Discussing Uganda

Dear Friends,

Where there is Yin, there is always Yang. I learned that from someone who hadn't really mastered English yet, but I think he meant that life is a balance of opposing forces. Where there is earnestness, there must also be silliness. Last month's Hard Taco song was all Yin... it was uncharacteristically earnest. And so, to maintain equilibrium, the song for May, "Sightings," has a more Yang then I know what to do with.

Speaking of more Yang than I know what to do with, my parents have a giant cobblestone phallus in their yard.

My high school friend Jeremy named it Uganda. He had read that in the 1970s, "Discussing Uganda" had been a euphemism for sex. We found this phrase delightfully anachronistic. This was the 1990s, after all, and the English language had at least five other euphemisms for sex by then, all of which were variations of  "___-ing the horizontal ___."

We agreed to call it Uganda as sort of a retro homage to a time when people were less creative with their euphemisms.

May 1, 1993. Getting ready for senior prom. Back row: Jay, Uganda, Paula, Nicole. Front row: Zach.

The actual origin and purpose of this structure has been lost to time. My parents' house is over 100 years old, and as far as we can tell, Uganda was there since the beginning. Most neighborhood historians agree that it was built by the early settlers of suburban Milwaukee as a part of World War I era fertility ritual. It even has a hole on top, about three inches in diameter. My parents' hypothesize that this hole held a flagpole.

That's a nice theory. But you and I know that if Sigmund Freud could come back from the dead, he would flick cigar ashes at my parents and tell them to stop being so naive. This was never a flagpole, and the original homeowners weren't patriots.

This was Bonehenge.

Sitting in someone's lawn for 100 years can take its toll on even the heartiest of ceremonial phallic symbols. The cement holding Uganda together has started to wear down, and some of the stones have chipped.

A few months ago, my dad hired a trusted stonemason to give us an estimate for repairs. The news was not good. There was water damage that ran deep. He estimated that it would probably be cheaper to replace the whole thing than to repair it.

I really wish I could have been there for this conversation. He was volunteering to replace it. Replace it with what, exactly? How do you go about building something from scratch when neither you nor the customer knows what it is?

Okay, let's say we ask him to replicate the original as much as possible, and we don't spring for any upgrades (although I can imagine some great ones!) Even if we rebuild it stone for stone and change nothing, we are going to run into all kinds of trouble with zoning restrictions and safety ordinances. Quite simply, Uganda is fine, but a new giant lawncock would have to built to code, and approved by the neighborhood association.

So we've got some things to think about. In the meantime, it's May Day people, so get out there, and dance around your own Maypole!


With warmest regards,
Zach

Spring Training

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for April is called "Dilettantes." This song will get into your head, and creepily watch you sleep (from the inside.)

Baseball brings fathers and sons together. The smell of freshly cut grass. The crack of the bat. Some other stuff, probably. It's a language that we all speak. There is no wound deep enough that it can't be healed by a quick game of catch with your ghost dad.

Malcolm and I learned these lessons from Field of Dreams. Since we watched it together a few months ago, he couldn't wait for Spring so he could join Little League.

His first practice was this week, and when I came to pick him up, Coach Andy was timing each of the players as they ran the bases. I showed up just as Malcolm was finishing his sprint.

"17.3 seconds," the coach announced.

A few minutes later, practice broke up, and Malcolm ran over to the fence to put his glove into his baseball bag. I asked if he had fun.

"Yep!" he said brightly, accepting my high five through the fence. Then, after a pause, "Guess what... I'm the slowest player on the team!"

I didn't know if 17.3 seconds was a good time, but I suspected it might not be.  Only one other player ran after Malcolm, and when that kid found out that he clocked in at 16.3 seconds, he ripped off his hat, threw it on the ground, and let out a primal cry of despair.

Okay, then. I don't know baseball statistics, but I'm quite facile with the Transitive Property: If A < B and B = C, then A < C. In other words, if Malcolm is slower then Unstable Kid, and Unstable Kid is slow enough to throw a tantrum about it, Malcolm is slow enough to throw a tantrum about it.

But he didn't even seem disappointed. To him, it was just a conversation point.

"Really?" I said. "Well, I'm glad you had fun."

And I was really glad. My own childhood was a mosaic of athletic bankruptcy. I spent three years as a Little League benchwarmer, and I couldn't even do that well. When I went up to bat, it was not unusual for another player to sit down in the space I had vacated and complain about how cold the bench was. "Come on, London! You had one job!"

