I’ve Been Oxygenated

Just got back from a victorious hockey tournament in Manchester Vermont. That’s right. Vermont. And you thought all they had up there was cows and Ben & Jerry’s. Well they play hockey too.

One of the sponsors of the event was Aqua Boost Oxygented Spring Water, and there were boxes of the stuff for us to try, and try we did. The label says “Contains up to 10 times more oxygen than normal water.” We discussed this a bit in the locker room, pondering the chemical structure of this “super water”. Is it more H2O2 than H2O? Or H2O squared?



Here’s how they describe their product; “Water drawn from the spring, and through a unique process enriched with up to 100 times more oxygen than conventional water. Serves as a natural energy drink. Highly approved by Wal Mart Mexico, and opening the US market.” Ooohh, highy approved by Mexico? Sa-weet.

It may be the most plentiful substance on Earth, but lately bottled water is the most lucrative substance in the beverage industry, with worldwide sales exceeding $20 billion with over 900 brands of water to choose from.

For the record, Aqua Bost is delicious, and since we kicked ass all four games, can’t doubt it’s rejuvenate properties. On the other hand, the teams we beat were drinking the same stuff, so why didn’t it turn them into superhumans like it did to us?

But the claim that water can be a source of extra oxygen - in particular for athletes - has been has been questioned because, on physiological grounds, oxygen can only enter the body via the lungs, and is transported in the blood bound to hemoglobin or dissolved in the plasma. Or something like that.

Tests conducted by watchdog groups showed that not only did the oxygenated waters contain less dissolved oxygen than claimed, there did not appear to be any affect on the subjects' resting heart rate, blood pressure or blood lactate values. Doh!

Most health professionals agree that we need water. It regulates the body’s temperature, cushions and protects vital organs, and aids the digestive system. So far, modern science just hasn’t found there is very little reason to choose bottled water over tap water.

Unless you’re in Mexico. Then grab an Aqua Boost. Hola!

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When You're Happy And You Know It

A study by Leicester University ranks 178 countries using health, wealth and education as yardsticks of overall happiness. The US ranked 23rd, which I think is horseshiite. Icelanders are happier than us? They live in a frozen wasteland!



In fact, many of the more frozen lands did really well in the poll. There must be something about frostbite and joy, maybe the "huddle for warmth" thing? As a survival method, it's just safer to sleep with someone else. I could get with that.

I would think Japan would have fared better - they always seem like a cheerful bunch, don't they? Same with the Italians. It looks so peaceful and serene on TV. Especially Tuscany. I still want to get over there one day, despite the piss poor ranking.

Glad to see Ireland scored so well, and those Canadians appear to be content as well. I've always known that hockey can improve your attitude, just didn't realize it had such an effect.

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Curious George

If you think about it, we're all just one misunderstanding away from oblivion.

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Turns Out It's A Small World After All

I tried to go for a few bike rides during the vaca, get away from the semi-chaos of the little cousins and the lure of the cooler full of beer. Oh yeah, and for the workout. I always could use one of those.

So I pedaled my bike along a tree-lined, 5 mile route to the serene little town of Northville. It really looks like a scene from something Norman Rockwell painted, with a touch of redneck thrown in for extra color.

I rested on a bench at the "big intersection" in town (no traffic light, but it was still hoppin) and watched a pair of Honda Goldwing bikes roll up, then turn around and then come over to my side of the road.

The lead biker lifted his visor and asked, "You from here?"

If I had a loonie (sorry, a dollar) for every time someone had asked me THAT question growing up. I lived in a resort town and was forever being harassed by people for directions, always starting with that question. As you may have read in a few previous posts, I tended to give very wrong directions to tourists. It's out of habit, pure and simple.

"What cha lookin fer?" I drawled, hoping it sounded like a local dialect.

"Any campgrounds around here?" His French-Canadian accent leaped out and smacked me on the face. Hmmm. A Canadian, eh? Still, I couldn't help myself.

"Sure thing." I pointed the way he had just came and gave directions to a house we had rented 2 years back.

