually I’ve talked to him some; Coyote is just a nickname but somehow he got it on his uniform. He also drives a ¼ ton Toyota pickup truck where his wife changed the first and last letters in “TOYOTA” on the tailgate to read “COYOTE.” Cute cute cute. We were chatting one day, as he was impressed with my portable coat hook, which I fashioned from a scrap of 12 gauge romex. Then someone brusquely reminded us that we were in the quiet car. People can get pretty persnickety in the quiet car.

The Fish Woman

I realize that it’s not polite to label someone based on their looks, but I’m sorry, she really looks like a fish. You could say she has prominent features that convey a distinct Piscean visage. I’ve learned to not get in the same car as her as she has a rather loud voice and she and her fellow passengers really whoop it up amongst themselves and I just don’t feel like listening to that at 6 a.m. I’d rather ride with the persnickety quiet car passengers.

Lurch

The guy looks a little like Lurch from the Addams Family. Personality-wise, he seems like a perfectly affable character. He holds court on the platform every morning in my general loading zone. I don’t participate but like I say, he seems a reasonable guy. He just looks a little like Lurch is all.

The Bulldog

The Bulldog is a fifty-something woman with a lower lip that comes up halfway around her face. I’ve not ventured to determine whether or not this truly reflects her personality (you can’t really reach out to people in the quiet car), but I have learned not to sit anywhere near her as she envelopes herself in a toxic cloud of perfume. It’s not just annoying; I literally break out into a sneezing fit if she’s nearby. I’ve had to change seats because of this. I had to change seats because of a guy farting behind me once, but that’s another story.

The Woman I Dropped My Coat Hook On

As I mentioned above, I have a coat hook which I cleverly fashioned from a scrap of romex. I carry it with me while commuting, and if I’m wearing a jacket, I use it to hang the jacket on a shelf upright, so as to avoid wrinkles from sitting. I usually ride in the upper section of the car, and this affords plenty of places from which to hang this handy little hook. One inauspicious day, I accidentally dropped the hook to the floor of the lower level. A helpful passenger below saw it fall and tried to toss it back up to me. Instead, he caromed it off of a luggage shelf onto the lap of a woman two rows ahead. She was startled and of course looked up to see your pal Bruck wearing a sheepish expression. So technically I didn’t drop the hook on her, but she sure thought I did. Meanwhile the guy who did tag her was having a good laugh at my expense. I asked her to pass me up the hook and she icily complied, muttering something about getting it myself next time. I couldn’t quite tell exactly what she said, but I could clearly see that she was seething with rage, which to me seemed far out of proportion to the actual offense. Brittle people, I don’t get it, life’s short. I of course have made sure there won’t be a next time; she and The Fish Woman are why I don’t ride in that particular car anymore.

The Deaf Indian

An Indian or Pakistani fellow was playing a noisy handheld video game one morning in the quiet car. A few of his neighbors tried to get his attention to ask him to turn it down, to no avail. So your faithful editor, never afraid to be the butthead, got up, sidled past a few people, and got his attention, in the process discovering what his neighbors probably already knew, that he’s deaf. So I wrote out a message on my computer screen to turn off the sound, and showed it to him. I don’t suppose I was making too huge a leap by assuming he could read English, but I’m not sure; he turned the whole game off, not just the sound. Anyway, he got the message. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, what’s a deaf guy doing in the quiet car? Taking his blind daughter to the mime show? They should make him sit next to the Fish Woman.

I’ve met a couple of other interesting characters but never saw them again, ships that pass in the night. One afternoon a guy showed me a bunch of historical maps that he was doing research on, indicating that Washington, DC used to be a swamp (I already knew this), plus a bunch of other semi-interesting things. He had an ungodly commute - he had to drive another hour beyond the train's last stop. Another fellow, after I mentioned that I had watched the Ringling Bros. Circus train go by earlier, indicated that he was somehow related to the former owners of said circus, and that he could still get free tickets to it for his daughter’s Girl Scout troop. I really didn’t pay close attention to the details since I assumed he was making them up, as I usually do in such circumstances. I think it’s some form of Tourette’s Syndrome where people feel they have to make up interesting stories.

So there you have it, in addition to convenient, comfortable travel from point A to point B, a virtual human menagerie, brought to you every morning, and some afternoons, courtesy of the Virginia Railway Express.

Real-time update - I'm on the Friday 4:37 and the guy next to me is really multitasking: he's reading the Bible, from the book of Proverbs, and breaking wind.