Pluto Ain't my Baby Daddy

Pluto got two checks and a firm kick out the door this week with no severance, no handshake - no nothin'. Sorry little buddy, but we just can't have poser planets taking 154 hours to orbit the sun in our elite Solar System - we're more uppity than the membership at Augusta National. It's been a nice run, and we've been avoiding the problem for years, but eventually shit had to hit the Kuiper Belt.

It must suck for those poor folks on Pluto. They already have to work 51 hour days and suffer through temperatures of -200 degrees Celsius and now those arrogant geeks on Earth with their nice temperate climate and nifty pocket protectors are calling Pluto a lolely "dwarf planet", as if small-man's syndrome and being named after a Disney character isn't punishment enough. Let's just change it's name to Sleepy and turn it into a full-on mockery. Hell, why don't we just go ahead and start calling Ceres and UB 313 planets. That should ruffle a few more of Pluto's icy feathers (I guess Pluto's a dog though).

I would have loved to be sitting at the round table of the International Astronomical Union meeting when "Pluto's Planetary Status" came up on the meeting agenda right between "Black holes: Are we believing this crap?" and "Does Steven Hawking's wheelchair really talk?" I can almost feel the uncomfortable meter rising at the speed of light squared (and that's F-in fast).

"Geez Jim, I don't know how to put this but Pluto's - well, just not cutting it. It sits out there with it's weird little orbit with all that other junky space matter. I say we nix it."

"What the frick Gustovo? Who do you think you are? Albert MF-in' Einstein?"

"I would never compare myself to the Great One, but Pluto's been pissing me off since that quack in Arizona discovered the damn thing."

"So what now, we make a recall of all the Solar System mobiles in the World? Just because Pluto isn't your favorite planet. How would you like to be the third grade teacher explaining this to kids who wake up every day perfectly happy with the fact that there are nine planets? I should have known, you've always been such a Neptune guy."

"Listen Jimbo, if it were up to you, you'd have every moon, asteroid, and space station showing up on the Solar System mobile. The mobile would be half the size of the classroom. And by the way, Mars is and always will be my favorite planet."

And then there were eight.


Give John Poole some cosmic mumbo jumbo at poolejohn@gmail.com

Mr. Rogers and eye fungus

When a much more creepy version of Mr. Rogers confessed last week to killing JonBenet Ramsey I immediately got excited about crafting a blog that would brilliantly debunk his confessions and effectively call bullshit on a wanna-be murderer. However, only a few days after the arrest, its almost common knowledge that this guy is no more of a killer than his good buddy Big Bird. So now it is not even worth an entire posting on this idiot - it's only worth half. He already has all the media attention and celebrity status he so strongly desired (not to mention king prawns and champagne) and I guess he'll now have half my blog - but that's it.

The first and most compelling reason why Mr. Rogers is a liar is that Patsy Ramsey killed JonBenet and I even doubt she had an accomplice, but if she did, it sure as hell wasn't Mr. Rogers. There are already inconsistencies in the story of this idiot. And apparently he forgot about his ex-wife who says she was with him during Christmas 1996. That damn ex-wife will get ya every time. He claims that the death was an accident - an accident that involved a brutal beating and strangulation with some rope and paintbrush contraption. And as if there needs to be any more reason to call bullshit here, the handwriting in the ransom note was not a match for Mr. Rogers, but not so surprisingly did match that of Patsy Ramsey. So Mr. Rogers needs to go back to Sesame Street and hang out with Big Bird. But just to be safe - keep the little kids away, far away.

Now that Mr. Koo-Koo has gotten more than enough ink time, it's on to more pertinent topics - like why my right eye hurts so much. I blame it entirely on the use of contact lenses. Since I got these majical eyesight aides about year and a half ago, we've never really gotten along. The thought of sticking a squishy piece of plastic in my eye was (and still is) less appealing to me than being gouged with a pitchfork. However, I persevered. I spent hours (ok minutes) in front of the mirror every day messing with these things that made me see clearly without the other kids calling me four-eyes (almost worth it).