I had another job, and that was right fielder. In The Minors, hardly anybody could hit the ball anywhere near right field. Unfortunately, when a ball did come my way, I wasn't quite strong enough to throw it to second or third base to prevent the runners from advancing. When Coach Blumenfeld became aware of this, he tried me out in left field, but a lot more balls came my way, and that wasn't good either.

In my three years of baseball, I only got to play a different position once, and that was for one inning. I couldn't believe my luck when the coach sent me out to second base, until I realized what was missing. Dandelions. The dandelions were in bloom in the outfield, and here there was nothing but dirt to engage me. But I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was so good at being distracted that I found a way to pay attention to the dirt rather than the game.

And so it was back to right field.

Batting always felt unnatural.  It was easier if I just closed my eyes.  Not the whole time, but just at the moment the ball left the pitcher's hand. This removed any correlation between the trajectory of the ball and the likelihood that I would swing. With that, my best chance of getting on base was if I was lucky enough to get hit by the ball.

Little known fact: If you get hit by a pitch, and swing anyway, it counts as a strike. This comes up so rarely in baseball that none of the Little League umpires knew of the rule. They were just confused by the fact that some kid would swing at a pitch that had already beaned him in the butt, and they would send me to first base out of sympathy.

By time I got to sixth grade, all of my friends were in The Majors. My parents encouraged me to join them, but that would have necessitated a try-out, and I was pretty sure how that would go. Ultimately, I decided that the pitchers in The Majors would be too accurate, and that would deprive me of opportunities to get hit by wild balls.

No thanks. I wanted to be able to help my team.

In my final year of Little League, the only other sixth grader on my team was Marty Oxman. What Marty lacked in skills, he made up for in pro swagger. Before every swing, he would step back from the plate, adjust his helmet, spit, and inspect his bat. Then he would sweep home plate with his foot to clear off some of the dirt, tap the plate with the end of his bat, spit again, get into a deep crouch, and whiff at the ball three times in a row. My mom was impressed, and encouraged me to emulate him.

"That Marty Oxman looks really good striking out. You should try that," she said. "Or maybe try keeping your eyes open when you're batting."

All of these memories came trickling back as I was driving Malcolm home from his first practice. And when he cheerfully told me he was the slowest kid on the team, I felt genuinely proud.

And as we drove by a cornfield, I though I heard a mysterious deep voice say something.

"Sucking at baseball brings fathers and sons together, too." 

With warmest regards,
Zach

Pimp to Live. Live to Pimp.

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco Song for March is called "This Library Isn't Big Enough." This song subverts and disrupts all of the norms. I'm having some problems uploading large files on the new Hard Taco site today. The link to the song still works, but the file is in Dropbox rather than the Hard Taco site. I hope to have this fixed within a few days, so we can all go back to propagating and engendering norms, rather than subverting and disrupting them.

Do I Pimp? Indeed, I do. I certainly don't engage in it every day, but I muster up a good pimping at least twice a week.

If you've ever been a medical student, or had to sit next to one on a long bus ride, you are familiar with this terminology. Pimping is when the teaching physician peppers you with questions to test your knowledge, usually in a public setting. Here's an example:

Med Student 1: Dr. Gelb likes to pimp people about tropical camel pox, so be sure to read up about that before you work with him.
Med Student 2: I'll have to read about it online. My pimp doesn't let me pay full price for textbooks.

(In this scenario, Med Student 2 is also an actual prostitute.)

No one has ever explained to me what pimping has to do with medical education. Exposing a student's ignorance of rote facts can be humiliating, but I fail to see the parallels with facilitating business for a sex worker and demanding a percentage of the earnings. True, doctors and pimps both wear shin-length coats, but one is white polyester and the other is exotic fur and purple velvet.  True also, the reflex hammer is the functional equivalent of the leopard glass pimp cane, but beyond that, there are few similarities. I predict that one of the two meanings of pimping will fall out of favor in the coming years, but which one?

Anyway, one of my most embarrassing moments as a medical student was a time I got a pimp question right.

I was on my obstetrics and gynecology rotation. It was my first true overnight call, and I was thoroughly uncomfortable with everything. In order to look busy, I spent the early evening going from room to room and asking pregnant women if they needed more ginger ale.

At some point, the attending obstetrician recognized that I was actively useless and told me to tag along with her. Unbeknown to me (or "unbeknownst to me" if you're reading this aloud at a Ren Faire), this attending was essentially a pack of flashcards with feet. Clearly, she had spent years elevating her pimping game to new levels of speed and monotony.

What is HELLP syndrome?
I'm not sure.

What is Chadwick's sign?
I've heard of that...

How do you calculate the amniotic fluid index?
The volume of the amniotic fluid divided by... I'm not sure.

