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The Sounds of Aging
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
I had a horrible thought at the beginning of the year: I'm 18 months away from being 40.
Not "I'm 38-and-a-half" or "I'm nearly 39." No, I took the extra step to figure out how long it will be before I'm four decades old.
I'm sure many of you are thinking I've got nothing on you, since you passed 40 five presidential administrations ago. But you have to remember that this is uncharted territory for me. I've never been this old. I've never been "nearly 40" until just a few weeks ago. It instills one, not so much with a sense of "shock and awe," as a sense of "aw, S-word!"
It's not that I think I'm getting old, or even middle-aged. That won't hit until I buy my first red sports car. But I am on a nodding acquaintance with the elderly gentlemen who eat breakfast at my local McDonald's every morning. Every day, I can find a large group of my town's old men, hunkered around their same tables, talking about who's in Florida this month, what's the ache du jour, and asking "you know who just died?"
I keep reminding myself that 40 is actually the new 30, and that plenty of people are still active and filled with vigor well into their 40s. And then I remember I haven't been vigorous in years, and break down into uncontrollable sobbing.
So I have to tell myself that with life expectancies today, 40 is only the halfway point of my life. Of course, this can be rather depressing in a "glass half empty" sort of way, so the whole sobbing thing starts all over.
Still, lots of people have been 40 without any complications: my parents, CNN's Larry King, and Methuselah were all 40 once. On my worst days, I feel about as old as Larry King.
My body has started making weird noises. My knees make crunchy, gravelly noises when I climb the stairs. I groan when I stand up too quickly. And I sort of grunt and sigh when I sit down.
Other weird sounds include "what's up with teenagers these days?" and "Hey! Who left this light on?!" I'm a little concerned about this last noise, because that's the sure sign I'm turning into my dad. When I was a kid, my dad was always hollering that someone -- usually me -- left my bedroom light on, so I had to stop whatever I was doing and shut it off.
What really has me worried though, was a recent involuntary snork I made while I was getting out of my car. In my defense, I only did it once, it was a very small snork, and it happened because something was caught in my throat. But still, it was a snork.
A snork is that deep-throated, mucus cleansing, roof-of-the-mouth-exfoliating noise that old men make. They make this noise whenever they wake up, use the bathroom, finish a meal, get out of the car, get into the car, leave a building, enter a building, or clear their throat.
I used to work for a guy who snorked every 90 seconds (I timed him once). He was only a few years older than me, so now I'm really starting to worry. Will my little snork lead to a non-stop cacophony of mucus-busting?
Every time I hear a snork, I just cringe, because it sounds absolutely disgusting. I can imagine the large glob of goo that a snorker has dislodged from his throat, and it makes me ill whenever one of them spits it out. (Of course, it's much worse when they don't.)
I know, I know, this is all part of getting older. Those of you who were 40 when car tailfins were popular are probably laughing at me and my imagined dread. You'll tell me the same old jokes about how I'll have more hair in my ears than on my head. You'll tell me your knees don't crunch so much as they make mushy noises, you've been railing against those dang teenagers and their "blasted music" for years, and snorking is now a second language to you. You'll tell me that 38-and-a-half is no big deal, and that I don't need to worry about anything, until the music I listened to in high school gets its own "Classic Rock" radio station.
Scoot over, guys. Me and my Egg McMuffin need to sit down.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 3rd, 2006)
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Newsflash: Sex Makes You Stupid
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
It's official: sex makes you stupid. At least if you're a bat.
This is according to a scientific study released in December 2005. Biologist Scott Pitnick of Syracuse University analyzed 334 species of bats to see if there was a correlation between the size of a male bat's testes and its brain.
He found that if a species had more promiscuous females (meaning they mated more often with different bats), the males of the species had larger testes and smaller brains. But if the females were monogamous (had only one mate), the males had smaller testes and larger brains.
In other words, the more sex the bats had, the less evolved their brains were.
This is what is known in scientific circles as an inverse correlation. Among college-aged men, it's known as very bad news. It would also explain one church's recent monogamy publicity campaign: "Being Faithful is Just Plain Smart."
The results of the study have met with shock and concern, as people around the world ask, "Wait, you mean people can actually get jobs studying bat testicles?"
The study, "Mating system and brain size in bats" was published in the Journal of Icky Things I Wish I Didn't Know. Actually, it was published in the online British journal, "Proceedings of the Royal Society: Biological Science," which requires a subscription to access the articles, apparently to keep immature journalists like me from writing about it.
I first heard about the story at a meeting, where the news was met with guffaws and hoots of laughter. I'm sure the story raised a few eyebrows in newsrooms around the world. It has also prompted more than one wife to holler at her husband, "See?! See?! I told you you'd go stupid if we did that too much."
But this is a serious scientific discovery, and is worthy of greater discussion, rather than being reduced to schoolyard humor with a bunch of inane jokes. Like about how this only proves men only have one thing on their mind. Or they think with their reproductive system. Or these two bats walk into a bar and -- never mind.
