A Letter to the Netflix Algorithm about its Category Options

31. December 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , ,

Dear Netflix Algorithm,

I’m a Netflix subscriber, and as the father to a four-month-old, let me just say, thank you for existing. Nonetheless, my wife and I have noticed that sometimes your descriptions get a little too specific. For instance, I just looked at my Netflix category recommendations and one of the options read “Dark TV Dramas Featuring a Strong Female Lead.”

My wife and I call these Netflix Names. With a film genre, a few descriptive words and a little effort, you can make a Netflix Name for pretty much anyone or anything.

For instance, if I were a movie, you’d probably describe me as a “goofy Minnesotan comedy from the early 1980s.” If I were in a Netflix queue, I’d probably be right next to other goofy Minnesota-related comedies such as Mighty Ducks (terrible!) and Grumpy Old Men (great!).

Here are a couple improvised examples using some of your keywords:

A “family-friendly animated comedy about a monkey?”

That’s probably Curious George.

A “steamy controversial romance about forbidden love and horses?”

That’s bestiality.

While I don’t know the exact way you establish your category titles, you have to admit, those are pretty odd.

Anyway, my wife and I stream Netflix on our Wii, and we tend to watch somewhat different shows. I watch guilty pleasures like Star Trek: the Next Generation; she watches shows like Say Yes to the Dress or Grey’s Anatomy. So our Netflix recommendations are somewhat hit-or-miss to begin with.

Unfortunately, it gets worse. My niece (and her mom, my sister) occasionally visit, and when they do, they watch Netflix with us. My two-year-old niece likes to watch Dora the Explorer!, and her mom likes to occasionally watch period pieces about the United Kingdom such as Downtown Abbey and The Tudors.

Consequently, your service has recently recommended a rather incongruous lineup of selections, including Hellraiser III; Pride and Prejudice; Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta and Dora the Explorer!

When you put that all together, you get the Netflix recommendations of a crazy person. The only person I can imagine watching all of those selections back to back is some sort of serial killer. He’d probably start with Hellraiser to get psyched up, find his victim at a bridal store, strangle her with a corset like one Elizabeth Bennett might wear, and then stuff the evidence into a Dora backpack while fleeing the scene and shouting elementary Spanish phrases like La familia! and ¡Vamonos!

Finally, I have to admit that I wish that Netflix didn’t have such a good memory. On the occasional Saturday night when I’m the only person awake and I don’t feel like reading, I’ll skim Netflix for something to watch. If I’ve had a beer or two, I’m usually a bit more open to your suggestions. So I’ll watch one of the Tales from the Crypt movies you recently added, or I’ll watch an old Twilight Zone episode.

Unfortunately, this affects my future recommendations, and this can be a bit embarrassing when we have guests over, as you sometimes suggest some terrible options based on my late-night Netflix flings.

For instance, just because I indulged in a guilty pleasure like Hellraiser—once!—it doesn’t mean that you ever need to inform me about the existence of a movie like Thankskilling, which you recently recommended.

For the record, your description of that fine film reads: On their way home for Thanksgiving, five college kids run afoul of a homicidal turkey and must find a way to defeat the bird before they all die.

Similarly, please never suggest anything like Cheerleader Massacre; Invasion of the Bee Girls (tagline: They’ll love the life right out of your body!) or Santa’s Slay ever again.

Still, despite your faults, we enjoy your service a great deal, so thank you.

Let me know what you think, and take care,

Brett Ortler

Letter #9 to Oliver | Subject: Smiling, Turkeys, Smiling Turkeys

16. December 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , ,

Dear Oliver,

As you may know, we celebrated your one-month birthday two weeks ago. We made you a cupcake with the fraction “1/12th” on it. Then we ate it. You didn’t get to have any. I’m sorry, but those are the rules. Forever. Maybe when you’re older—15, say—we’ll give you a little taste of frosting. Probably not. You see, your mother and I really like cakes, cupcakes, pie, and most other pastries. (Shepherd’s Pie is false advertising, NEVER TRY IT.)

Anyway, when you’re 18, you can go buy your own cake. Of course, I’m kidding, you’ll get to have some soon enough. Next month, we’re going to make you another cupcake, but with the simplified fraction 1/6 on it. We’re going to continue in this fashion until your actual birthday; we think it’ll make for some fun pictures. OK, OK, it’s just an excuse for us to eat a lot of cupcakes, accidentally make a “mistake” when writing with the frosting, eat the defective cupcake, and start over on another unblemished one, whereby the process continues. (As of this writing, I weigh 798 pounds.)

