My Uncle Bob

Recently, a relative of mine asked me if I was named after my uncle. Well, the story goes like this. My dad had my mom call up my aunt asking to speak to my uncle. You see, my dad didn’t know how to use the telephone. When my mom got my uncle on the line she said,

“Raymond wants to ask you something,” then she handed the phone to my dad who said,

“Are you gonna use the name 'Robert'?”

Uncle Bob said, “No.”

Them my father hung up. And that’s how I was named after my uncle.

For my whole life I referred to my dad's brother as my uncle. Growing up I didn’t know it was possible to have more than one uncle because I knew only one, and he was from Massachusetts. I also thought Massachusetts was very far away from Rhode Island for the same reason.

My uncle was my godfather and as such he often was a father figure in my life. When our oldest, Aidan, was in grade school, my aunt and uncle each year attended Grandparent’s Day. Often parents came up to me afterwards and said,

“My father and your father had such a wonderful conversation. He said your father is so interesting.”

My uncle was very engaging. When he met someone for the first time, he would ask them about themselves, and he would listen. I didn’t bother to tell the other parents that he wasn’t my father.

Back in 2001, my uncle stood in for my father when I wanted to go to Long Island to visit my grandfather's grave. Maybe it was because he was a WWI veteran, or because we shared the same last name or the mysterious circumstances of his death, my grandfather always intrigued me. Not my father though. He hated his dad, and I heard it many times growing up. His father had abandoned my dad and his brothers, Robert and Ronnie. He deserted my grandmother, Nativa, in the middle of the Great Depression leaving her to raise three boys on her own. My dad always said his father was a drunk who never sent any money home, which caused the boys and their mom to move around a lot because, as my father used to say, "they had to stay one step ahead of the landlord."

So I cooked up this well intentioned, stupid idea to find out where my grandfather was buried then take my dad there so he could "experience closure." Two days before we were to leave he called to say that he wasn't going. Back in 1938 after my grandfather was pulled from the Hudson River in New York City, my dad was on his way to the service in a car driven by my cousin's father in the middle of a hurricane. There wasn't enough room for Bob so he and his little brother stayed with their maternal grandmother who spoke only French. When the power went out, Bob was sent to the corner store to buy kerosene. His grandmother gave him two mason jars to carry the flammable liquid back to their house. Bob struggled to hold the jars until one fell to the ground. My uncle told me that story a few years ago, the disappointment still in his voice for being incapable of steading the jars in his eight year old hands during a Category 3 hurricane.

My father was more excited to go on a trip to New York than upset over his father's death. His callous attitude angered his mother who exclaimed,

"That's your father!"

Now my dad was reliving that event. He told me that he initially agreed to go because he wanted to go on a trip. The wounds of abandonment were so deep that he refused to join me, his only son, on a pilgrimage to honor my grandfather. I was bitter even though I knew it was a very rare thing for my dad to choose himself over one of his children. The next day, my uncle called to say that he would like to go. He had never been to his dad's grave. The following day Uncle Bob stayed with us in a house we were renting in Groton, Connecticut. The next morning we got on the ferry to Long Island.

On the trip over my uncle was very animated. He told stories about going to parks and the beach with his dad and mother and brothers. They were happy stories. Stories I never heard before. My uncle explained that back then during the depression there were no stimulus checks. The government expected families to pull together and lift the country out of the economic crisis brought on by the Great Depression. He told me that his father joined the Works Progress Administration (WPA) which required him to leave his family to build roads and bridges in other parts of the country.

Being on a ship even as a passenger reminded my uncle of his days in the navy. He talked of his adventures in the military when he was a younger man. The ferry's engines droned on as we crossed the sound on our journey to honor a soldier in our family. My grandfather was so proud of his military service that he always kept his honorable discharge papers in his pocket. My father showed me the documents when I was a kid. As he pointed to the water stains, he told me that the police used these papers to identify his father's body after he was pulled from the river. 

When the ferry docked in Montauk, we offloaded my car then drove to a train station to pick up my uncle's oldest son, Ron. After we all ate lunch, we made our way to the cemetery. Being three men, we didn't ask for directions. Using a folded map, we eventually found the cemetery. We didn't ask anyone how to get to the section of the cemetery we sought either. After a bit of wandering we located my grandfather's grave. I read on the marker that he was a cook in the army during World War I. After some time my uncle told us to go for a walk so he could be alone. We strolled a short distance away while admiring the grounds. When I looked back at my uncle, he was standing before his father's gravestone and saying something. I couldn't hear him, but I assumed he was reciting the Lord's Prayer. As I watched, my uncle came to attention and saluted his father.

We returned to the car, got Ron back on the train then drove to Montauk to board the ferry. On the way back, gone was the man full of stories. My uncle stared stoically out the window as the ferry plowed the sound. I wondered what he was thinking about. Was he remembering his life with his father and his mother and brothers? Or perhaps he was recalling his wife, Corinne, and their four boys they raised in Massachusetts. Maybe he was reminiscing about his lifelong friend, Don Verrier, who he met in kindergarten. Still yet, he might have been musing about his navy buddy, Bob Zimmerman, who served with him on the USS Missouri during the Korean War. My uncle looked to me and said,

"You know, I have to tell you something. Of all the people in our family, you were the only one interested in finding your grandfather."

My uncle was thinking about me. He continued,

"Family is important. You know, you''ll do a lot of dumb things in your life, and all you can hope for is that your family will forgive you."

My uncle did not live a life of less hardship, struggle or disappointment than my father. The difference is he forgave his dad, and that was his lesson to me.