"Hmm. Just came from that way. Must have missed it." he said.

"Down from Quebec?" I asked.

"Montreal." he said.

"Oh yeah? I play in a hockey tourneyment up there every August, in Pierrefonds."

"The Russel Hockey Tourneyment?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Turned out he plays in that one as well. Turned out he knew me and my brother from the tourney. Turned out we were drinking buddies from Cheers last August. Small freaking world.

We bullshitted for a while then I said, "Hang on." I trotted over to the gas station and asked the attendant where a campground was. I came back and passed the info on. "You might want to try it first, before the other place."

See, I can be a good person. Sometimes. But don't get used to it.

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Not Believeing in Pirates, Anymore

I'm not back yet. I'm blogging from the remote vacation rental located deep in the heart of darkness.

The only reason I'm searching is because I'm a little stir crazy. It's raining today, the first rain day in a week of great weather, but I've read all the books I brought, and cleaned everyone out in poker so they won't play with me anymore, so I'm bored. Then I noticed this old pc sitting in the corner, revved it up to find it needed a power-on password. The owner, bless his heart, hid it in the most obvious of places, the back of the keyboard. Just where an old help desk hand like me would search. Now I'm surfing the internet at a blazing 44000 bps. Scorching! So good, in fact, that my email won't load.

So about the pirates. We are at the Great Sacandaga Lake, which 100 years ago was a quiet river that was dammed up to provide a resevoir and a control for the mighty Hudson River. The area is not as built up as Lake George, just 60 miles to the East. Not as many idiots from New Jersey driving V8 speedboats past your dock at 7am, scaring you into thinking a Hercules Transport plane is making a landing nearby.

At the south end is a small island called Sand Island. No houses or anything, just sand and trees. It's nice because you can glide your boat right up to shore, no rocks to worry about. People raft together and it's a friendly part atmosphere.

My son Dan loves the place, because he has a thing for sand. He could play in it all day, every day. Last time we took the kids there, we made a fake treasure map and hid a small chest and they had fun running around finding the clues and eventually the chest, which contained a can of soup. The kids got a kick out of the whole thing, especially the thought that they were making off with the pirates soup. We had planned another hunt for this year, but the rain last month put the water 4 feet higher than normal levels, and the island was hit hard. Lots of trees down, etc. You can still tie up and hang out, but a big treasuure hunt was off. We let the kids in on this by having them find a message in a bottle basically saying the pirates had to move because of the rising water.

Dan was dejected by this, and last night as we cruised around the island on an after dinner boat ride, he stated, "Pirates don't exist. They're only actors." He had seen the ads on tv for the Pirates of the Carribean movie, and that plus the lack of real pirates on his favorite island, let to this claim. I tried in vain to convince him that there are real pirates out there, attacking ships off Africa, etc, but he wouldn't hear of it. Six year olds can be hard to reason with.

So I guess next summer when we come back, I need to rent a swashbuckler outfit and sell the kid on the whole pirate thing. Which could be fun.

Postcards from the Edge

I am Tran Su, personal private executive secretary to Mr. Shamus.

Mr. Shamus asked me to post some pictures of his vacation here. He will be back in a week.

I miss his attentive, stern direction which guides me through this turbulent life.

He only hits me because he cares.




Mr. Shamus loves to read.
His tutor, Ms. Stephanie, thinks he may be ready to tackle non-picture books soon!




He also went sport fishing with his fraternity brother Chet.
They seem a little too close, but this is not my culture.





Square Dancing is an O'Drunkahan Family vacation staple.
All the yelling and bossing around reminds Mr. Shamus of his warm childhood.




Chicken fights always follow square dancing. It's just the way it is.
Did you know Mr. Shamus shops exclusively at the GAP? Now you do.




"Houston, we have thumbs up for vacation!"

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That's Burgundy, not Red

I sold my Burgundy Grand Am the other day. I put 179,000 miles on it since I got it in 1998, and she was a champ of a car. She carried me to over 280 hockey games. 7 trips to Montreal. 53 trips to Boston. 1 trip to Binghamton. I'm not talking about Binghamton.

