Hereditary Misanthropy

My son's sandcastle is in ruins -- Constantinople after the Fourth Crusade. His "friends" succeeded the sack, deaf to his wails for mercy.

I can only look on with apathetic anticipation, knowing that eventually the tide would have done -- wholly apathetic itself -- what his peers' malice accelerated.

I shouldn't allow the symbolism to move me this way. But that doesn't stop me. My son is back at the house now, demanding another encore of some animated distraction or another.

I'm busy down at the beach, rebuilding the noble crenellations and mighty parapets of his sandcastle by twilight, as the tide tiptoes closer.

Fun Friday Poetry

On my last tax return, in the field where the IRS asked me to list my current occupation, I filled in "Steamboat Co-captain". The previous year it was "Freelance Breast-Density Analyst", and the year before that it was "Licensed Poet".

To be honest, though, I'm a lousy poet, and most everything I come up with is based on various rhymes for "Nantucket". A very good friend of mine, on the other hand, has a bard's soul in spades. Writing as "Jefferson T." and inspired by the film For Liberty, this poetic prose was sent to me titled For Wyatt:

The End is coming. We don't know exactly when it will be, but one thing is for certain: We will not forget what you did.

As for our children, they will be starving. They will have no shoes, but they will know Prudence. They will know hardship. And they will know Fortitude. To our children, we will confess our sins, without saying a word. And they will know Temperance.

And we will tell them about The Revolution. And they will know success. And they will know Justice.

And the next generation will carve your name into the trees. And they will know why.

My thanks to Jefferson T. for the contribution.

"Greener Pasture" Exposed After Three Years to be Just a Fenced-In Quarter-Acre of Cow Shit

As a retired superpowered crimefighter, the bulk of my income comes from appearance fees and action-figure royalties. For the last three years, however, I have allowed my vast fortune to marinate in myriad investment portfolios, and I have subsisted on the mortal salary from a desk job.

The work was high-level stuff – lots of widgets to be built, each requiring a minimum of four conference calls and a WebEx – but clearly beneath me. So on Wednesday I gave notice and set sights on the next opportunity. But instead of a clean break (the norm in this industry for proprietary reasons), the office lumberg convinced me to stick around for three days to pitch in on an ongoing project without telling anyone on the team that I have quit.

Under normal circumstances, I am a patient man. But the poor unaware souls around me continue trying to put long-term responsibilities under the substantial girth of my vocational umbrella, and my gag order prevents me from letting them know they will have to reassign these duties within a matter of days. It seems a poor way to manage transition, but as Grand Ole Opry diva Jan Howard said, “That’s not my problem anymore.”

Work without consequence is beyond boring. To quote noted philosopher Howard “Biff” Tannen (c. 1955), I’m ready to "make like a tree, and get outta here.”

Why is Wealth Always Wasted on the Driven and Motivated?

I dreamt I had money.

And not just money, but money. It was two hundred yards of immaculate bluegrass from the lakeshore to my whitewashed chair on a whitewashed deck between white oaks and an avalanche of kudzu, and a humid breeze evaporated the traces of grapefruit juice and Bookers on my top lip. There was nothing to pull me away – no meeting, no timeclock, no errand – and if the notion took me, I could have lethargessed in that chair for a month.

And that’s exactly why – outside of a dream – I will likely never find myself in that chair. An interviewer once reportedly asked Warren Buffett why he wasn’t content to stop at, say, a billion dollars and spend the rest of his life relaxing. Buffett tersely replied that anyone who aspired to stop working didn’t have it in them to ever become wealthy in the first place. I’m despondently certain he’s right.

Given the means and the time, I wouldn’t collect cars or finance films or tend topiaries, so there are no secret clues to what my destined vocation really is. Given the means and the time, I would sit in the sun and read for days on end. That’s it. And don’t tell me I’d get bored. Like the midlife salesman who swallows his fury every time someone tells him "Oh, I enjoy traveling! I think I’d like that!", equally complete is my dismissal of the limits of my languidness.