It's so serious in fact, that entire careers have been based on the study of reproductive systems of animals. So serious that Dr. Pitnick has published at least 31 other studies having to do with animal reproduction. So maybe that's why he's able to say things like this with a straight face:
"If female bats mate with more than one male, a sperm competition begins," Pitnick said in an Associated Press story. "The male who ejaculates the greatest number of sperm wins the game, and hence many bats have evolved outrageously big testes."
How outrageous? According to the study -- which was co-authored by Kate Jones of Columbia University and Gerald Wilkinson of the University of Maryland -- in species with promiscuous females, males had testes ranging anywhere from 0.6 percent to 8.5 percent of their total body mass. (That's the equivalent of a 200 pound man carrying around an extra 17 pounds.) In the species with monogamous females, the range was anywhere from 0.11 percent to 1.4 percent.
However, in the monogamous species, the average male brain size was about 2.6 percent of body weight -- that's a 5.2 pound brain for a 200 pound man -- whereas the average size for the oversexed bats was 1.9 percent, or 3.8 pounds. There was no indication of whether that meant that the less virile bats were also 55% smarter than the oversexed bats. Although I'm sure that's what the bigger brained bats told themselves.
Believe it or not, these results surprised Pitnick, Jones, and Wilkinson, who had originally predicted that there would be a direct correlation between the two (bigger brain equals bigger testes). According to NewScientist.com, Pitnick and his colleagues had figured that in species with non-monogamous females, males would need bigger brains "in order to avoid being cuckolded."
But since brains and sperm cells both require a lot of energy, it could be that the different species evolved a preference for developing the organ that will help them reproduce more effectively.
Or it could just be a biological tradeoff, as most men fear. Men want to be both intelligent and virile, and most men hope they can achieve both. But if these studies translate into the human realm, it may mean bad news for those men who measure success through sexual conquest.
So they can do what these men have done for years: get a shiny red sports car and new hair plugs. It beats waiting for some scientist to administer an IQ test and start poking around your pants.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 10th, 2006)
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At Least I Didn't Pick a Tuba
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Erik is out of the office this week, so we are reprinting a column from 2002 that, when examined closely, explains an awful lot we didn't know. . .
Every kid should learn to play a musical instrument.
I realize that will be difficult, what with all the education funding being viciously slashed by nearly every state in an effort to improve their students' abilities to take standardized tests. However, if we're not careful, this next generation of students will become musical illiterates.
Presidential Aide: "Bad news, Mr. President. We've just received the World Culture Report from the United Nations. It seems our country's orchestra is currently ranked below the Tarawa Symphony Orchestra of the island nation of Kiribati.
President: Who'd we beat?
Presidential Aide: It's a tie, sir. We are currently ranked higher than an Australian jug band and some crazy guy with two sticks and a toy xylophone.
President: Wow, that's a shame. Let's go play some tee-ball.
Luckily, my parents believed that a musical education was important, so I was expected to play an instrument. In fact, I played five: guitar, cello, French horn, and mellophone. (It's a giant trumpet that French Horn players play during marching band season. Don't ask.) I even dabbled with the violin for a week. I switched to cello because I was the only boy violin player.
Of course, I don't remember how to play any of these instruments, but I did develop some valuable musical and rhythmic skills: I can name every instrument on Ravel's "Bolero."
The cello ended up being the lesser of two evils, although I'm still not sure I made the right choice. While switching from the violin did reduce my odds of getting beat up, the cello weighed three tons and was more awkward to carry home.
I lived exactly one mile from school, and I walked there every day. There was a slight uphill grade on the way home, and a steep hill on the way to school. But unlike my parents' school days, these hills were on different streets, and didn't magically change direction.
Since I had to lug the cello home twice a week, one would think I would have learned a valuable life lesson from that. But like any nine year old, I wouldn't learn a valuable lesson if it were spelled out with baseball cards and candy.
So needless to say, when I entered the fifth grade, I made a similarly stupid choice in band instruments.
When students reached the fifth grade, they were allowed to choose an instrument to play in the school band. For the past two years, I had dreamed of this day, and knew without a doubt which instrument I wanted to play. All the budding musicians marched down to the band room, received a card, and were told to write the name of the instrument we wanted to play.
This was it. My own Day of Musical Reckoning. I clutched my pencil and carefully wrote each letter. I had one shot at this, and neatness counted if I wanted to achieve my dreams:
A-L-P-I-N-E-H-O-R-N
"Alpine Horn?!" Mr. McDaniel, our band director, nearly shouted. "Do you even know what an Alpine Horn is?"
"Sure. It's that 15 foot horn they play in the Alps." I had done my homework, and knew that Swiss and German shepherds used them. I also knew that Mozart had written a composition for Alpine Horn. Turns out it was Leopold Mozart, but apparently that didn't matter a whit to those Philistines in the Muncie school system.