Over the 8 years, I figure I made over 2400 trips between my house and Albany. I went through 4 sets of tires, 2 mufflers and 1 serpentine belt.

The kids called it the Red Race Car, even though it was only a 4 banger and technically burgundy (as in Ron Burgundy). They had a turbo button on the back of the seat, and when they pushed it, the pedal would go to the floor and they would be pushed back in their seats as the car roared to an impressive 55 miles per hour. Kids are easy to impress.

When I got my new wheels, the red race car was put up for sale. The ad didn't even make it into this weeks printing of the Want-Ad Digest before somebody rolled by and bought it without even driving it! Now that says a lot for my waxing talents. All they cared about was did the A/C work. Yeah, I mean, who gives a crap if the car actually moves? As long as you can sit in comfort.
So on the day of the big sale, they show up with a fist full of hundred dollar bills (they smelt freshly minted, but passed the UV light test). The man was rail thin and had a pack of Marlboro cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. The woman was large-boned and had her dark hair yanked back, which kind of stretched her face to the sides. She also appeared to be missing a few of her ivory food munchers. The front ones.

Since they hadn't drove the car, I felt obliged to fill them in on the recent maintenance work, and items that might be due in the next 6 months. I offered the service records, but they balked t the large manilla folder of papers. "That's ok." said the Marlboro man. Not a fan of folders, I guess.

I had the papers all laid out in my anal-retentive format, the information on them pre-filled so all they had to do was sign. I went through and said, "Sign here, and here..." sounding like a bank loan person, which caused the woman to look over at me and asked, "Are you some kind of lawyer?"

I gazed back at her gap-toothed visage and shook my head. "I'm no kind of lawyer. " I almost added, "But I have friends and relatives who are lawyers, if that counts."

When people referred to my car as "red" I always corrected them. "It's burgundy." That's the color on the title. Red is a chick color, and a a red grand am is a chick car. Watching the happy couple drive off in my old car I have to admit, it did look kind of red.

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Opportunity Knocks

Sometimes a good practical joke just drops in your lap, like a spilled coffee. You leap up and exclaim, "Damn that's hot!" or something like that. Well, I do, anyways. Other people react appropriately and politely. Here are a few examples of lost and found opportunities.

While driving in a co-workers car, she got a call on her cell phone. She answered it and a female voice rambled on for 2 minutes explaining why she was late for work. The polite coworker asked what number she was trying to call. "Isn't this McDonlads?" she asked. No, and the call wasn't cancelled. I couldn't resist berating that co-worker at the lost opportunity. "You could have had some FUN with that call!" I exclaimed.

Another co-worker was telling me just the other day that he received a voice mail from a doctors office, confirming an appointment. The only problem, it was for somebody else. He didn't know the person, but he looked up his extension and called him to pass on the information. My first thought was passing on a fake message from the doctor. Is that mean? Probably. Is it funny? Damn straight.

Here's how I take hold of these opportunities:

One lazy Saturday the phone rang and I picked it up. The caller launched into a tirade about how badly her newspaper delivery service had been recently, and how she wanted a refund. How could I resist?
"Who is your carrier?" I asked.
"Charlie Watts." she answered.
"Oh, Charlie." I said. "Yeah, he's going through a rough time." I proceeded to tell her about how Charlie's family was lost on a hiking trip in Canada. "They wandered off the trail and apparently met with a pack of hungry polar bears. Those bears ate everything but the plastic buckles on the backpacks."
The complainer was quiet for a moment, then said quietly, "I didn't know."
"Ok, well have a nice day." I said, signing off.

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Ferry Boy

The Darwin Awards, if you are unfamiliar, is a commendation to the people who strive to prove that Charles Darwin was right when he talked about "survival of the fittest" in his theory of Natural Selection. It's kind of a celebration of those people who show that they are eliminating themselves from the gene pool by their own stupidity. Meaning they did something stupid and died as a result.

This guy came close to being a candidate for the Darwin Awards. It takes some explaining, because the news article assumes you know the geography and situation they are referring to, and you may not.