We’re also excited to celebrate your Pi Day (3.14159265359 years after your birth). I should clarify.  By “we,” I mean, “I”. Your mom thinks I’m a bit of a loon. Anyway, we’ll be celebrating it on Tuesday, September 8, 2015, so mark your calendar. Your future self might consider this too nerdy; however, given that you will be three and won’t have much to contribute to the issue, we’re making the call for you. (Plus, you only get one Pi day.)

In addition to your one-month birthday, you graced us with your first smile. As you may know, it’s pretty hard to tell when an infant is smiling at first, as babies make a funny face called a “gas smile.” I don’t know why they do this exactly, but it looks like the little one is smirking, sort of like if he or she were doing an impression of the Mona Lisa. (Come to think of it: This probably says more about the background of the painting than I care to know.)

Anyway, for a few weeks, every time you had the slightest facial expression your mother and I would immediately begin our newest infant-related game: Is it mirth or flatulence?

At first, it was all gas smiles, but then one day there was no question about it. You were grinning like we gave you a gondola full of gummy bears. (Trust me: that would be good.) Since then, smiling has been a daily occurrence, and I can usually get you to smile, though you like to make me work for them.

You especially like it when I make turkey-like noises. Since then, it has sounded like Thanksgiving at our household. Of course, you were only impressed by the standard turkey impression for so long, so I had to improvise. Now there’s the crying turkey, the laughing turkey, the turkey taking up yodeling. I’m working on the German turkey. (It is a turkey that yells a lot.)

In addition to smiling, you’re also growing. You’re now pushing 12 pounds (you’re probably over that, actually), and you sometimes down seven to eight ounces of breastmilk in a sitting. Then you belch like a biker.

In fact, you’ve grown so much that you no longer fit into the newborn clothes or the 0-3 month size. I don’t know if a Big and Tall-type clothing store for babies exists, but we’ll probably have to start looking.

Anyway, you’re currently dozing off next to me, (and snoring), and your mother and I are about to put you in your bassinet, so I’d better go.

Still can’t believe it’s been six weeks already.

With love,

 

Dad (and Mom)

Letter #8 to Oliver: Subject: Eagles, Toys, Robots, Books, the Olympics

16. December 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , ,

Dear Oliver

So it’s already been two weeks since you’ve been born! I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner; your mother and I have been quite busy at home with you, and it’s been an absolute blast.

Anyway, I’m happy to report that you reached two major milestones yesterday: You played with your first toy, and your umbilical stump fell off, so you now officially have a belly button!

First, let’s talk about your belly button. It’s an innie, and after realizing it was there, we immediately pressed it, but sadly, nothing happened. Kayli and I had hoped that if we pushed it perhaps something good (cake or pie maybe) would appear, but alas, that was not the case. (Our own belly buttons remain stubbornly inoperable.) This belly button setback notwithstanding, we remain convinced that someday a belly button will live up to its potential.

You also played with your first toy yesterday. It is a rabbit toy, and like all rabbits, it is slightly terrifying. I don’t know why people think rabbits are cute. They have oversized teeth, they’re smelly, and they reproduce far too quickly. In this respect, they are like certain patrons at the local Walmart.

Not only did you play with your first toy, we also read you your first book last week. As I need to dig out a bunch of my children’s books, I went out and bought you a bunch of them, including some standards, Curious George, Babar, The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, and a whole bunch of others. You now have your own bookshelf, which we plan on adding to in short order.

I purchased one book—Edward the Emu—based on the title alone. As you might expect, it is about an Emu. (He lives in a zoo.) We read it to you, but every time I said “emu,” you cried. We took this as a sign that you didn’t like the book. As a sign of solidarity, your mother and I both pledged to try to find, and eat, emu-on-a-stick at the upcoming Minnesota State Fair.

Right now, however, things are emu-free and you are more content. You are currently sleeping on a pillow next to me. You are lying on your back with your hands straight up into the air. I think you are either having a dream about being arrested or you are practicing to be a football referee.