Editor's Note: Robert's uncle passed away on March 8, 2022. He lived a full life of 92 years.

Fake Data?

Back in 2017 my youngest and I were in a children's museum when a woman approached asking if William could participate in the research she was conducting. I agreed and after signing a bunch of consent forms, the two of us were ushered into a small room. On the table was a few shapes of different colors and a wooden box. The woman mixed the shapes up like a shell game. William was instructed to select a shape and put it atop the box. He chose a yellow circle. The woman said,

"Ding!"

She shuffled the shapes, then he selected a blue circle. The woman made a buzzer sound. In between selections, she fervently shuffled the shapes. She administered the test so rapidly that I didn't immediately pick up what she wanted, a shape or a color. Then she said, as she produced a new box,

"The first box is pretend. This new box is real."

She shuffled the pieces, and William selected a blue square. When he put it on the box, a real buzzer sounded. William selected a red circle, and the buzzer sounded again. Eventually he stumbled upon a yellow triangle and was rewarded with a bell. The woman shuffled the shapes, then William selected a blue rectangle. The researcher looked to me and exclaimed,

"It happens every time!"

Still unsure, I asked, "What happens?"

"They select the wrong color during pretend and real."

I didn't pick up what she was looking for due to the speed at which she executed the test so it was doubtful that William did either. She added,

"It's to prove that play is a poor way to learn."

Now, if you are doing research, ideally you want to break new ground, refute long standing beliefs, espouse something controversial. We've heard for years that kids learn through play, but this research refuted this.

When we got home I fashioned a "pretend" and "real" box along with an assortment of colored shapes. I had William select a shape. I used the pretend bell sounds for blue shapes and the buzzer in response to William selecting any other colored shape. I reinforced this through three runs with the pretend box because, while I'm no child education specialist, I do know that you have to reinforce behavior with multiple examples at his age. Any parent who is teaching their child to say "thank you," and "please," knows this. When I exchanged the pretend box with the real box which used the sound effects from my smart phone, William selected the blue shapes right off. Imagine that, reinforcement during play did, in fact, teach William what he needed to do in the real world.

In the early 80's, I read my first article that suggested pets make people live longer. The health benefits were deduced from a study that showed on average the blood pressure of pet owners was six points lower than for non pet owners. Although the authors declared the result "statistically significant," average alone is a poor measure from which to draw conclusions. Depending on the sample size, all you need is a few outliers to skew the results. My wife's blood pressure is low almost all the time without Dinckes the Dog in her lap. Mine reads like a basketball score. It would be easy to bias an average by giving people like Christine a pet and letting me fly solo.

Some of the subsequent studies that drew the favorable pet conclusion were performed in such a way that researchers knew which subjects were exposed to pets and which were not. In some cases, the blood pressure was taken with the pet in the subject's lap. Non blind studies are ripe with skewed data. Since the researchers are likely pet owners themselves, they sought favorable result. Many of these pet studies were funded by advocacy groups like the Pet Food Institute (PFI), which clearly has a vested interest in more pet ownership.

There are some blind, longitudinal studies performed in Australia that garnished medical information from surveys and usage of health services based on information from medical insurance companies. The results showed that pet owners reported more depression, poorer physical health and higher rates of pain medication usage. There was also a higher level of psychoticism asscioated with pet ownership.

For years, doctors have been telling me that my sinus problems are due to limited exposure to pets although my family had cats throughout my childhood. About half the research says that exposure to pet dander and fur helps with allergies and half says it exasperates them. With such diametric results, how does anyone know what is real research and what is fake data?

A relative of mine returned from a company sponsored seminar on diversity in the workplace. She reported,

"They presented results that concluded companies with a diverse workforce make more money."

I tend to believe that diverse companies give opportunities to the most qualified people, leading to a more innovative workforce. It got me thinking though. What if the data showed that the most profitable companies were staffed by a specific ethnic group? Would they publish this result?

Back in 1994, psychologist Richard J. Hernstien and political scientist Charles Murray published, The Bell Curve, in which they tried to explain the differences in intelligence in American society. The authors claimed that inherited and environmental factors were more important than socioeconomic status when predicting success. They garnished their findings from a study conducted by the Department of Labor called the National Longitudinal Study of Youth as well as the Armed Services Vocabulary Aptitude Battery (ASVAB), which comprises ten tests taken by military applicants.

The book was controversial because the authors stated that a possible reason for low test scores among certain minority groups might be genetics. The authors did not say that minority groups who performed poorly on standardized test were genetically inferior. They said that as scientists they were obliged to study every hypothesis to systematically rule out those that were incorrect. The book was widely criticized in the media, and it's likely that most of us wouldn't even known about it today, let alone have read it, without all the negative publicity it received. Some of the criticism of the time claimed that the authors cherry picked the data that supported their hypothesis. Even so, it was published. I doubt that today such a book would ever make it into print.

In March of 2017, Charles Murray was invited to speak at Middlebury College in Vermont on his latest book, Coming Apart, and how it corresponded to the 2016 presidential election. He was shouted down by protesters. One student, described the protest as,

"Democracy in action."

Unfortunately, he was wrong. Censorship due to disagreement is not democracy. People today are fond of saying that they "follow the science," but when societal pressure cancels an idea, we are no longer subscribing to the rigors of science. Instead, we're following the mob.

I was once discussing a discrepancy between an analytic solution and the data with a professor I worked with at an engineering firm. I was certain that my analysis was correct. The professor, a brilliant educator who taught a graduate level class in fluid mechanics said,

"The data is always right."