What are the signs of ectopic pregnancy?
Um. Shouldn't I go see if the patient in 314 needs someone to top off her ginger ale?

I was batting 0.000. I literally knew none of the answers, and she just kept going. In the midst of this, we walked into a room where an expectant mother was actively pushing. The obstetrician put on a fresh pair of gloves and got down in the hoo hoo area to take a look. (As you can see, I truly learned nothing on my obstetrics rotation.)

Things were happening down there, but the obstetrician just kept pimping like she had rack of 24 karat teeth.

What are the three types of decelerations on a fetal heart monitor?
Mild? Is mild one of them?

Meanwhile, the miracle of birth was unfolding before us. The baby was crowning, the mom was clenching and hyperventilating, and her husband was standing off to the side with a video camera, clearly indecisive about where to point it. He kept going back and forth between her face and crotch, obviously aware that neither subject was really looking its best at that moment.

Finally, the obstetrician pulled the whole baby out, lifted it up, and said in a cheerful voice, "Okay, Dad, what is it?"

And before she could even flip the baby over to face them, I yelled, "It's a BOY!"

The obstetrician handed the baby to mom, looked at me and said between gritted teeth, "I was talking to him, Dumbfart." Except she didn't say fart.

To be fair, every sentence out of her mouth up until that point had a been a pimp question directed at me. And to be even more fair, "Okay, Dad, what is it" sounds a lot like "Okay, Zach, what is it," although the odds that she knew my first name were precisely zero.  Still, I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to get one right. I saw this baby before anyone else and I immediately recognized that it had a penis. I knew this one! I got this! In my mind, I was finally going to redeem myself for hours of ineptitude.

That baby is probably graduating from high school this year. I didn't stick around long enough to learn his name, so I'll address him as Boy.

Boy, I was there when you came into this world. Assuming your parents haven't shown you the video of your birth, let me play spoiler for a second time in your life. Here's what happens in that home movie: Your mom's face, your mom's crotch, your mom's face, your mom's crotch, lots of screaming, lots of swearing, lots of mucus, and a big popping sound. Some lady who looks like she should have a gold dollar sign necklace starts holding you up, Simba-style.

Then, in an extraordinary display of perception, a young stranger quickly synthesizes three years of intensive medical training, and loudly deduces a very compelling explanation for the appearance of your genitalia: You are a boy.

The obstetrician then deduces that he is a dumbfuck. End scene.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Boaters, Bowlers, and Berets

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for February is called, "Tribute to the Rhythm King." This song features two iconic pieces of colonial headgear... the Pith Helmet and the Giant Bone in the Hair.

Which gives us a nice segue to play a little game I like to call...

WHAT KIND OF HAT ARE YOU?

I know. The phrase, "a little game I like to call" has only ever been used for wicked purposes. But I can tell you're curious. Here's the deal. If I correctly guess what kind of hat you are, you have to listen to the new song.

Are you cone-shaped?
YES
  Do you kind of look like a cymbal?
  YES
    You are an Asian Rice Farmer Hat
  NO
    Are you stiff?
    YES
      Do you make your wearer look like an idiot?
      YES
        Do you have pictures of stars and moons?
        YES
          You are a Wizard's Hat
        NO
          When your wearer kisses a frog, does it turn into a dude?
          YES
            You are a Princess Hat
          NO
            You are a Dunce Cap
      NO
        No such hat exists. Start over.
    NO
      You strike joy into the hearts of... 
      ALL CHRISTIAN CHILDREN
        You are a Santa Cap
      A FEW WHITE CHRISTIAN CHILDREN
        You are a Klansman Hood
NO
  Which U.S. President looked like a total badass wearing you?
  Washington
    You are a Tricorne Hat
  Lincoln
    You are a Top Hat
  Teddy Roosevelt
    You are a Panama Hat
  Bush Jr.
    You are a Cowboy Hat
  Harrison/Ford (mixing presidents here)
    You are a Fedora
  NONE
    Are you meant to be thrown?
    YES
      Do you have a tassel?
      YES
        You are a Graduation Cap.
      NO
        You are Oddjob's deadly Bowler Cap from "Goldfinger."
    NO
      Do you have a propeller?
      YES
        You are a Beanie.
      NO, because the tail would get caught in it
        You are a Coonskin Cap.
      NO, because it might scratch the glass ceiling of the Popemobile
        You are a Miter.
      NO, because I am a Sombrero
        You are a Sombrero.
      NO, for any other reason
        Might you be seen in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace?
        YES
          Which of the following is most likely said while wearing you?
          "WHAT'S ALL THAT, THEN?"
             You are a British Constable Hat.
          "GOOD LUCK, GUV'NA!"
             You are a Chimney Sweep Hat.
          "ABSOBLOODYLUTELY."
             You are an Ascot Cap.
          (Nothing at all.) 
             You are a Big Black Furry Bearskin Queen's Guard Hat.
          "Dude, check this out. He won't talk! Hey Guard.... You suck!!!!" 
             You are a tourist's Philadelphia Phillies Baseball Cap.
        NO
          Does everyone who sees you want to rip you off and stomp on you?
          YES
            Do you have a brim? 
            YES
              You're an Enormous Kentucky Derby Hat. 
            NO
               You're a Toque (Chef's Hat)
          NO
            Do you actually exist?
            YES
              You're a Fez or a Hard Hat. (No other question can distinguish these)
            NO
              You're a Thinking Cap.