Your mother is sitting here, too, and we’re all watching the 2012 Summer Olympics, which are being held in London. The Olympics have been a lot of fun to watch, though your mother and I think we would be better commentators than many of the folks that NBC has hired. (They all seem like pretentious jerks.)

Your mother, and I, however, would have more unorthodox comments. For instance, while discussing the dominance of the U.S. and Australia in swimming, we agreed that the U.S. is good likely because we are pretty wealthy and have access to lots of pools. I mentioned that Australia is probably good because they have the ocean to swim in; your mother looked at me, shook her head, and said, “No, Brett. It’s the sharks. Their swimmers are good because they are chased by sharks.”

Your mother and I also agree that the medals could be improved. As I understand it, the actual medals themselves aren’t actually as advertised—gold and silver medals are both mostly silver, but the bronze medals are actually bronze.

If we’re not going to go with the actual metals, let’s get a little more creative. We think it’d be great if the gold medal were an oversized version of one of those chocolates covered in gold foil. The silver medal could be a Peppermint Patty, and the bronze medal could actually be bronze, but we think it’d be great if the third-place finishers didn’t know it wasn’t candy before they bite into it. That’s what they get for placing third.

Finally, you might be wondering what your first few weeks of life were like.

The best way I can put it is: living with a newborn is like living with a tiny frat boy: they sleep all day, they’re obsessed with breasts, and they’re practically guaranteed to puke on you three to four times a week.

With that said, it’s been an absolute blast. We both wish we could simply stay home with you all the time. (I already had to go back to work. It was pretty hard.)

As a sign of our how much we like you, your mother and I have already given you a bunch of nicknames. The most popular ones right now are:

 

Ollie McGolly

Sir Wigglington

OllieBollie

Fuss-Fuss-McGus (when you are fussy)

You haven’t been awake all that much, but you are a hungry little guy. And when you want food, you want it now. You make this abundantly clear because your fingernails are like little eagle talons. And when you’re crabby, you’re even more aquiline: you make a bunch of squeaky bird-like noises and dig in your claws into whatever—or whoever—is nearby. I am covered in scratches.

When you cry, you waive your arms around like the Robot from the TV show Lost in Space. You probably don’t have the slightest clue what I mean. Let me explain: It featured a robot that waived his arms around a lot whenever he sensed danger and said “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!”

I suppose he doesn’t seem like a very impressive robot to you. You live in the future, and you probably have robot friends. For all I know, we may even have a robot President.

In any event, I’ll try to keep up with the letters, so you can have an idea of what your early days were like.

With love,

 

Dad (and Mom)

 

 

 

 

Putting My Wife for Sale on Craigslist in Honor of Traditional Marriage

07. September 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

In honor of traditional marriage, I am putting my wife up for sale.

Let me explain: in the upcoming election, Minnesota voters will be deciding whether to prohibit same-sex couples from marrying. A ‘yes’ vote will permanently ban same-sex marriages, enshrining that position in the Minnesota Constitution. A ‘no’ vote would ensure marriage equality for gays and lesbians.

Many of the proponents of the amendment have argued that a ‘yes’ vote will help defend “traditional marriage.”

Well, I’ve done my homework, and I have to admit, they have been very convincing. I had no idea how many types of traditional marriage there were. I assume that since one type of traditional marriage is allowed, the others are too. That’s great news!

To be honest, when I learned about traditional marriage, I felt duped!

In my current marriage, all my wife does is work a full-time job, love our little infant (and me) unconditionally in a committed relationship, and act as my closest confidante and best friend. Clearly, THAT IS NOT TRADITIONAL ENOUGH. When I got married to my wife back in 2008 2010 (doh!), I hadn’t even considered my other marriage options!

As I now know, for most of history, wives were chattel, a form of property. This was even codified in the Ten Commandments in the Bible, a book the defenders of traditional marriage refer to often.

The tenth commandment makes this clear:

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house [his property] thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife [property], nor his manservant, nor his maidservant [slaves, equivalent to property], nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s. [property, biological property/donkey, all other property]

*[Annotations obviously mine.]

This couldn’t be clearer.  Your neighbor’s wife is clearly viewed as property, as they are lumped in with all their other stuff (their house, their slaves, their cat., etc.)