There are a ton of small islands off the coast British Columbia. Ferry boats service these places, buzzing between them like busses. These are relatively small boats, maybe holding 30-40 cars. Then there are the BIG ferries, which go from the mainland to the large Island (Vancouver
Island), and don't make the small stops along the way.

Well, this dude missed his "local" ferry, so he took the "express" and was going to jump off it when passing by his Island. Now, we're not talking calm water here. Where he jumped, it's accurately called "Active Pass" because it's a very narrow waterway, lots of rocks and crazy currents coming into play. The water churns like a daiquiri in a blender all day, and boats of all sizes need to be wicked careful making passage.

There is amazing diving in there, but it's so dangerous due to boat traffic and currents that the coast guard will yank you out if the catch you in there. A swimmer would have very little chance of surviving in that water, especially after jumping from a ferry, which are pretty large boats.

As the article says; "Leggatt likened it to a leap from a fast-moving, three-storey building."

Not to mention the fact that you have a very good chance of getting caught up in the huge propellers that are pushing that 3 story building through the water.

The best part, in my mind, was the fact that after all that, he missed the game anyways.

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Match-Head Baseball

Ed Rooney: I don't trust this kid any further than I can throw him.
Grace: Well, with your bad knee Ed, you shouldn't throw anybody... Its true.
Ed Rooney: What is so dangerous about a character like Ferris Bueller is he gives good kids bad ideas.
Grace: Mmm-hmm.
Ed Rooney: Last thing I need at this point in my career is fifteen hundred Ferris Bueller disciples running around these halls. He jeopardizes my ability to effectivley govern this student body.
Grace: Well, makes you look like an ass is what he does, Ed.

From Ferris Bueller's Day Off


I've given good kids bad ideas. I've also given bad kids good ideas. You can decide which one goes with this story.

My 3 cousins from New Jersey were visiting, I think it was Easter. The grown-ups were downstairs talking about "The Last Temptation of Christ" or something like that, and we were upstairs hanging in my crib.

I'm not sure how it came up, but I told them about a funny thing we had done at school, the match-head baseball. Basically, it was aluminum foil, and you rip off a square. Then, cut the heads off some wooden matches, and place them in the foil. Then roll it up, and throw it. When it hits, the friction sets off the match heads and it smokes.

They laughed at the story of me and my college buddies hitting a few of these baseballs with a bat into the freshman dorm, which stunk up their rooms. We were using golf-ball sized bombs, so the results were minimal, yet effective.

Flash forward eight months to Christmas time. Again I'm hanging with the cousins, this time in New Jersey at their house. We're in the tv room and an ad comes on about "First Alert Fire Alarms". My cousin Mark turns around and says, "Yeah, good thing we had one of those or else Brian would have burned down the house with your baseball bomb."

Huh? How did it get to be "my" baseball bomb? I asked for the details and soon the tv was forgotten as the story unfolded.

As the long summer dragged on, Brian recalled my story of the match-head baseball. On a rainy July day, he set to work building his own version. He cut up several boxes of match heads, and when he was done, he had a softball-sized bomb. Talk about improving on an idea.

Then he made his big mistake. It was drizzling rain outside, so Brian figured why not set it off in the garage (garage doors opened, of course). So, he went out and threw it on the ground. A fireball shot out a few feet tall (I'd never seen that reaction before, but I hadn't done one that
big before either).

The smoke was thick, prevalent and stinky. Brian ran into the house and closed the door, but the stink made it's way in and was soon thick throughout the house. When his parents got home hours later, the smell was still there, and the parents were understandably concerned. By
concerned I mean they gave him a good whooping and grounded him for a few months,
or something like that.

Under the pressure of the questioning, he gave up my name as the source of the idea, which I understand was the card he often played when the crap was coming down and he needed to deflect it a little. My Uncle and Aunt never mentioned it to me, but when I unwrapped a Princeton sweatshirt that faintly smelled of sulphur, the next morning, I wasn't surprised.

