My Resignation Letter

The following is the reprinted text from my resignation letter from the FTC. Names have been redacted to protect the innocent:

March 10, 2004

Dear Ms. ----------

It is with heavy heart that I must regretfully announce my impending resignation from the Honors Paralegal program of the Bureau of Competition. Though my time here has been rife with excitement and photocopying, I must depart in order to pursue other opportunities in this grand jest we call "Life." A hundred thanks for your trust in initially hiring me, though I wore running shoes to the interview. The 29th of April will be my final day here at the commission.

Thus I leave you with these sage words:

Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets, his hour on the stage
And then is heard no more.

Sincerely,


-eli

Won't Get Fooled Again

In a pretty amazing development in the world of nature, the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, last seen during World War II, was rediscovered in Arkansas. Long thought to be extinct after logging decimated its habitat, a small population has managed to beat the odds. Commenting on the elusive bird, Interior Secretary Gale Norton was quoted as saying, "Second chances to save wildlife once thought to be extinct are rare. ... We will take advantage of this opportunity." A provision was rushed into the Bush Administration's Healthy Forests Initiative to clear-cut the bird's homerange so that there won't be any more of this silliness about extinction again (no trees means it's easier to see the birds).

To Science!

If I remember correctly from high school science, when you set out to prove a theory it goes hypothesis-experiment-conclusion. There may have been some other stages involved, but like most of the crap I learned in high school, that's been long since forgotten. At any rate, this week we here at Expecting Rain Labs were testing whether there is such a thing as too much baseball. Purely in the interest of science, I decided to attend three baseball games in three cities in five days. Let's get ready to learn!

My Equipment: nosebleed seats, Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, trusty Sox hat, $7 draft beer, Bunsen burner, other sundry items.

Day 1: Oakland, CA. Angels vs. Athletics.
Observations: The Coliseum is not the decrepit pile of crap that I was expecting. The A's fans are few but devoted, more importantly you can bring your own beer into the stadium. Vlad Guerrero is a scary, scary man. Barry Zito's pants are worrisomely tight (aren't you concerned about sperm count, Barry?).
Result: Anaheim 6, Oakland 1

Day 4: Washington, DC. Nationals vs. Marlins.
Observations: RFK Stadium is the worst place in America to watch major league baseball. Despite the many "W" hats, can any of the Washington faithful name a single Nats reliever? Miguel Cabrera turned 22 on game day and makes approximately 10 times what I do. Is Dontrelle Willis the most exciting player in baseball?
Result: Florida 9, Washington 4

Day 5: Baltimore, MD. Orioles vs. Tigers.
Observations: Sammy Sosa doesn't seem to have the same pop in his bat that he did last year (how curious). I should have signed Miguel Tejada to my fantasy team (one more home run that could have been mine). On the mound, Sidney Ponson looks like Curly Howard in a pair of stirrup pants. Camden Yards pretty much beats the crap out of the Coliseum and RFK. My presence at the game does not in fact mean the home team loses. Take that, Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle! Beer man, another Miller Lite!
Result: Detroit 4, Baltimore 8


Conclusions: As to the question of whether there is such a thing as too much baseball, I can only conclude that too much is never enough.

Short Story (25 Words or Less)

"There's only a one letter difference between 'laughter' and 'slaughter,'" Gerald thought, stepping off the elevator with a high powered rifle in his hands.

One Second Movie Reviews

In this modern age we are bombarded with more information than is possible for our simian brains to successfully compute. How should we make choices about what to embrace and what to shun? I care a lot about movies, so I've devised a system of "One Second Film Reviews" in order to move things along a little smoother. I based it mostly on my reaction to the title. Thus, for the recently released romantic-comedy starring Ashton Kutcher and Amanda Peet, the one second review goes a little something like this:

A Lot Like Love is a lot like crap!

This isn't just useful for films in current release. It can also come in handy when deciding which video to rent and/or Netflix. For example:

The Story of Us is a lot like crap!

No need to thank me, my reward's in heaven.

Science Does Something Useful

Call me crazy, but the discovery of why certain popcorn kernals don't pop is much more significant in my day-to-day life than who the new pope is. Speaking of Benedict XVI, I don't understand how someone who has ascended to a position of absolute power in a strictly hierarchal organization was such a lackluster Nazi.