This wife-as-property idea wasn’t an exception, either. It was the rule! (More than that, a commandment!) The moral of that story is clear: You shouldn’t covet your neighbor’s wife because she is not your possession.

So now that I know my wife is my possession, I imagine putting her up for sale is no problem. So while I wait for offers to pour in (I imagine there will be a robust market for her), now I can to get to the fun part: Considering the other traditional marriages.

There are so many options. I mean, do I want to have one stable wife-relationship but with boatloads of concubines? Do I want to go all Henry the Eighth (minus the obesity and executions) and trade my old wife in every twenty-five minutes? Do I want to be a polygamist? (No, too much work.)

Obviously, the concubine option is alluring. Multiple partners without all the gravitas of the “until death do us part” nonsense. I can just see it now: a new partner every few months, no guilt, it will be like college all over again!

And this idea has such a history. I mean, it was practiced by the likes of Abraham and Solomon. Abraham—that guy was the patriarch of the big three monotheistic religions! Judaism, Christianity and Islam all look up to him! So if he did it, why can’t I?

And don’t get me started on Solomon. He had 700 wives and 300 concubines. And while that didn’t turn great for him (moral of the story: You should never have 1000 women simultaneously in your life), it was more a matter of degree, and not a problem with concubinage generally. (Also: Concubine is a funny word. It sounds like some sort of hat. Or a seashell. Concubinage sounds like a disease.)

So now that I’m considering acquiring concubines, I don’t know to start. Is there some sort of concubine store? I guess I could go down to an adult store like Sex World, but the last time I was there (in high school), I don’t recall see any women for sale.  Instead there were just a lot of DVDs and all sorts of battery-powered equipment and what appeared to be miniature jackhammers. It looked like a creepy hardware store.

Hmm. I just searched online, and didn’t find any concubines for sale. Is concubinary a hush-hush sort of thing? Given popular culture, it doesn’t seem like it. (Jersey Shore is about concubines, right?)

Anyway, maybe I need to establish an advertisement seeking a concubine, too. That’s what the “casual encounters” section is for on Craigslist, yes?

Wait, after re-reading through all this, now I’m confused. If traditional marriage varies so much—and clearly it has—then what’s the difference between a man marrying have a dozen women, or marrying one and sleeping with a bunch on the side, and a pair of men in a committed relationship getting married or a woman and another woman tying the knot.

In the end, the biblically sanctioned notions of traditional marriage seem a lot wackier—and more socially pernicious—than what I would call real traditional marriage: two people, irrespective of their gender, committing to each other for life.

That’s why I’m voting no on the Marriage Amendment in Minnesota (and similar bills elsewhere) and encourage you to do the same.

Oh, and one quick note to my wife: I love you, honey. Sorry for putting you on sale on Craigslist.

 

Proof that Math is Cool

15. July 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , ,

Proof that Math is Cool.

NOTICE OF EVICTION (for Oliver)

13. July 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Note: Our first son, Oliver, is due July 20, 2012, but my wife and I would like him to be get here sooner rather than later, as we really want to meet him. (Also, the 100-degree heat-indices have been no fun for her at all.) We’ve attempted to communicate this to him in many ways (speaking, light signals, semaphore) but we’ve received no response. To that end, we have decided to serve him with somewhat fanciful eviction papers.

NOTICE OF EVICTION (for a fetus), with amendments/explanations

LANDLORD(S): Kayli Schaaf, Mother and Brett Ortler, Father

Address: Your mother’s womb

City State Zip: Wherever your mother is; usually somewhere in east-central Minnesota

Phone: Your mother’s womb has no phone, but it does have an umbilical cord that could theoretically function as one. Anyway, given that fetuses can be startled by loud noises, we know you can hear our repeated attempts to encourage you to enter the world.

TENANT:

Name: Oliver William Ortler

Address/City State Zip/Phone: We have already discussed this, see above.

District Court Summary Ejectment Case Number: 00000001. (Also, ejectment is an awful, awful word.)

TENANT:

The sheriff (your father wearing a sheriff’s hat) is scheduled to evict you on July 20, 2010 2012, your due date.