My disgust for the removal and insertion of contact lenses bred shear laziness on my part. That's right, it's the lens' fault - not mine. I started leaving my contacts in for days at a time, and sometimes weeks. Is this why my eye hurts? Or maybe it's because I'm certain that I've lost at least a half dozen lenses in my eye. These damn things roll behind my eyeball and are then lost forever. I'm hoping one day they will all pop out and I can return them to Accuvue for a full refund. That would be an interesting conversation in the least.

To top my experience with improved eyesight off, I had to choose the contact solution from Renu that was recently recalled for evidence of causing eye fungus that leads to irreversible blindness. The wonders of modern medicine are so fantastic.

While this posting resembles a Quentin Tarantino film (minus the vampires), I remain uncertain whether I have too much plastic in my head, eye fungus, or just a big piece of dirt on my cornea. However, I maintain certainty that the Ramsey case is still unsolved.


Give John Poole some false confessions or some weird optical ailment at poolejohn@gmail.com

It's Still a Buick

As a result of my vicious burglary last weekend (yes, I'm still talking about it) I went out and got myself a new laptop. These keys are so beautiful to punch - it's like riding in one of those Volkswagen SUVs that isn't really an SUV. Actually, I've never been in one of those but they look pretty cool. And I bet the ride is luxurious.

Anyway, it's amazing where technology has gone in the past few years - it moves faster than relationships of single people in their mid-thirties (gulp). But I'm not going to talk about technology (or relationships), although I did briefly consider both. I'm going to discuss why I chose the laptop I did. I can hear your collective sigh of relief (and excitement) with my choice of topic, so why don't we get started? Or better yet - why did I buy this laptop?

And the answer is.......because it was cheap. That's right folks, alert the presses, price was the reason in an American's choice to buy a product. I got my ass out of bed at 9 am on a Sunday! I stormed down to Best Buy and pounded on those automatic sliding doors until they called the police. No seriously, I was one of the first people there to get my hands on a product that was marked down 10%. It's amazing what motivates people.

I can see why money plays a part in decisions. To most people money is extremely valuable. However, I've noticed that folks often use other, less obvious reasons for buying things. This often used decision making criteria is the reason for Tiger Woods making $87 million in 2005. A staggering $78 million of Mr. Woods' 2005 earnings was from endorsements, not playing golf. Through contracts with Nike, American Express, Accenture, Buick, EA Sports, Golf Digest, NetJets, TAG Heuer, TLC Laser Eye Centers, Upper Deck, Yahoo Sports and TV Asahi (some Japanese TV station) Tiger is the world's highest paid athlete and will eventually become the first billion dollar athlete. And this is all because we use the mentality of, "Well, if Tiger does it.....".

As far as records can tell, the first use of celebrity endorsements dates back to 1893 when British actress Lillie Langtry showed up on packages of Pears Soap. I would even consider throwing Aunt Jemima into the mix of pioneer celebrity endorsers, but she didn't really exist. Whether it's Lillie Langtry, Aunt Jemima, or Bob Dole (he looks happy at least), celebrity endorsement has always been and always will be a pretty damn good way to pimp your product. But why?

Why do people use this perverse and asinine method of decision making? Are we just getting dumber? I guess I can see someone talking themselves into the fact that they'll play golf as good as Tiger if they play the same clubs or hit the same ball, but certainly not because they wear the same shirt or use the same credit card. And I can assure you that Tiger would not be caught dead driving a frickin' Buick. I admire the fact that Buick is trying to shake their "80 something" image, but c'mon, it's a Buick!

There are all kinds of sociology and economics studies on why consumers react so favorably to celebrity endorsement, but any conclusions researchers come to don't seem overly acceptable in my mind. But as usual, I have no credible answers. I think it could be because people think success in one part of life gives you instant credibility in another - like what car to buy.

Though the reasoning for this phenomenon is up for heated debate, there is little dispute about the benefits of celebrity endorsement. However, a cheap laptop will get me out of bed every time.