Given the set of conditions under which the data was taken that assertion is most definitely true. If we reject a hypothesis based on how it makes us feel, we can't possibly draw any meaningful conclusions, and as such we won't solve any real problems.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on March 23, 2017.

Knives Out for Christmas

This past Christmas my wife, Christine, wanted a new set of kitchen knives. The knives we had were a wedding present. That was 24 years ago, so needless to say, our kitchen knives were rather dull. Our youngest, William, wanted to get something for his mother for Christmas so I steered him away from the Lego Death Star he thought she would love and towards a new, shiny, sharp set of kitchen knives.

Christine is a fantastic cook. The kitchen is hers, and she'll let you know that. I have an outbuilding in which I store all my shit and build birdhouses. I haven't actually built one yet, but I'm gonna real soon. Cooking for Christine is relaxing, and we all are grateful for it. I cook a little. Well, more precisely, I can make one thing. Ravioli. Even more accurately, I don't make ravioli, I thaw it. So my skills in the kitchen involve boiling water. If it wasn't for Christine, we'd all hate ravioli by now.

So Christine and I swung by a local kitchen supply store so she could pick out the knives she wanted. It was my job to bring William by and steer him in the direction of the knives which Christine selected. I even told the sales clerk of my plan to ensure our Christmas ruse would play out without a hitch; after all, that's what Christmas is all about, presents and lying.

When I was a kid I convinced my father to buy my mother a zebra bamboo handle knife set for Christmas which I thought was the best knives money could buy. Little did I know that "carbon steel" does not mean"stainless steel." They rusted terribly after one use. My mother tried to clean them with steel wool which could've killed us all. They disappeared just before Mother's Day when my mom picked out a set of knives she wanted then wrapped them up for herself. So I figured I would just skip the youthful enthusiasm for something that looks good on the surface to a ten year old and go straight to the source.

When I brought William into the store, he gravitated to an oak wood handle, pitted knife called a Damascus blade. Now, I'm sure this is a good set of knives made out of the finest steel, but there's no way Christine would wield in her kitchen for the next two decades a knife that looked like it was used on Julius Caesar. They were expensive too so we weren't going to dump them before Mother's Day.

"Oh, those knives are not good for cutting chicken," I exclaimed.

I gently steered William away from his selection, knowing full well that chicken is his main food item. Once I got William to choose the right set, he picked a variety of knives. When we got home, we snuck them into the house. He wrapped them himself then put each under the Christmas tree. Our Christmas bait and switch played out perfectly. On Christmas Day, Christine acted very surprised when she unwrapped William's knives.

As the pandemic subsided, Christine thought we should return to going on family vacations. I didn't miss our family trips because I hate flying, and somehow I always end up shlepping everyone's luggage. Now that our oldest, Aidan, is in college and bigger than me, he can tote his own shit. William is pretty independent so its likely I can get him to do the same. That just leaves flying as the only obstacle.

Flying has always been miserable, but ever since people started blowing up their shoes, air travel has gotten barbaric. I don't miss waiting in line to remove articles of clothing or get a full body scan just so you can insert yourself into a seat next to someone's service dog that will likely vomit in the aisle mid-flight. There's no where on this planet I want to go so badly that I would put up with that anymore.

"We'll get TSA precheck and global entry," Christine reasoned.

Not wanting to give in so easily, I agreed if we could fly first class. I have never flown first class in my life even for work. Other than the extra room and early boarding, I'm not sure what first class gets you, but whatever it is, I want it. If I am going to have to cram into some aircraft and risk an embolism, I want to get a full can of soda and an extra bag of beer nuts.

So Christine initiated the extensive process of prescreening all of us in order to attain "trusted traveller" status. After submitting the lengthly paperwork and paying the fees, she waited for our interviews to be scheduled. She forked over $29 for access to an app that allows one to reschedule their appointment sooner and to a nearby location. Christine monitored the app daily as slots opened and filled in a matter of minutes. Optimizing the process with the utmost precision and efficiency, she successfully moved my appointment and Aidan's up by months and to a local airport. 

"Just go to your appointment and don't piss off the interviewer, and everything will be fine," she reassured.

I read an article about the interviews with TSA. You're not supposed to make small talk or joke around with them. The processes of ensuring I won't blow up my own balls and my family by detonating my underwear is no laughing matter. It’s serious business. So serious that they take your fingerprints and send them to the FBI to ensure you don't have a criminal record. I learned that if they ask you,

"Have you ever been arrested?"

And you say, "no" because all the charges were dropped that time you were busted for disturbing the peace after that punk rock concert you attended in college just because you wanted to get close to a girl in your Decision Making Theory class, they'll reject your application for lying. You see, you have to know the legal difference between being arrested and being charged. I'm not a lawyer so by law I'm not allowed to dispense legal advice, but a good rule of thumb is if the police put you in handcuffs and read your Miranda rights, then take you for a ride in a squad car, then you've been arrested. You'll know you've been charged if in order to go home you have to put up said home as bond to ensure that you come back and sit court side later.

Everything was going according to Christine's plan, that is, until I decided to cut a bagel with her new Christmas knives. Now I've been slicing bagels for over two decades with our dull wedding present knives. These new knives were well balanced, exquisitely crafted in Germany and sharp as fuck. I mean, I didn't even feel the blade slice through my finger. In fact it went through the nail before it even touched my bagel. Immediately I applied pressure to the wound, then turned to Christine and said,

"I just cut myself."

When I showed her my finger, she sprang into Mom Mode Defcon 1. She bolted away returning with an array of bandages, tourniquets, bacitracin, gauze, medical tape, band-aids, even a bottle mercurochrome.