The eviction will take place on the date named above unless you either:

1. Move out of the property and return control of the property (your mother’s uterus region, in addition to secondary aspects of the property: her hormones, her bladder, her personality, etc.) to the landlord;

or

2. Pay and Stay. The tenant has the right to pay the amount ordered by the Court (your mother) in the warrant of restitution to the landlord to stop the eviction. However, the Court would really like to go through with the eviction, so to dissuade you from paying this amount, the Court hereby demands 100 trillion American dollars, 65 rubies, an 8” x 5” platinum dinosaur and 120 boxes of Little Debbie Snacks. Your father demands an aircraft carrier full of wooly mammoths. The Court also demands as much ice cream as you can possibly purchase with your remaining funds. The tenant has the right to pay the redemption amount to the landlord (your mother) or landlord’s agent (your father) in cash, certified check, money order, or Skittles-brand candy at any time before actual execution of the eviction order. (Note: Placentas, umbilical cords and/or amniotic fluid will NOT be accepted in lieu of payment because that would be very gross.)

Addendum: As an additional incentive for you to leave the premises, we will actually pay you to come into the world. We have already prepared (1) a place for you to stay, your accommodations have (2) many toys, (3) many adorable outfits, (4) two pet dogs and two pet cats, (so you don’t even have to beg us to get you one) and we have also notified our friends and family about your imminent arrival, so you already have your own entourage. Addendum to the Addendum: Once you make your grand appearance in the world, your schedule will likely be booked up for some time; your grandparents are already reserving weekend babysitting time slots months in advance. Once you are born, we recommend you immediately hire an executive assistant.

On the day of eviction, the payment shall be made to the landlord or landlord’s agent in the presence of the Sheriff to stop the eviction.

Warning:

Once the sheriff begins the eviction, any personal property that you leave in the leased premises is considered abandoned. The tenant does not have any right to re-enter the property or re-claim any property after the eviction begins.

Addendum: Please pay special attention to that last part. You may not, however much you liked the womb, attempt to re-enter the “property.” That would undoubtedly scar the entire family for life.

Any abandoned property may be disposed of by the landlord at any time after the eviction begins. The landlord is strictly prohibited from putting the abandoned property in the street, the sidewalk, alleys, or any public property.

Addendum: We will most certainly dispose of any abandoned property, because anyone who wants to keep a placenta hanging around (literally) is more than a bit off. We certainly promise not to deposit it in the street, where people would probably mistake it for some sort of deceased jellyfish.

This is the final notice of the date of the eviction that you will receive, even if the eviction date is postponed by the sheriff or the court or due to medical necessity.

AFFIDAVIT OF POSTING: I hereby certify that I posted a completed copy of the above notice on the premises (Kayli’s stomach) described above on 7/12/2012.

 

Printed Name: __________________    Signature: ___________________ Date: ___________

 

An Imagined Cosmology-Themed Issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine

10. July 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

 

 

A Funny Letter to the Higgs-Boson

04. July 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A Funny Letter to the Higgs-Boson

Dear Higgs Boson:

As I’m sure you’re aware, you were recently discovered by the folks at the Large Hadron Collider. So, now that we’ve found you, my first question is a bit obvious: You’re a hermit, right? If so, do you live in some sort of particle shack?

Anyway, given your hermitage, I bet you’ve missed out on a lot of the news. First and foremost, the media somewhat inexplicably dubbed you “the god particle.” Scientists tried to correct them and say that you were important, but not that important. I mean, it’s not like that you’re flying around and bringing things into existence on a Genesis-like schedule. (You’re not, right?)

The journalists ran with it, so now the scientists just cringe when they hear it. I’m not a scientist, but I agree that the “god particle” is a really silly name. It’s not like there weren’t other options. I mean, if they wanted to stick with the religious metaphors, maybe the media could call you the Blessed Pope John Paul II particle or the Very Reverend Higgs-Boson.

Given that you’re a pop-culture phenomenon already (you have your own iPhone game), I think we should give you a rap name instead. Here are a few options I came up with:

H.I.G.

H-Boson and His Crew of 125.3 gigaelectron volts

BigHiggy

The Dawg Particle

Needless to say, the “god particle” name has to go. What if we discover some particle more befitting of the name—say, a bearded world-creating particle—when the LHC eventually revs up to full power? I know that’s not particularly likely, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one to inform the deity particle that its proper name is already taken. Two words: Particle wrath.