Mr. McDaniel just stared. "There's not an Alpine Horn anywhere in Indiana, let alone Muncie. Just pick another instrument. Something a little more. . . sane."
Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I remembered something one of my parents' friends told me. This was very odd, because as a young boy, I never listened to my parents, let alone well-meaning strangers.
"Learn to play the French Horn," said the friend, "and you will be able to play anything."
"How about the French Horn," I asked Mr. McDaniel.
"We've got one of those," he said, sealing my fate. I went on to become one of only four grade school French Horn players in the city that year.
As a result, my overall growth over the next two years was severely limited, but my arms grew at an alarming rate. The rest of my body didn't catch up until I was 19. The French Horn is not so much a brass instrument as it is a 120 pound stone with a mouthpiece.
Three times a week, I lugged my instrument home, wondering how to get my parents to move closer to the school. And as I staggered home, some grown-up goober with delusions of cleverness would invariably remind me, "You should have picked the piccolo."
I would smile and silently wish I had gotten that Alpine Horn I asked for. Shepherds could nail a hungry wolf from 75 feet, and suburban dorks were a much bigger target.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 17th, 2006)
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Hot Dog and Goliath
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Hot dogs 1, fancy restaurant chain 0.
It was the equivalent of the Dominican Republic winning gold in all the Olympic speed skating events: a hot dog vendor has soundly trounced a Wolfgang Puck restaurant in Colorado in a rancorous zoning battle.
According to a story in the January 4, 2006 issue of the Rocky Mountain News (official motto: Can't. . . Breathe. . . Need Air), there was a huge battle between Wolfgang Puck's food empire and a small businesswoman who was only trying to make an honest living by selling hot dogs in the harsh winter climate of Colorado (cue the heart-breaking music!).
It seems that the presence of Valentina Petty and her hot dog cart right outside the restaurant was upsetting the upscale eatery. Apparently it clashed with their sense of fine cuisine and high-class snootiness. It didn't matter that Valentina had been working at that particular corner for seven years and the restaurant was pretty new to the neighborhood.
The Wolfgang Puck Express decided that since their food was more expensive, Petty should move her cart 60 feet across the street. So they whined to the Cherry Creek (Colorado) North Business Improvement District to move Petty, or they were going to stamp their little feet and throw a hissy.
The restaurant's attorney, Gregory Smith of Englewood, Colorado, wrote to the Cherry Creek authorities: "My client's business is being adversely affected by the presence of a pushcart that sells comparable items directly in front of my client's business."
First, I know what goes into hot dogs, and it's not pretty. If you want to tell the world that your client, a world-famous chef and his upscale eatery, serve that kind of food, go ahead. But I think the folks in Public Relations are going to want to have a few words with you beforehand.
Second, despite the restaurant's claims, the food is not the same. There are hot dogs and there's the fancy stuff Puck's serves. Not once have I been confused about whether to have a hot dog or goat cheese and sun-dried tomato pizza. When I'm in the mood for one, the other won't do. (For the record, I've never eaten a goat cheese and sun-dried tomato pizza. Ever.)
You can imagine the commotion this stirred up. Especially when you consider that Petty, a Russian immigrant and single mother, sells hot dogs to help her 18-year-old daughter go to college. So an angry mob, armed with hot dog torches, stormed Wolfgang Puck's Express at the corner of East Second Avenue and Fillmore Street.
Not really, but it makes for a great visual image.
Actually, cooler heads prevailed, especially after Marc Schtul, president and CEO of Cherry Creek North business district, said that his loyalty was to business owners who pay thousands of dollars in rent and generate more sales tax revenue than a single hot dog pushcart. (A hot dog cart permit costs $300 per year).
That's when the death threats came pouring in.
"I've had people calling me all day and screaming at me," Schtul told the Rocky Mountain News. "I had nothing to do with it. I'm just the middle guy. I did what they asked me to do."
Luckily for Petty (and Schtul), Denver's Department of Public Works issued a statement that said, "The concerns cited by the new restaurant located near the applicant were examined and found by the city to be without merit. Therefore, the permit will be allowed to continue. So, nyah nyah nyah!"
Unfortunately, the Puckery's little ego display may have backfired: several customers are now boycotting the restaurant. One former diner, Marie Schmidt, told the News that she and her co-workers used to visit Wolfgang Puck's once a week, but refuse to eat there anymore.
"I have two words for them: Puck you," said Dan Timber, making sure to clearly enunciate the letter P. "I'm tired of corporate America doing this," he added, referring to the practice of large wealthy corporations pushing around the little guy who never hurt anyone in a naked grab to make more and more money.
So the issue is settled, at least for now. Petty gets to keep her cart in the same spot, Denverians can continue to enjoy their hot dogs knowing that they helped defeat corporate America. And the Wolfgang Puck Express can continue on for a little while even though they've alienated a large portion of their clientele, which means most of the people who work there will be out of a job when the restaurant closes because of a lack of customers.
Not to worry though. I hear a hot dog cart permit is only 300 bucks.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 24th, 2006)
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