Sign a multi-million dollar endorsement deal with John Poole at poolejohn@gmail.com

Patty and Me

I’ve often thought and written about the inherent differences between big cities and small town USA. I find the differences fascinating and the reasoning people use when deciding to live in one or the other equally as interesting. I’ve often taken the stance that the liveliness and camaraderie of a city is difficult to beat, especially as a single person. I’ve wondered why people would leave the culture and variety of city life and willingly place themselves in rural America. This past weekend opened my eyes to one of the downsides to living in Urban USA.

I often go to Denver on weekends to enjoy the lively social life (and affordable golf) of the city. I worked a deal with a friend where I could stay in the spare room of a duplex house in which he is living while the owner is overseas. It’s really a perfect situation for me for I can enjoy the benefits of the city and mountains at the same time. Though my perfection complex may be slightly at play here, I undoubtedly enjoy the flexibility a place in Denver provides.

On Saturday night I arrived back at the “crash pad” after attending a barbeque in the city. While expecting to find a place exactly as I left it, I arrived at a ransacked apartment. My laptop was taken along with an overnight bag and a cool shirt I just bought (ok, it was pink, so maybe they did me a favor). However, the burglars were kind enough to leave the biography of Ben Franklin. Apparently, history of Colonial America icons was of little interest to them. I’m sure the Avon library is thankful of this.

While violent crime is statistically low in Denver, break-ins are quite common. I’m certainly not saying that crime is non-existent in smaller towns in this country, but it is undoubtedly more common in larger metropolitan areas.

If you’ve never been burgled, I have to tell you that the overwhelming feeling is unexplainable (or is it inexplicable?). Regardless of the proper adjective, I cannot begin to describe the feeling of violation and panic associated with this discovery. After the initial shock of the situation died down my thoughts turned toward recreating the event and I soon began feeling sorry for the poor son of a bitch/sons of bitches that jacked our stuff. As I looked at the clothes, boxes and pictures strewn about the apartment I felt the nervousness and nearly debilitating anxiety the burgler(s) felt as they rushed through their amateur operation searching frantically for valuables. I saw them tossing boxes off shelves and throwing any potential valuables in my bag I used so many times for weekend trips. I thought about their constant worry of someone returning home while their crime was being performed. I could never put myself under the kind of stress that this particular petty thief put upon himself/herself. (Honestly, it had to be a he, chicks don’t do this kind of stuff; they have too much empathy).

The police put immediate blame on Mexican Nationals. This was obviously overly presumptuous, but when you deal with this stuff every day, I suppose it is easy to stereotype. I thought about what it would be like being a possibly illegal immigrant doing virtual slave labor for less than minimum wage. Their less fortunate situation may liberate their mind thus allowing them to justify the burglary of some unassuming white guys in Denver. I can’t really blame them. They certainly feel like they’re getting the short end of the stick and a little shakedown of some “overly privileged” folks is not too disturbing to them. I think I am suffering from a very small case of an amazing psychological phenomenon where victims of crimes (typically abductions) begin to empathize with their new acquaintance(s).

This phenomenon is referred to as the Stockholm Syndrome coined after a prison escapee took hostages while robbing a Stockholm bank. The hostages bonded strongly with their captor and later criticized their rescuers. The most famous occurrence of the Stockholm Syndrome was when a millionaire’s daughter Patty Hearst was abducted and assaulted by a group called the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA). Young Patty was later photographed with an assault rifle while aiding the SLA during a bank robbery. Patty later confessed that the abduction and assaults amazingly contributed to her alliance to the cause of the SLA.

While Patty Hearst is among the most extreme of examples of the Stockholm Syndrome, the phenomenon occurs regularly in the behavior of battered women that display strange loyalty toward their abusive partners. They often feel grateful that their abuser is sparing their life rather than angry for being abused. What a weird deal.

Perhaps Patty Hearst and I have less in common than I am leading one to believe, but empathy was the last emotion I was expecting to feel during my moments of post burglary.

Whether I was suffering from the Stockholm Syndrome or not, I’m sure as hell no longer going to leave a fan propping up the window of my bedroom - especially in urban America.


Give John Poole some sympathy at poolejohn@gmail.com