Modern Times

I can't ever seem to remember whether it's Orbit gum or Eclipse gum that I like. One is good and the other leaves a distinctive sugary coating on the teeth. They sell them both in the supermarket checkout line. Then I get them mixed up with travel-booking service Orbitz, the ubiquitous pop-up ad/gaming site that is not in any way chewable. Life was simpler when the only gum I chewed came in Topps baseball card packs. Sure it had the consistency and flavor retention of cardboard, but it was something you could depend on, dammit.

The Ideal of Beauty

While I've often heard women complaining about society's unrealistic expectations for their physical appearance, has it ever occurred to them that we white men might sometimes feel inadequate, too? Isn't it time that somebody stood up for us and the fanciful body types to which we are expected to conform? I speak, of course, of facial hair; whiskers, if you will. If you watch the shows that I do, you probably have noticed that during every commercial break one is bombarded with half a dozen advertisements for shaving products and sundry paraphenalia. These appeal directly to the swarthier among us, but do we see ourselves reflected in the televised mirror? I find it a dubious proposition that any of the actors in these commercials would have much use for a razor. To a man they are all hairless mutants from the Planet Swede. Oh, the pain, the pain. Despair.

On a related note, what the hell is Mitchum anti-perspirant? Might it be designed especially for those who want to smell like pot-smoking, film noir star Robert Mitchum (who was so laid back he makes Peter Fonda look like an ADD kid high on Pixie Stix).

No Mas Sox

Nobody likes the relative that always gives you socks for Christmas.

In a scene from the film Fever Pitch, now in theaters, Jimmy Fallon introduces himself to Drew Barrymore as "a Red Sox fan," as though the knowledge of Fallon's sports franchise preference will elucidate his character's entire identity to a national audience. To me, that's like introducing yourself as a pedophile. If this is truly the most important element of his personality, then that's just sad and my reaction is to think that the person who self-describes as first and foremost a Sox fan is probably a big asshole. Liking, even loving, the Red Sox is not some archetypal, Joseph Campbell-esque role, but the public knows exactly what it is supposed to mean. You can't get away from it lately, as though the onerous burden of Red Sox fanaticism was Biblical in the degree of suffering it entails. For a brief moment last October, the universe did seem to revolve around Yawkey Way, but I'd like to get off that ride now.

If we strip it down to a purely Moneyball level, removing all sentiment, last year's riveting ALCS was merely the team with the second-highest payroll in baseball defeating the team with the highest payroll. Quite the upset. They then proceded to best a team with a lower payroll in the World Series. And this has spawned dozens of books. Eventually you get what you pay for, unless you are the Mets. But I think we have finally reached critical mass with Sox hysteria. After feasting so well for so long, ESPN has even decided to jump on the backlash bandwagon, with several "so sick of the Sox" articles on Page 2. Some columnists even have the audacity to point out that other cities have gone longer without a World Series title than Boston. They just don't have the publicity machine. Wither the South Siders?

My favorite article on this topic is by David Schoenfield, titled "86 Reasons We Hate You." And like Schoenfield, while I'm fed up, I don't begrudge Sox fans some celebration. I wanted them to win last year. Just don't act like there's never been any success in New England sports. But as I'm sure that I've tried your patience to get you this far, I'll come to my point. It's time Mariners fans got a persona. It shouldn't be all defining, but it should say something about us. To paraphrase the Big Lebowski , "what makes a Mariners fan?" Look no further than entries 12 and 66 in Schoenfield's article. It's all there: the fuming about East Coast bias, the regret for the ones that got away, the pulling for the underdog and underappreciated, the despair of never winning a pennant. Despite the relatively robust payroll and recent success, old school Mariners fans have never left the Kingdome. We hate the Yankees even though there's much more cause to hate the Indians. We cheer Omar Vizquel but boo A-Rod. There is surely more that is escaping me at this late hour, but that's enough baseball for now. I continue to wait patiently for the day when I can casually mention that I'm an M's fan and have the person respond "you poor, pitiful bastard."

Scientist Humor (or Perhaps Not?)