By the way, I’m sure the PR people at CERN are pretty darn careful about their spelling. After all, one wouldn’t want to refer to the Large Hardon Collider. That sounds like a terrible, terrible project. And painful. (Yes, that joke was off-color, but it had to be made. When such jokes present themselves like that, you have to take it. Just like free cake.)

Dirty jokes aside: Higgs, you probably missed all the hilarious drama about the whole LHC facility to begin with. Long story short: A couple of know-nothings sued in an attempt to prevent the Large Hadron Collider from commencing operation. They made a number of wild accusations, most notably that the LHC would create “strangelets” or “micro black holes” that would lead to the destruction of the planet.

The funny part is, in their legal brief they said the following about the particle collisions at the LHC: Various competing theories of physics predict various outcomes from these collisions, with no agreement amongst physicists as to what the outcome will be.

Almost immediately after this, they make a number of very, very specific claims about what could happen. Their argument is, in effect: Stop the LHC because we don’t know that it won’t cause these really bad things to happen.

Higgs, if this is the standard of proof necessary to stop a scientific experiment, we’re in trouble. After all, it’s not impossible that the LHC could produce other equally improbable (but good!) results: onions that don’t taste awful (I hate onions), porcupines that give pain-free hugs, or pop songs with meaningful, thoughtful lyrics. So I say, we must keep the Higgs going because it might produce these awesome, but wholly improbable, results.
Clearly, Higgs, one needs evidence to substantiate one’s claims, and fear alone is not evidence. While the plaintiffs had a very basic point—we don’t know what’ll happen!—it wasn’t the point they thought. While there are certainly competing theories about subatomic physics, that’s exactly the reason the LHC was built in the first place: to figure some of this stuff out.

Besides, we have a pretty good idea what we are doing. We’ve been smashing atoms for decades, and higher-energy collisions happen all the time in outer space. If they did create micro black holes or strangelets, you think we’d notice.

Not surprisingly, the silly lawsuit was thrown out post-haste. (My favorite part was that they filed their suit in Hawaii, though the LHC is located in France/Switzerland. That’s like suing Mexico to get the Canadians to stop playing hockey.)

Anyway, now that you’re discovered: Welcome! We look forward to getting to know all about you.

Take care,

Brett Ortler

 

 

Letter #7 to My Future Son; Subject: Astro-Nurseries, X-Ray Vision, Pickle-related Humor, Ice Cream and Bears

17. June 2012 · 1 comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Dear Oliver,

Well, I haven’t written as often as I would have liked, as we’ve been pretty busy lately. You’ll be happy to know that we completed your astro-nursery last week, and we’re getting the remaining items in place for your arrival.

When we completed the nursery, I gave you the tour, but since you are still inside your mom, you probably couldn’t see much, unless you have x-ray vision. If you have x-ray vision, please don’t use it to judge my physique. I’m not exactly proud of it at this moment. While I have managed to stay in relatively good shape, your mother and I have gained some weight. This is often referred to as “sympathy weight,” but I think it should be referred to as “the inevitable caloric outcome that arises when one consumes an absolutely staggering amount of ice cream in the space of nine months.”

You see, your mother has been eating fairly healthy food during your development, but if she has one weakness, it is ice cream. We have had ice cream of all varieties: malts, milkshakes, sundaes, Dairy Queen cakes (the giant birthday kind as well as the smaller log-shaped ones), ice cream sandwiches, and even some gelato. (Gelato, by the way, is the Italian word for “expensive.”)

Most of ice cream has come from Dairy Queen, an establishment I view with a combination of trepidation and desire. Desire, of course, because their ice cream concoctions are absolutely delicious; trepidation, because I have a rough idea of the many miles I’ll have to run to get back into good shape after you’re born.

In fact, I am thinking of writing Dairy Queen a letter and asking them to make a line of products specifically for pregnant women.

Some of those product names could be fun. You could have Sondaes, Third Trimester Toffee Treats, maybe Dirty Diaper Dilly Bars. (OK, that last one was kind of gross, but I couldn’t help myself.)

Speaking of Dairy Queen, a piece of advice: On the rare and lovely occasions when we get a Dairy Queen Cake in the house, never try to steal your mother’s portion of the chocolatey/fudge part at the center of the cake. I once made the mistake of trying to do this, and she tried to stab me with a fork. That was when she wasn’t pregnant. I’m pretty sure if I tried that now, I’d end up a quadruple amputee.