"Apply pressure," she instructed.

After Florence Wifengale patched me up, we both noticed that I was bleeding through the bandage. Since I had shaved a deep layer of skin off my finger, the medical tape was not strong enough to compress the wound sufficiently to stop the bleeding so I wrapped the bandage with electrical tape then called my buddy, Roger. Roger is a Yale educated emergency room physician. He told me to get clotting bandages and liquid skin. Roger is the kind of guy you want around in these circumstances because he can tell you just what to do without using any latin. After several hours we checked my finger. Since it was still bleeding heavily, we wrapped it back up with a blood be-gone bandage and electrical tape. The next day it looked like this.

At this point with my TSA interview a mere three days away, Christine pointed out that I needed to stop the bleeding so they could take my fingerprints. Even though the damage was on the top of my finger, the bandage and tape covered my print. She checked online. They required all ten. Thinking quickly, I had Christine swap my appointment with Aidan's which bought me an extra day.

Now, Christine worked hard on all this paperwork to ensure we had the easiest time flying as humanly possible. The fact that I almost lopped off my finger was bad in itself, but if I screwed up my TSA interview because of an inaccessible fingerprint, I might never hear the end of it. Compounding matters was the fact that Christine's interview wasn't yet scheduled. Apparently the TSA deep dives on every fourth applicant and since Aidan, William and I all made it through to the interview phase, Christine paperwork was being held up. I knew she never should have joined the Daughters of the American Revolution.

The plan was on the morning of my interview I was to carefully remove my clotting bandage then apply liquid skin to the wound. This would give the TSA access to my fingerprint. Roger told me to run the bandage under the faucet. Don't just rip it off otherwise I would be starting all over again. It took about an hour to get the cloth free. I dabbed on the liquid skin, let it dry, then drove to my appointment while holding my hand above my heart. I arrived 45 minutes early.

The armed TSA agent, Mitch, asked if I was "Steve." When I told him, "no" he checked his list.

"Kevin?" Mitch asked.

"No," I replied.

Even though I know you're not supposed to say anything unless asked, I blurted, 

"I'm Robert and early."

Mitch found me way down the list.

"I guess so," he responded, "Let's go."

Mitch brought me to a small room in which I would be okay as long as he didn't want me to do anything that required me to put my hand below my heart like tie a shoe or something. He looked through my paperwork then asked,

"And your middle name is?"

"Michael," I answered, holding back the urge to launch into a diatribe about how my parents gave me two first names, and how I wished my middle name was 'Machiavelli." Shit, I'd take "Milhouse" over my middle name.

"And you were born in West Warwick, Rhode Island?" Mitch queried.

"Warwick," I answered, fighting back my desire to explain that I grew up in West Warwick while the hospital I was born in was in Warwick.

"And your mother's maiden name is?" Mitch continue.

"Bianco," I answered, knowing full well that most people from my generation haven't a clue what a maiden name is.

Mitch looked pleased.

"That's it?" I thought. Your middle name, where you were born and your mother's maiden name is all they need to determine if you're a domestic threat?

"Now put you fingers on this pad," Mitch instructed.

I did my right hand first to get an idea as to what this was going to entail. Mitch rolled my fingers to get an adequate reading. A small light on the reader changed from red to green followed by an audible "Ding" signifying a successful scan. My thumb was next. Ding. When we moved to my hand with the injured, glued up finger, I was hesitant, but I didn't want to object and potentially lose my slot in the investigative screening process. I placed my fingers on the reader. When the red light shone green, I yelled,

"Fuck yeah!" before the machine got out the reassuring "Ding."

Mitch stared at me suspiciously. After my thumb scan, he said,

"Ok, Bob. Take a seat while I wait for the FBI report."

I scooped up my finger and got out of there. A few minutes later, Mitch returned and called another name then informed me that my results weren't back yet. This happened three more times. I figured that the FBI database had millions of entries and that a scan of my fingerprints would require several matching points to register a hit so it might take some time. I imagined Mitch returning with,

"Bob, there's a problem."

"What?" I ask.

"The FBI report," Mitch says.

"What about it?" I ask.

"Tell me about Blog of One."

That didn't happen though. The next time Mitch came back he gave me the thumbs up and told me I was done. I thanked him, and off I went. Christine still hasn't gotten approval for her interview yet, but when she does we all know the drill. Go early. Don't joke around. No chit-chat and...

No bagels.

My First Spam

Back in the mid 90's, I was in graduate school taking classes at night. We were encouraged to sign up to a "listserv," a new means of communication back then. Listservs were a great way to get the word out. It was also an effective means of effortlessly sending mindless emails to a large group of people. That's what happened shortly after I subscribed to my first listserv. I got my first ever spam.

Jim was a student from Europe. I don't know what country in Europe Jim was from, but he was most definitely European. He wore clothes that were likely once his uncle's. He also smoked heavily. He sported a fedora long before Justin Timberlake. There were three students named, "Jim," in our class. He became known as "euro-Jim." The most notable thing euro-Jim did to identify his European lineage was express his dissatisfaction with our country by saying,

"Americans always discriminate against Europeans."

Euro-Jim didn't mince words. He routinely accused Americans of victimizing the people of an entire continent. Most Americans can't find Europe on a map so it's unlikely they would collectively do anything discriminatory against a whole continent. Euro-Jim always went on about how much better his country of origin was as compared to the United States. He said once,

"The education I got in my country would have gotten me a PhD here."