I'm still trying to figure out whether this is a joke or not. The AP is reporting that three new species of slime-mold beetles have been named after Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld (e.g. Agathidium rumsfeldi). If his quote is meant literally, one of the scientists who named the beetles in honor of these three nincompoops seems to think he has paid them a great compliment, not something most people would associate with an insect that feeds on fungilike slime. The scientist calls Bush, et al. "leaders. . . who have the courage of their convictions and are willing to do the very difficult and unpopular work of living up to principles of freedom and democracy rather than accepting the expedient or popular." Much like the slime-mold beetle, I guess. This is either an amusing jibe at our current administration's attitude toward science or a troubling commentary on the social skills of entomologists. Sometimes this country make no damn sense to me.

The People's Glorious Film Reviews

Melinda and Melinda
by Borko Naberezhnyi

Borko is being very excited for to see new Woodsy Allen film, Melinda and Melinda. He like his movies very much, especially early, funny ones. Many critic guys are wanting to stomp on Woodsy. Many critic is being like Ned Flanders and say "I like his films, except for that nervous fellow that's always in them." No problems here! He is just director guy and has Will Ferrell for to be stand-in. Some critic guys like this movie. Borko will give own opinion. He knows is no thing such as too many critic.

Movie start with two playwriting guys who argue about "is situation comedy or tragedy"? Why not both? And so is movie cutting between drama and laughy parts. Is fun! Is like is being made up as movie goes along, so maybe is OK that I am not caring about the characters. Is many people in the movie, but Will Ferrell make me laugh twelve times, which is eleven time more than he ever make Borko laugh before. He tell best joke about a ramp Borko ever hear! And Rahda Mitchell is very nice as Melinda. This movie make Borko think more about Woodsy Allen movies that he like and not so much about Woodsy Allen movies that is sucking.

Farrell delivers a line with great pith.

All critic guys are saying that the characters in movie could not be living in such big New York apartments. Apparently is expensive rents there or something? In most apartment in this movie I could be fitting my entire family (including cow and goat), but not my Uncle Vastov. He is too fat to get off couch, so he cannot be leaving to go to New York. Perhaps he will die soon? Maybe critic guys are complaining about size of apartment because they have never seen American television show called "Friends"? Borko does not know.

Clockwatching

Excerpted from the up-coming memoir, "The Twilight Paralegal":

My identification card has expired. The old ID saw me through the first 13 of my 14 months here. Now they want me to turn in my expired card before I can get a new one, but I'll be damned if I'm going to wear a name-tag while they switch it over. The indignity of it all! I must now do battle with the head of the guards, a Nigerian who considers it great sport to call me by the name of a former Israeli prime minister (with whom I share a phonetically similar surname). Every time he does this, which is every time he sees me, he laughs exactly three times. Hah hah hah. How I will miss that magnificent bastard.

My new card, which I will have for one month, expires in 2009. Do they know something I don't? Barring that, a baker's dozen of work days is the barrier between me and the guys who sit out in front of Union Station with Dixie cups. Up here in the fortress of solitude (a.k.a. my seventh floor cubicle), all is peaceful. Padded walls of fabric and acoustical tiling bound my work existence. Looking around at the detritus of 13 months of work, pens and papers and post-it notes and other non-alliterative items, I spy an old yogurt container. Yes, that was a good yogurt. Banana and strawberry are a winning combination.

If I left my cubicle and walked down the hall, I would see the sun shining. It's 3:41 on a Monday afternoon. Maybe I should do some work today. Or perhaps I will continue to create small sculptures out of binder clips or mold paper clips into whimsical animal shapes. I already have a rabbit and a giraffe. I must now ponder the similarity in form and function between a staple remover and a saber-toothed tiger.

So many questions remain about the world, none of which have been answered by my time in the law biz. Will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark? Will actress Selma Blair ever smile? Can I ever find a work activity more professionally satisfying than using the automatic stapler? Despair.

Fantasy Draft Misery

Starting in center field...some random dude.

Since I've never shied away from self-flagellation on this blog, I'd like to present the outfield of my rotisserie fantasy baseball team, the Lefebvre Believers. You might call them the pride of the AL Central, if that wasn't an oxymoron. In my own defense, I was working on only an hour of sleep and didn't start drafting outfielders until the afternoon of an 8 hour marathon draft. I was also in the grips of a relapse into Diet Coke abuse. If it's any consolation to me, I didn't spend much money on them. But enough about that. There's always next year, I guess.