With warmest regards,
Zach

A Thousand Year Retrospective

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for January, "A Better Whatever," tries to capture the hope, insecurity, and spirit of personal growth of the new year. This has been an emotionally difficult year for many of us, punctuated by tragic, high-profile celebrity deaths. In fact, the last thousand years have been tough in that regard. Let's take a moment to remember...

Those We Lost in 1016:

• Ætheired the Unready. A whole generation remembers where they were when this quirky despot ordered the ill-advised St. Brice's Day Massacre.
• King Edmund Ironside. Best known for resisting the first invasion of Cnut the Great, Edmund dedicated his later years to social concerns, such as advocating for primae noctis. 
• Badis ibn Mansur. Yes, he was the third ruler of the Zirid dynasty, but those close to him remember him as the guy who loved his camels and oversaw the completion of the largest bazaar in Algiers. 

Speaking of camels, I believe many of you have had an opportunity to see Camelton, a three-song Hamilton parody that I recently posted on YouTube.




I know that throwing my hat onto the crowded hat rack of Hamilton parodies is a brazen move. I am not blind to the fact that every major late night show, YouTube star, and crappy a cappella group has already recorded a Hamilton parody. There are dozens about Donald Trump, Angela Merkel, Luke Skywalker, and at least one for every Jewish holiday. (You know that Jewish stereotype that we love writing song parodies? It's totally true. In many communities, it's a compulsory part of Bar Mitzvah prep.)

On top of all that, Hamilton author Lin-Manuel Miranda has written parodies of his own songs. That's awesome in the same way as Vincent Van Gogh using his first self-portrait as the model for his second self-portrait, ending up with this:

If you're a Hamilton fan, I guarantee that you will enjoy Camelton more than the any of those other offerings, because frankly, it is not about anything. It's simply an homage to the greatness of the original songs, paired with pictures of every animal on Earth. I also feel compelled to advertise that the flipping mayor of Ann Arbor plays the role of Aaron Bird. Ohio State beat us in football this year, but we will not concede they are the better program until the mayor of Columbus coughs up us his Hamilton parody.

Shortly after releasing Camelton, I also posted a playlist of 11 original Oompa Loompa song parodies.

As of this morning, each of the Camelton videos has more than 2500 YouTube views, while the Oompa Loompa videos average 1 view each, and that was me testing them.

I'm not the least bit disappointed, though. I know how these things work. There will be a resurgence of interest in these Oompa Loompa videos, along with anything else Gene Wilder-related, in late 3016. That, of course, is when someone publishes the next 1000-year retrospective of celebrity deaths.

With warmest regards,
Zach

The Most Hectares, Tonnes, and Foot-Pounds

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for December is called, "Call Guinness." It turns out, Guinness World Records has an online application, not a phone number.

Some years ago, Lauren and I spent an afternoon with friends making a short, mostly improvised movie called "Record Breaker." It was about a young man training to set the Guinness record for breaking the most LPs over his own head in one minute. The driving force behind this storyline was that I owned some old Supertramp albums that I was never going to listen to, and it seemed like a funny idea to smash them on camera.

We had nearly completed filming, when Lauren, in the role of a sports announcer, said, "And will he do it? Will he break the record for... breaking records?"

It was not until that very moment that we realized our entire plot line was based on a Dad joke. I promise you that we did not set out to create a story revolving around a pun, but we managed to do so anyway, and only by complete happenstance. I haven't figured out a way to to describe that moment to people in a way that expresses the gravity of that coincidence. Such improbable flukes should not exist, and when they do, they should be put into the record books.

One of my daughter's favorite books is a kid-friendly version of the Guinness Book of World Records. We were reading through it together, and I realized that it was basically like reading a book of MadLibs that someone had already filled out. Every page just said:

"The
(Adjective ending in -est)
(Noun)
 is
(Number)
(Units of measurement)."