In a literal sense, of course money can’t buy happiness. But it can buy a functional copy of The Great Gatsby*, a whitewashed chair, and two hundred yards of immaculate lakefront bluegrass. Explain to me the difference.

*Yes, I get the irony.

From Hell's Heart, I Blog at Thee

I don’t have much time.

For the last month I have been held captive in some sort of highly-secured windowless cell. I am perpetually blindfolded, but based on the sickening odors, I have deduced that I am either downwind of a dysenteric Tibetan yak farm or somewhere in Detroit.

I cajoled a guard into allowing me to use his iPhone by promising him I could copy over all the contacts stuck on his old phone, so I only have time for a quick post and maybe three hands of Party Poker.

Do not forsake me, my Scotticus Finch acolytes. Like the heroic Balloon Boy, I will inevitably pop up inexplicably close to where you last saw me, none the worse for wear, and just as misanthropic as you remembered.

Mostly, I can’t wait to escape so I can finally find out what ingenious plan British Petroleum and President Obama implemented to quickly and efficiently stop that silly little oil leak in the Gulf. Remember that? What a slightly inconvenient nuisance that must have been for a few fish in the immediate area and absolutely no one else on Earth. USA! USA! USA!

More than One in 3,921,568 Americans Visited this Blog in March

The obsequious team of semi-competent Scotticus Finch interns put together some information about the site's March 2010 traffic.  (That was the first full month during which we employed fancy-schmancy analytic software.)  The interns shall be rewarded with an extra ration of Bakon; the rest of you will be rewarded with the cold, hard numbers.

In March, the site delighted the senses of 102 unique visitors who generated 745 total page-views.

Twenty-four curious souls meandered over from a Facebook plug; nine drove by on their way to Hit & Run; two stumbled in from a comment on Consuming Louisville (Looks like a lovely little town!); and two sought refuge from the Über-Troll Urkobold (don't ask).

Of the sixty-eight Googlers who found us, twenty-seven used some combination of the following search terms: owl city, firefly, terrible. One visitor somehow came over by Googling the phrase "bubba the punch sponge", though independent experimentation has failed to recreate this anomaly.

Disappointingly, out of 745 page-views in thirty-one days, only twenty-four visitors clicked on any of the ads in the upper-left corner. We here at Scotticus Finch would never violate the Terms of Service by encouraging people to click the ads. We would also never remind you how much baby formula costs.

(Gross revenue for the month of March: $5.73. Booyah!)

Many sincere thanks to those of you who frequent the site, especially those who have been around since the austere (and a bit odd) beginning. Some exciting changes are in the works for the upcoming months, so stay tuned!

Snarky Before it Was Cool -- Scotticus Talks to God in 2004

In a stunning display of laziness and general contempt for my reader(s), I am going to reprint an op-ed that originally ran in my hometown newspaper in April 2004. The only part that feels especially dated is the John Cusack fawning, but remember that prior to 2004, one could still appreciate the High Fidelity, Grosse Pointe Blank, Pushing Tin, Say Anything Cusack without knowing that those of us in the distant future would have to endure the Must Love Dogs, Martian Child, War Inc, 2012 Cusack.

Speaking of Cusack, join me in our very own Hot Tub Time Machine:

Dear God: it’s me, Scotticus. First off, I want to thank you for so many things -– springtime, basketball, The Sopranos, John Cusack movies -– so as not to seem overly critical. As for Earth, I love what you’ve done with the place. Your sense for drama is absolutely Scorsese-esque, especially that bit with Saddam Hussein coming out of the spider-hole with his Lyle Lovett hair and Jim Belushi demeanor:

"I wish to negotiate." Classic.

Having said that, I’ve got some pretty serious clergy-stumpers that I’d feel much better having answers to. For instance, I saw Mel Gibson’s new movie about your kid, and it got me to thinking: that was your kid. Yeah, yeah, "part God" and all, but if I have my theology right, when Deus Jr. was on the cross –- bleeding, bruised, broken -– he was flesh, blood, scooped-him-up-when-he-fell-off-his-bike human. So from there I began to wonder, was that really justice?