I've heard this many times from foreigners. We're supposed to believe their high schools are superior to our doctoral programs even though they have to wait two months in a line for a roll of toilet paper. If it was so great in Krackistan, why did they leave in the first place?

Euro-Jim hated Bill Gates and Microsoft. In between expressing his strong belief of America's hemispherical discrimination policy, euro-Jim also badmouthed Microsoft all the time. He said things like,

"Microsoft intentionally displays the blue screen of death even when it's not necessary."

I don't know how euro-Jim knew this, but he said it with conviction. One time, someone sent an email to the listserv informing the readership that March was MS Awareness Month. Euro-Jim followed with an email comparing the symptoms of multiple sclerosis to the Windows Operating System. In it, he wrote,

"Memory loss, fatigue, dizziness, heat intolerance, vertigo, weakness. These are all symptoms of the Windows Operating system as well as multiple sclerosis."

I didn't find euro-Jim's comparison funny at all. Apparently many subscribers to the listserv didn't think it was humorous either. After euro-Jim's attempt at humor, the listserv was flooded with emails containing only one word,

"Unsubscribe."

People always think European movies are more edgy and more artsy than American movies. I don't think my dissatisfaction with euro-Jim's analogy was a cultural issue. I think he was just an euro-jerk. Clearly, others agreed with me as the exodus from the listserv continued. I responded with one word as well,

"Uncouth."

My accusation of no class angered euro-Jim because he countered with,

"Unintelligent."

Of course, I was unintelligent. I was an American with my deficient American education. I sent just to euro-Jim,

"Unglued,"

I made it look like it went to the whole listserv by leaving just one letter off the listserv to ensure it would bounce. Euro-Jim took the bait. He sent back to the listserv,

"Uncivilized."

To which I sent just to him,

"Unravel,"

keeping with my "you're nuts" theme. Euro-Jim sent to the listserv,

"Unscrupulous."

I sent,

"Unhinged."

Euro-Jim sent,

"Unjust."

to which I followed with,

"Unwell."

This went on all day, me sending my slightly insulting "un" word that was a synonym for "lunatic" to euro-Jim, and he responding with his equally childish "un" word to the entire listserv. The difference was no one knew I was doing it except euro-Jim, but everyone was aware that he was spamming the listserv for what appeared to the outside observer no intelligible reason.

Eventually someone sent,

"What is your problem?"

Euro-Jim took time to respond. He obviously looked closely at the emails flooding his inbox. He sent to everyone,

"I thought I was responding to another student."

I guess I was just discriminating against his European heritage when I baited him into making a fool of himself. An inquiry by the IT Department led to an email to the listserv stating,

"The listserv is a tool used by the university to provide important information to the student body, faculty and employees. An environment of intimidation, abuse or discrimination will not be tolerated on the university supported listserv. Subscribers who abuse the system will be unregistered immediately."

Being a consummate dick, I sent to the listserv just before I unsubscribed,

"Does this policy include people from Europe?"

Editor's Note: Originally published on February 21, 2017.

A Valentines Story

I first saw her at a new hire party. My boss told me that it was a casual event, but he was wrong. The only one dressed casually was me. I was dressed like I was going to the mall to buy clothes. She was in a blue skirt with matching jacket. I looked at her for a long time, but due to my inadequate clothing, I figured it wasn't a good idea to try to talk to her. Not a woman like her surrounded by a bunch of dudes in suits, threads way better than my Dockers and Polo shirt. I decided to do what every respectable, professional engineer would do when they were interested in a woman, but elected not to talk to them. I decided to stalk her.

Stalk is probably the wrong word. I was collecting information. Someone as good looking as this woman certainly was going to meet up with some guy once she cleared this lame office party. I followed far behind her as she left. She went to her car and drove off alone. Best I could hope for is she would stay alone, just long enough for me to amass enough testosterone to ask her out. That would likely take a few days.

I saw her again at a new hire lecture. Based on the sign up sheet, she was either "Chris" or "Pat." There was only one woman in a room full of thirty men. I was going to find out as much as I could about ChrisPat. I passed ChrisPat in the hallways at work. We worked for a large defense contractor at a site that had multiple buildings and mostly no women. ChrisPat was often seen in what was called "the old engineering building." I made every excuse to cut through that building when I had to go somewhere. Once I passed her in a narrow hallway. The name on her security badge began with a "C" and ended with "e." Her name was "Christine."

A colleague of mine returned one day with critical intel. He had stumbled across where she sat. Armed with her coordinates in the cube farm, I didn't waste any time. I got a fresh flattop and sprang into action. As I approached her desk, I noticed this square, jawed jock seated next to her named "Rickie." He was talking up a big game as Christine half listened.

"What a dope," I thought.

When guys are young, they always talk about themselves as though women just can't wait to hear about their saving plays in their sports league. I approached with the utmost confidence. I was a successful engineer with a great job who worked out daily. While the rest of my contemporaries were drinking themselves blind on Friday nights, I was getting ready to buy a house.

"I don't know anyone who knows you so I'm introducing myself. I'm Robert," I confidently stated as I positioned myself to block Rickie, cutting short his glory story about his fabulous lacrosse plays.

"I'm Christine," she said.

"Say, can you show me where the Plan Vault is?"

I thought I would get her away from Rickie the Jock to ask her out.

"No, I can't leave my work area," she responded.

What a crock. Christine was a salaried engineer. She wasn't restricted to a particular work area. I immediately interpreted this as "I'm definitely not interested." I collected up the pieces of my shattered pride then excused myself. As I left, I heard Rickie start back up,

"Now, where were we? I was shredding it down the infield as I neared the goal..."

