Admittedly, this is a seemingly trivial problem, as are all the related problems I discuss subsequently, but it drives me certifiably bat-shit crazy, notwithstanding. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that the following problems, though seemingly unrelated, are in fact constitutive of a profound and irremediable flaw in the deepest foundations, ideologically and psychologically, of knowledge-based late / 21st-century capitalist economies. OK … enough preamble … this is my problem …
o You know those bottles of, e.g., hand soap and skin lotion you buy that have bottle caps that double as pump mechanisms?
Initially, in their right-off-the-shelf condition, those bottles’ pump mechanisms are all locked down to prevent accidental or inadvertent pumping-out of the contents. Quite reasonab
As a chef, I am a great garage mechanic.
For two reasons ... First, I have a very simple palate: I am very much a meat-and-potatoes guy. When I find a very simple combination that I like, e.g., meat loaf and mac and cheese, I tend to stick with it. I am not prone to experimentation: if it ain't broke don't fix it. My palate is about as sophisticated as that of the android in the first Terminator movie … and about as ravenous. Secondly, I am clumsy in the kitchen in terms of handling pots, pans, dishes, knives, etc. … basically any cooking implement. I break stuff. Listening to me in the kitchen – spare yourself the sickening spectacle of actually watching – is much like I imagine hearing the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Except not as graceful. Nevertheless, my wife and I enjoy wa
Several weeks ago, as this “Skeptic’s Column” column is written (14 Jan), I came down over the weekend with my usual annual case of the “cruds”: stuffy nose, scratchy throat, sinus drainage, etc., etc. No fever, but inside my head, I could hear the wheezing, especially as I lay in bed at night. It sounded like a gunny-sack filled with cats being tortured. (Apologies to cat lovers. I am one. But it sounded like it sounded. So sue me.) Worst of all, I could only log perhaps 2 hours sleep per night. The tortured-cat symphony kept me awake.
So next morning, I hauled my sleep-deprived, zombie-ized, bleary-eyed, Walking Dead carcass into one of those walk-in clinics a couple miles from my house. (My wife drove the car. I did not trust myself.) The doctor on duty took my temp and