Frank Catalanotto
Shannon Stewart
Terrence Long
Matt Stairs
Chris Singleton

in which Our hero has a quasi-religious Experience before discovering the one True faith

Seems there's this thing called religion, been getting a lot of play lately. But even though I'm considered a wild-card candidate for the next Pope, along with Lubomyr Husar and Oscar Andres Rodriguez Maradiaga, that's not what I'm here to talk about.

As mentioned in a previous post, I was on a never-ending search for the elusive Cadbury Cream Egg. With Easter a distant memory, it seemed all hope was lost. Easter '06 or a trans-Atlantic flight where my only hopes of sweet, eggy goo. In times of strife, I've often heard people speak of a guardian angel. My guardian angel apparently goes by the name Sucrose, because this weekend, as if by divine providence, I found a lone egg in the bargain rack at a Target in Virginia. It was nestled between the fake grass and a bunny filled with M&M's. I picked it up with trepidation, afraid the delightful foil rapper, with its jaunty primary colors, would yield no egg. But those chicks on the wrapper didn't lie. It was just like when Indiana Jones found that gold monkey in Raiders, except that the whole adventure didn't end with Nazis melting like Cream Eggs in a microwave. The holy grail was in my hands--and it was delicious.

On a similar note of near-religiousity, today was opening day for your new look Seattle Mariners. After the trials of listening to Jon Miller and Joe Morgan butcher their way through yet another Yankees/Red Sox telecast on ESPN, the dulcet tones of Dave Henderson doing color commentary were pure pleasure. Ichiro singled to start the bottom of the first, Beltre reached on an error and Richie Sexson launched a slider that didn't slide out into the left field bleachers. Mariners win! Hallelujah! Because Jesus might save, but so does Eddie Guardado.

Know Your Rodents (For Reals This Time)

Don't call me "Crash"

Although you have a better chance of seeing Ratt than the bandicoot rat, we present this giant rodent of southern Asia. This hardy speciman is not related to the marsupial bandicoot of Australia; if the mistake is ever made, please edify your misguided companion by telling him or her, "Dude, the bandicoot rat is totally in the order Rodentia, not Marsupialia. You're just embarrasing yourself, man."

As if Bangladesh didn't have enough problems, what with being in a low-lying river delta and all, the bandicoot rat is an agricultural pest who enjoys raiding grain silos and gardens. The bandicoot rat is alsoknown for the pig-like grunts that it emits when attacked, much like Speaker of the House Denis J. Hastert (R-Ill.). I try to resist comparing Republican leadership to rodents, but I just can't help myself.

Go, Feds!

April, as T.S. Eliot said, is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring tourists from their sleepy middlewestern towns. With the city now inundated by sweatshirted dads, haggard moms and numerous wandering children, it is worth commenting upon the continuing phenomenon of the CIA and FBI hats. These black caps with white stitching (no doubt made by the baseball cap crafts-men, women and children of China) are hawked from makeshift souvenir stands near any tourist trap or Smithsonian museum. On the surface, wearing clothing in support of your national spy agency or federal investigatory bureau isn't any more or less strange than sporting a Packers cap or Georgetown Law sweatshirt (even if it does remind me of Michael Keaton's FBI agent in Out of Sight being asked if he has a shirt that says "undercover"). It's not as though by wearing the cap you imply that you work as a spy. Those who choose to wear, for instance, a fashionable Milwaukee Brewers cap may support the overall organizational goals, but are not actually members of the team (although frankly my grandmother could be their number five starter, so don't give up hope).

Still, one would think that the popularity of said caps would have diminished now that the shine has come off our national spy and investigative agencies. The CIA has been revealed as an inept bureaucracy of desk jockies eager to stove-pipe faulty intelligence to the administration. The FBI, once home to do-gooders Mulder, Scully and Clarice Starling, is apparently so out of it that they are still finding evidence from the Oklahoma City bombings ten years later(!). Apparently an anonymous tipster phoned in to tell them to do a full check at Terry Nichols's house. I guess if there are people who continue to harbor hope for the Brewers, then perhaps the good people of the Hoover Building and Langley could use a little love as well.