I didn't talk to Christine for another four years. We passed in the hallways, and I doubted she even knew my name. I certainly knew hers. I accepted that some women just aren't attracted to certain guys. I first encountered this in high school with my friend, Heidi, a beautiful, talented writer. I became her friend when I sat next to her in creative writing. Heidi had a great imagination for poetic children's stories. She caught the eye of a senior, Michael, a tall, dark, handsome dude who was planning to move to Italy to study medicine.

Michael was in love with Heidi. He wanted to marry her and take her to Italy with him. Heidi chose a different guy than Michael. She picked Arty, the Whirlybird operator at the local amusement park. When I asked Heidi why she rejected Michael, she answered,

"I just don't like him that way."

Now, Arty was short, balding yet had a mullet, smoked pot, and sported a cheesy, porno mustache. Arty didn't have great career prospects. Along with being a skilled amusement park ride operator, Arty boxed. He wasn’t any good being the kind of fighter a real boxer pummeled to build confidence. The pinnacle of Arty’s boxing career was when Vinnie Pazenza knocked him out in the gym. Why a beautiful, talented woman like Heidi would make such an inferior choice baffled me for years. Arty eventually cheated on Heidi ending their relationship. I know love is blind. I just didn't know it was stupid too.

I always prided myself on trying to be a good catch. I got highest honors all through high school and college. I led a healthy lifestyle, working out regularly. I saved money. I took women on extraordinary dates to shows and expensive restaurants. My competition was bringing women out to cheap, buffet style eateries that had salad bars. There was no sneeze shields on my dates. If I took you out, it would be a memorable experience like meeting Elvis. Elvis never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable encounter. That's the way I approached dating. But I had to accept that all the best prep and iron pumping in the world couldn't make somebody like you. As with my friend Heidi, some women just preferred Arty.

Four years later a small team of top engineers formed to design the next class of submarine, and who was picked to work in that group? Christine and me. Great. Along with pining away for this woman for years, now I had to work with her daily, all while knowing that I was Michael, and she would eventually marry Arty, the bumper car operator at Fun Land. This was going to suck.

After a few months I became resigned to becoming Christine's colleague and friend and later her confident. If she wasn't interested, I would at least make sure she made a good choice even if that choice would never be me. I guess that's when I knew I really liked her because I wanted her to be happy knowing full well that her happiness did not include me. We talked about work, the dates we went on and our families. When we were whispering some gossip between the two of us, and Christine would lean in close, I would jokingly say,

"You're in my personal space."

She would always back away laughing. It was hard enough to be infatuated with her without enduring an occasional physical closeness. One time, I was telling her of a bike frame I had purchased. I was into biking. That was my thing. I brought her outside to my car to marvel at the exquisite piece of engineering I had in a big box. Christine thought it was cool that I had a passion.

"What do you like to do?" I asked.

"Ride horses," she answered.

"Then you should buy a horse," I exclaimed.

Each weekend I visited my parents and at the gym I talked my father's ear off about how great Christine was. My dad always wondered why I wasn't with her, and I would explain that I was Michael and she wanted Arty, the Sit and Spin operator at Coney Island.

So one time our whole department travelled to Washington, DC to give presentations to the Navy. Later when we were free, Christine and I went to some museums together. It was wonderful, just the two of us at the National Air and Space Museum. I held her coat under a big yellow winged airplane when she used the bathroom. As I waited alone I thought that this felt so right, but it just never could be.

A few months later I got another job within the company. I never said "Good bye” to her, choosing instead to just pack up my desk and leave. Two months later she called me at my desk to see how I was doing. She took over some of my work so I figured she was calling about that. Christine asked about my new job, if I was dating anyone, how school was going. We were both getting a masters degree at night and occasionally crossed paths. It was nice hearing from her. Earlier I had read that the Rhode Island poet laureate was retiring, and there would be a formal final public reading of his work. It just kind of spit out of me,

"So do you think you'd want to go with me?"

"Ok,"' she answered.

A few nights later we were well dressed in public going to dinner then a gathering for a poet to read his life's work. When friends are properly dressed and out on the town, it's perfectly acceptable to venture into each other's personal space. It's the "well dressed exception." After dinner we walked arm in arm to a small venue where the poetry reading was being held. It felt so right to be with her. Surely, she felt it too.

When the night came to a close, I wanted to kiss her, but that was outside the acceptable personal space exclusion for well dressed friends out together. I came back to reality, that even though it all seemed right, Christine wasn't interested in me and that was just the way it was. I gave her a hug at her doorstep then sadly got into my car and drove away. It was both a great and awful night. A week later I couldn't stop thinking about her. I figured I would write her a note saying how much fun I had. I thought I would end it with

"If you like me, check this box []"

but, that seemed like a bad idea. She called to tell me that she purchased a registered quarter horse that she intended to show. She wanted to take me out to the barn to meet her new horse. We went that afternoon. His name was "Dubious Conclusion," "Dube” for short. I took great and real interest in the animal. Christine showed me how to brush him down. We made plans for me to watch her ride. While at the barn, I told her that I had a great time the other night. She seemed preoccupied as she asked if I would help her obtain a gate for Dube's stall. Trying to be overtly helpful, I agreed even though we were in my small car which was seemingly incapable of transporting a large metal gate.

The site that was selling the gates was another horse facility. We picked out a gate from a large out building. I got filthy digging through the old farm equipment. As we freed up the gate, it started to rain outside trapping us in the dusty space. Together we waited out a summer thunderstorm in an old barn. I turned to her and asked her out to dinner on Friday night. Unhesitatingly she answered,

"Yes."