Since we’re speaking about food and pregnant women: a quick note. Despite all that you’ll hear to the contrary, in my experience, pregnant women do not crave pickles. That is a myth. They certainly do not like hearing jokes about pickles, either. Anytime someone mentions these alleged pickle cravings, your mother becomes visibly upset. I’m fairly confident that if such a would-be pickle wit continued with the cucumber-related comedy, your mother would attack.

This is unlike your mother. Unless she is watching the Vikings lose, your mother is not a violent person. Nevertheless, she is pregnant. That means she’s constantly hungry, pretty much always in pain, and jacked up on hormones like you wouldn’t believe. In this respect, she is like a mama bear. (Of course, she doesn’t have fur, claws, or weigh 800 pounds. Still, you get the point.)

Moreover, her motivations are decidedly ursine. As the bear expert Lynn Rogers said, the lives of bears “are ruled by fear and food, in that order.” If I were to get hit by an ice cream truck and were trapped beneath it, I have no doubt she would spring into action, lifting it off of me in one monumental move. Then she would eat all of the ice cream inside it, and if she were still hungry and we were in a post-apocalyptic scenario where cannibalism was more socially acceptable, perhaps the driver as well.

Of course, I’m joking about that last part, but watching the whole process has been quite surprising, and your mom has gone through a lot of trouble to hatch you. I therefore think it’d be nice if your first words were “thank you”; when you say it, you should say it directly at your mom.

Your first words to me could perhaps be “DINOSAURS!” or “Fire the photon torpedoes, PEW PEW PEW” or something similarly awesome. (OK, I realize that you’ll likely start with one-syllable words, but a father can dream, right?)
I can’t wait to meet you, little dude.

Take care,

Dad

 

 

A Zany Letter to the Mars Science Laboratory/Curiosity Rover

07. June 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Dear Mars Science Laboratory/Curiosity Rover,

It’s been fun to follow your Twitter feed and Facebook posts, and I’m pretty stoked for your landing in August.

My favorite part of your mission is the ChemCam, as I’m rather interested in the geology/chemistry of the planet (I’m a rock geek). Oh, who am I kidding, I’m really just excited that you’ll be carrying a laser(!) and will be vaporizing rocks on another planet.

I can’t believe I just typed that. It’s incredibly awesome. It’s a pretty good thing that I’m not in charge of the rover. I’d probably just drive around blowing stuff up. It’d be like a Sylvester Stallone movie. By the time I was done there wouldn’t be much left of the planet.

If I may ask, does the person who is in charge of the ChemCam laser have a special title? If not, they deserve one immediately. After all, they have the coolest job imaginable. Not only do they get to work for NASA, they also get to vaporize things on another planet on behalf of NASA and all mankind.

Of course, there’s only one suitable nickname for the operator of a laser on Mars: Marvin. An important question: can the laser operator do a good Marvin the Martian impression? If so, when they fire the laser for the first time, they should do so while doing a Marvin the Martian impression. You should record this and post it online. This would be huge on Twitter, I’m sure.

If they don’t do a good Marvin impression, mine is passable. I’d be happy to record an MP3 for them to use, either for that or for their ring tone/entrance music to a room.

Speaking of music, maybe you can resolve a dispute for me. My father and I often chat about space missions, as we’re both fans of astronomy, and I mentioned the other day that the Opportunity Rover has driven over 21 miles on Mars. He immediately said, “Well that’s a long time to be alone, I bet it’s humming as it’s driving along.”

While we both agree that this is likely, we disagree what it’d be humming. He thinks it opts for the dramatic: Strauss’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra from 2001 or Gustav Holt’s oh-so-appropriate Mars: Bringer of War. Given that the Mer Rover is relatively small, the size of a golf cart, that seems a little dramatic. That’s sort of like blasting heavy metal as you tool around in a Geo Metro.

I bet the rover is humming along to something more playful, like the “Manama” song from the Muppets or the theme to Super Mario Brothers. Which do you think is more likely?

Finally, I wish you the best of luck with the landing. I know landing on a different planet is a pretty tricky business, and I know you’re trying out the new landing approach—the sky crane. (By the way, that sounds a lot like a professional wrestling move.)

I hope all goes well and look forward to your dispatches from the Red Planet.

Take Care,

Brett Ortler

 

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