The largest diamond is 3100 carats. The heaviest rutabaga is 85 pounds. The longest year is 1 leap year.

And we love it. Our brains are capable of being astounded by these strings of seemingly random words. Perhaps, using this format, we could write a best-seller that was nothing but randomly generated numbers, nouns, and adjectives.  Of course, the units and the noun would have to make sense with each other. You can't just write, "the sturdiest stepfather is 20 degrees Fahrenheit," or, "the damnedest diaphragm is 16 nautical miles." That book would set the record for fewest sales.

In the medical field, we are capable of being amazed, even in the absence of units. Try this. Walk up to a doctor or nurse and take take a close-up video of his or her face. Then say, "I saw a patient with a (laboratory study) of (number)."

I saw a patient with a creatinine of 14. I saw a patient with a haptoglobin of 0. I saw a patient with a sedimentation rate of 1000.

And you don't have to bother using units, because none of us know them, anyway.

Now play back the video in slo-mo. You will see the eyes bulging, the brows lifting, the lips parting slightly. The head will tilt backwards, and the medical professional will let out an astonished and satisfied gasp. This will sound like a sexy demon in slo-mo. Analysis of these facial expressions will reveal that the subject is deeply impressed by you and wants to be closer to you, no matter what it takes.

Okay, but what if you don't know any doctors, and you don't have a slo-mo video app on your phone? It's still possible to impress someone with a MadLib made from randomly generated numbers, but that someone has to be a 1st grader. Just crouch down next to that 6-year-old and say, "(number) (animals) in a row."Because the only thing that fascinates little kids more than animals is well-organized animals.

With warmest* regards,
Zach

* And I do mean the WARMEST. I will be submitting an application to Guinness online.

The Bear Cub Tilted Rectangle of 3rd Grade Achievement

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for November is called, "Not That Kind of Boy." This song is too short for radio, and you're too short for modeling. We'll both get over it.

Malcolm is now in his third year of Cub Scouts, and is working towards earning the Bear Cub Tilted Rectangle of 3rd Grade Achievement. So far, he has fulfilled several of the requirements, including: Meet a Fireman, Whittle Something, and Make a Skit About Meeting a Fireman.  I've been flipping through the Bear Handbook, and it looks like he's on pace to earn the following badges by the end of the school year:

Badge of High Merit - Formerly called "Badge of Participation." Granted to any scout who shows up for the Awards Ceremony. The name change reflects Boy Scouts of American's deep commitment to fostering dignity and self-esteem in all dues-paying humans.

Leave No Trace - Protect the delicate ecosystem of the forest by burying the hitchhiker at least 200 feet from natural water sources, campsites, and trails.

Outdoor Ethics Awareness - Draft a Living Will for a loved one while sitting around a campfire.

Herbalism - Rub leaves between your fingers until you find one that smells vaguely like cinnamon.

Rich Grandparents - Sell over $500 of popcorn without going door-to-door.

Take Only Pictures, Leave Only Footprints - Promote responsible use of outdoor recreational spaces.

Take Pictures and Footprints - Investigate a crime scene.

Take My Picture and Leave With My Footprint - Kick the ass of a paparazzo.

Cub Whisperer - Trap a real tiger, wolf, or bear cub and train it to sit still during the flag ceremony

Pocketknife Safety - Use the white plastic cafeteria knife to cut your pepperoni Hot Pocket and let some of the steam out so you don't burn your tongue when you bite into it.

Bear Necessities - Learn how to read a thermometer (temperature), a barometer (atmospheric pressure), a sphygmomanometer (blood pressure), a mass spectrometer (miscellaneous science) and an infernometer (Hell.)

Gender Dysphoria - Earn any three of the Girl Scout badges discussed in this previous HT Digest.

Bear's Courage - Spend a night in that spooky abandoned condo where the nursing student's Homeowner's Association dues mysteriously vanished in the 1970s.

I Think They Have a Kid About Your Age - Go with your mother to visit some old college friends of hers who she hasn't seen in twenty years.

Duty to God - Cub scouts is for everyone! You certainly don't have to be Christian to pitch a tent! Many of us know a Jewish or Muslim person because we are tolerant! As long as those people exercise their faith according to the traditions of their ancestors and develop a close personal relationship with Jesus or the equivalent, they are welcome in BSA! No atheists or agnostics, please.

Baden-Powell Emblem - Named for Boy Scouts founder Robert Baden-Powell, a Lieutenant-General in the 2nd Boer War, this coveted distinction goes to any Cub Scout who suppresses a Zulu uprising.

With warmest regards,
Zach

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