There was a long pause as I added,

"This is a date though. You know, not friends."

Then there was a real long pause. I blew it. I crossed the boundary too soon. I thought she might have felt what I was feeling and just maybe missed me a bit, but the long pause was a sure sign I messed up. The rain had stopped. I lifted the gate and brought it to my car. It was obviously too large to fit. I pulled out my bike rack from the trunk and fastened it in the back then proceeded to lash the gate onto the rack. We both jumped into the car. Christine was quiet on the ride back. I figured I would just ignore my comment, and hopefully she would forget it as well. After we dropped off the gate at the barn I asked,

"So Friday at seven?"

I expected her to tell me she couldn't go because she didn't want to be out of her work area unless it was to meet Arty, the Flying Horse Carousel operator at Knott's Berry Farm, but she replied,

"Okay."

That's it. Okay. No enthusiasm. No smile. This wasn't a good idea. She probably didn't want to reject me again right after I helped her. Friday night would be a disaster as I overstepped my bounds. I couldn't compete with the Bumper Scooter operator at Six Flags. There's no way to make sense of it. Women are a mystery. I learned that from watching Titanic. A women's heart is as deep as the ocean. That was especially true when Rose exclaimed,

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife."

Then Rose spit in the dude's eye. That movie is every twelve year old girl's Star Wars, and Jack boffed Rose in the back seat of a car. It was hopeless. I couldn't spit like Jack, but I still was going out with her on Friday night. 

The next few days in the office, I avoided running into Christine. I'm sure she was going to let me down gently as her gratitude for helping with the gate waned. With the weekend approaching, I prepared myself for my Friday night crash and burn. I picked her up at seven and off we went to a restaurant in a nearby town. We had a wonderful dinner and conversation. Afterwards, we visited a small Victorian place called L'Ezabeth's for dessert and coffee.

When we returned to her apartment, we approached her door awkwardly. I was sure I was going to get the "I just want to be friends" speech. I wasn't ready for it so I asked,

"Do you want to walk down by the pier?"

I wanted to extend the night and delay the inevitable rejection. I thought maybe I could have just a few more minutes with her, pretending we were a couple.

"Sure," she answered.

As we walked, I reached for her hand. Sometimes when you hold hands, it doesn't work. Someone's arm is too long, and you don't match up right. When you don't feel right, walking hand in hand, it just isn't right. I know that's not very scientific, but it's true. Christine's hand fit perfectly in mine. We watched the moon rise from a railing at the edge of a pier on a warm summer night. I expected at any moment she would express her disappointment that I crossed the line, that she was head over heels for a guy named Arty who was a talented Scrambler operator at Wally World.

"Do you feel like I do?" she asked.

"That depends on the way you feel."

"This feels so... so..."

Here it comes. I think the word she was searching for was "wrong." This seemed so wrong. Then she would go on how our friendship was ruined. I would agree with her just to salvage our relationship, then I would vow to never let her know that I loved her.

"...perfect," she said.

"Perfect?" I asked.

"Unless you don't feel that way," she exclaimed.

"I thought I was Michael, and you wanted Arty," I blurted.

She looked puzzled.

"You didn't answer when I said we were going out not as friends," I added.

"I thought you were just being nice," she explained.

"I thought you preferred the Whirlybird operator."

There was that look again.

"You know, I didn't do it for you," I offered.

"I just thought you weren't interested in me," Christine revealed.

"I thought the same about you about me!" I replied.

"So what are you saying? You're not interested or you are?" she asked.

"Yes, I mean no. Wait! Which question are you asking?"

This got rather confusing.

"The last one," Christine answered.

"I think that one is yes," I clumsily offered.

"Me too," she said.

I looked into her eyes not sure what to say next. I thought I should just stop now because I think she just said she liked me. In retrospect the check this box question would have been much easier. After what seemed like an eternity Christine asked, 

"Who's Arty?"

I shrugged. Even though I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, we walked back hand in hand. It was perfect. I told her that we shouldn't spend too much time together otherwise we would ruin things, but the next night she called.

"What're you doing?"

"Ironing shirts," I answered.

"Can I come over?"

"No! We can't spend too much time together."

"Why?"

Sensing this might get confusing again I went with,

"Sure, come over."

Christine drove to my house then sat on the couch and read some Dickens while I ironed. We rarely have spent a day apart after that evening. The bike frame I showed her months earlier became hers and the quarter horse, the first horse I ever rode, became mine. Later we would pedal a tandem down the west coast camping along the way. We rode horses in Ireland on our honeymoon. When our first son, Aidan, was in kindergarten we returned to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC to take a picture under the yellow winged airplane. We have one more trip planned to capture a picture of William in the same spot.

That's the way it happened, or should I say the way it almost didn't.

Happy Valentines Day

Editor's Note: Originally posted on February 15, 2017.

Stephen Hawking, Pop Icon

Stephen Hawking

If you’re really smart, like Will Hunting smart, you have to follow Stephen Hawking, the late wheelchair bound genius of theoretical physics. No one ever doubted Stephen's intellect. He was an author of several technical books, and held the same position at the University of Cambridge in England that Sir Isaac Newton once occupied. He was the premier professor of astrophysics. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysicist to the Stars, referred to Hawking as a "badass." He wrote about time, the expanding universe and the existence of aliens. He was married twice which is amazing considering he was a bit of a dependent personality. He attracted women purely on his super genius status. That’s impressive.