Brian had way better adventures not linked to me, from "borrowed" cars to picking up the date of an Uncle at a wedding, and maybe one day I'll get his nod to tell a few.

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Ka-Boom

Nothing heralds the coming of July 4th like the boom of fireworks in the warm summer air, and the increase of news stories about people who blew themselves up playing with fireworks. Here in NY, we are deprived of the basic human right of fireworks, and are forced to drive to neighboring states that believe in the right to bear bottle rockets, like PA or New Hampshire.

And drive we do. Well, not me personally. I was busy this year, but I know a few folks who made the trek to far off states to get the boom booms. My brother in law hoofed it to New Hamshire (7 hour round trip) and came back with a truckload of fireworks. He set them off Saturday night and the quality was as good as any professional show, just at a lower-altitude.

All weekend there were pops, bangs and the occasional BOOM of neighbors lighting off gunpowder gems. Sunday I heard a few very loud booms, but saw no display in the sky to go with it. The source of these reverberations were revealed yesterday at a cookout, where my bro-in-law told me about his neighbor who had the ultimate firework - acetylene.

Acetylene is a fairly dangerous substance. It is unstable upon contact with oxygen (air). His neighbor has an acetylene welding torch, which he attaches to a hefty garbage bag. He fills the bag and ties it off. Then he sprays *something flammable* from the bag in a line 10 feet away. He tosses a match and runs, the fire snakes to the bag and it explodes in a thundering fireball of green bits of plastic and flame.

The boom is sonic. I live 10 miles away and I heard it, and it was distinctive. It wasn't a shotgun blast, it wasn't dynamite. It's friggin impressive.

See, if they made fireworks readily available, we wouldn't need to resort to these kinds of things for entertainment. We'd light off a few Roman candles and burning schoolhouses and that would be that. But no, because a few kids blow off their fingers holding Black Cats a few seconds too long, we have to ignite garbage bags of dangerous gases to get our jollies.

On a related note, this was a news article about the power of acetylene.

By the way, do I have to say don't try this at home? Well I did anyways. Especially if my cousin Brian is reading this. He almost burnt down his parents house after he copied my design of the "match-head baseball". I'll save that story for another day. Like Friday.

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Shamus The Builder

As the blog title indicates, I do have issues. Not as many as I used to have, but there's still plenty out there. This entry is about that, and the reason I'm saying this up front is because the issue is ME, not the poor people who get caught in mental crossfire.

I really enjoy building things. As a kid, I built tree houses. When I got my own house and land, I built all the usual things, a shed, a wooden swing set climbing thing, finished my basement, built a deck, and put up 2 above ground pools. I find the manual labor therapeutic, the time passes quickly, and I usually don't hurt myself too badly.

My issue is that every project I start get's hijacked. I have very helpful in-laws, and they swoop in like an Amish building party to lend a hand. Inevitably though, they end up running the project, and the satisfaction and fun of the project goes out the window. Sometimes without opening the window first, so there is a big crashing sound as it happens. And lots of broken glass.

I feel bad about this, because they are great people, and the advice and help they offer is excellent. They know what they're doing, and especially her Dad who has tons of experience with construction projects. Sometimes I screw something up, and I don't mind re-doing it. But I guess what I mind is not having the control over the project. This issue turned into a big fight with my wife, who doesn't understand why I don't appreciate the help. I couldn't explain it - it's not that I don't appreciate it, it's just that I feel like I never get a chance to do this stuff on my own. Some things you need help with - I can't turn into the Hulk and lift a 150 lb beam into place, for example - but I don't get the chance to ask for the help, so there is a loss of control as they show up and take over.

I bring this up because this weekend I started a new project. I'm adding a new section of deck between the existing deck and the pool. I drew up a plan, got the lumber and in 2 days (well, 8 hours work) the deck structure was in place. The whole time I'm working on it, I keep thinking "I hope I get this done before they find out..." Saturday afternoon was a family event and I did not mention my current project to anyone. I felt kind of bad, but I'll feel worse if I don't get to do this little project on my own.

I know, don't say it. I have issues.

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