Being a professor of astrophysics means Stephen could postulate just about anything, and the lay public was mesmerized by his sheer brain power. He stipulated that black holes emit radiation and the collective brain trust of society gasped at the beauty of his hypothesis. They even named the radiation after him, "Hawking Radiation." It took Stephen minutes to type one letter so writing a book was a monumental task, but he soldiered on against unbelievable odds in a life that was incomprehensibly difficult.

Astrophysics is a tough subject with some equally tough math. I'm talking partial differential equations here. Stuff that will tax your neurons long before you get to “x = 8.” Real math for real smart people like Hawking. The chief advantage of being in the field of astrophysics is that you can postulate just about anything and since the advances don’t do anything beneficial for humankind, no one really questions any of it. If Hawking said Pez was emitted from black holes instead of radiation, no one would have challenged it. It would be called Hawking Pez and everyone would have accepted it. Sure, whatever. In think tanks all over the world, people would be heard saying,

"Did you know Pez is emitted from black holes?"

Everyone would nod in agreement, all thinking that the speaker was brilliant for even understanding the concept. The movie about Hawking’s life, The Theory of Everything, had a scene in which Eddie Redmayne, playing Hawking, sits in a wheelchair in front of the world’s leading astrophysicists in a small amphitheater and rambles on about a whole bunch of hypotheses regarding the heavens. When he finally completes his diatribe, David Thewilis, the onetime Professor Lupin who had a nasty case of the werewolfs, jumps up and exclaims,

“Hawking has done it!”

A foreign sounding scientist, somehow insulted by Hawking’s statements as if what he postulated was an outright insult to his family name, pops up from his seat and yells, “Preposterous!” as he makes for the exit.

I think that guy was on to something. Maybe he knew that civilized society would be sympathetic to Hawking and simply agree with him because of his plight. Or maybe Hawking was refuting this dude’s life’s work. Perhaps this guy was adamant about black holes not emitting radiation. Maybe he had proved it with countless peer reviewed technical papers in which the math showed that radiation could never be emitted from a black hole. Perhaps, he penned,

“Say what you want about black holes, they don't emit radiation. Period. End of story.”

I’m not sure what the deal was but that dude was pissed.

Stephen once disclosed that at Oxford he put in only about a thousand hours of the requisite 10,000 necessary to become a master in any field. He also admitted that he didn't learn to read until he was eight. Stephen’s publicist probably suggested that if he wanted to become more famous he would need to push the Hollywood version of genius which is that of a consummate slacker. This was best illustrated in the movie that launched Matt Damon’s and Ben Affleck’s careers, Good Will Hunting. Will Hunting was a janitor genius who intrinsically understood organic chemistry and had a natural ability with advanced mathematics. The big conflict in the movie was how Will didn't give two quarks about his advanced, superior intellect. Two percent of users on Rotten Tomatoes disliked this movie, ironically the same percentage of actual geniuses in society.

Hollywood loves the concept of the genius slacker, and Stephen wants to be a “pop icon.” He once declared,

“I don’t feel like a true pop culture icon until I’ve been on the Kardashians.”

I’m not sure if Stephen ever actually watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Kim Kardashian

Admittedly, I've never watched a full episode of the show either. Every time I tune in one of them is lamenting about fame, taking a picture of themselves or just doing something so painfully stupid that I had to watch a half hour of Lassie just to cleanse the palate. Last time I tuned in, they were all playing charades. It must have been a special family version that they alone engage in because the word to guess was, and I'm not making this up, "motherfucker." I tuned out when Robert Kardashian started air humping his mom, Kris. Before I could scramble the remote, Kim's expression changed from someone trying to discover the origin of a particularly foul smell to sheer delight as she shouted out the answer.

Exactly how does Stephen Hawking think he would scissor into that scene? If I was him I would fear being in the care of the Kardashians. They’re a little on the surface for me. I’d be scared they’d leave me in the corner with a dead battery, facing a black and white, tube TV tuned to MTV’s Pregnant at 16. Stephen shouldn’t have ever thought he could rely on Kanye West for the Heimlich maneuver if he choked on a piece of chicken. I think they would have discovered something is wrong only after Stephen started to smell bad.

Kanye West

Another time I watched the show the Kardashian clan was visiting their mother land, Armenia. Some of them were being given a tour of a thirteenth century monastery by a religious dude in a tunic who through a translator conveyed fascinating historical anecdotes. It didn’t really matter that none of them could understand a word the guy was saying because no one was listening anyway. Kanye began smiling and circling the guy while admiring his clothing. Kim was narrating when she said something about how she can always tell when Kanye’s fashion senses are piqued. Forget that this guy might be talking about some historically significant devastating tragedy that once befell the Aramean people. Kanye was more interested in the dude’s threads. Stephen would have been a great addition to that episode. At least one person would have appeared to be listening. Problem is they would have likely forgotten him on the bus.

Maybe it would have worked out. I don’t know. I just keep wondering who Stephen would've talked to, and if he did find one of them he could converse with, what would they talk about? Something tells me Scott Dipstick doesn’t have an opinion if light is a particle or a wave. I don’t think Kanye muses much about string theory, and I imagine what Kim knows about worm holes wouldn't interest Stephen Hawking. My money is against Khloe being well versed in special relativity, or Kendall embracing a stance on dark energy. Kylie might have an opinion concerning the Grand Unified Theory because I think it's the basis for her lip kit.

I always hoped one of the Kardashians stumbled across this post and launched an extensive social media attack of my blog, but it never happened. I would've been more than happy if they made this bitch famous.

Editor’s Note: Originally published on September 1, 2016.