The way I learned it in Vacation Bible School, Jesus had to die in my place because he was perfect. For me to die wouldn’t have paid even the interest on my debt, having once lied to my mom about drawing on the furniture with permanent markers, so you called in a Holy Ringer. That’s where the logic gets muddy to me. Why am I absolved through the breaking and destruction of the only perfect human you ever made? In which part of your wonderful universe is that just?

If I saw a man murder my family, I wouldn’t sigh the great sigh of closure by seeing his sweet, elderly, Wal-Mart-greeter aunt writhe in the electric chair in his place. People point to your fourth-quarter Messiah substitution as proof positive of just how much you love us, but that doesn’t feel like justice at all; in fact it kind of makes my stomach churn.

I want to be on your team. Believe me, I love Max Lucado books as much as the next guy, and Mike Breaux can flat-out preach. Your theme songs are always catchy, and your pleasant promises of paradise take the acid-reflux out of life, but I’m not the first who needed to put his finger in the wounds to believe -– and Thomas used to fish with the guy.

I see your chosen people getting sand kicked in their face by everyone from Pharaoh to Hitler to Arafat, and that leaves me almost as dumbfounded as the fact that you have a "chosen people" to begin with.

But all digression aside, my overall point is so disturbing that I cannot be content to fully claim it without begging, pleading, even praying to be shown the light which so many insist is there; so here goes:

I think maybe you’re wrong.

Now hear me out. I know the Bible says you are infallible, but to be fair it was your book. Richard Clarke practically claims he foresaw terrorist attacks in tea leaves in his book. If I wrote one, I’d be the coolest character in it too. I’d see the future, possess a perfect sense of justice, love everyone, and be able to pull off that trick where Superman could see Lois Lane’s undies through her nightgown.

It’s not that I don’t think you are who you say you are. Evidence and instinct screams that there is a creative, even artistic force behind the universe, and I believe that force is most certainly you. But I was created with a mind capable of astounding feats of reason (in fact it is my gift just as bears have claws and puppies have cuddliness) and there are moments among your record where you and I seem to simply disagree. Remember that time when you and Moses commanded the Israelites to pike the heads of the Midianites, scolded the army for leaving the women alive, then ordered them to take the virgins -– most likely preteens -– for themselves (Numbers 31:3-18)? I wasn’t on board for that. And earlier, when you put Pharaoh up as a patsy to show off your best tricks, one of which was killing firstborn children (Exodus 10:1-2), well you left me with a little head-scratching then too. But the real rub is the crucifixion. What parent expresses love to his naughty children by nailing the one who behaves to a tree?

In the end, it’s your world. Even if you are wrong, you wrote the rules and you pick the winners. But you created this brain in my head, and if the ultimate gesture of humanity as you created it is to deny the very rationality and morality that sets me apart from the gerbils in favor of blindly following you, then I’m afraid I cannot suit up this time. Give my regards to Walter Matthou, and if I’m wrong, then I truly pray you help me piece it together before the final horn blows.

PS – Thanks again for the springtime.

Changing Hearts and Losing My Mind, Volume 2

[Catch up with Volume 1 here.]

Election finance is a minefield. My campaign fund-raising sources consisted entirely of people who had once tussled my hair and/or used their thumb to wipe chocolate from my face, and I still narrowly escaped a $5000 fine for late paperwork -- the third consecutive required pre-primary finance report showing that I still had an operating budget of $0 for the primary election in which I had no opponent.

So I welcomed the navigational assistance of a sitting City Councilman, even after it became abundantly clear that he was certifiably insane.

Changing Hearts and Losing My Mind, Volume 1

Years ago, I ran for City Council in my hometown. There was no primary challenger, so had I won the election, I would have represented roughly 35,000 constituents. [SPOILER ALERT] I lost. But before the last of the dimpled chads had even been scrutinized, thousands upon thousands of you began filling my inbox, begging me to recount my tales from the campaign trail.^{[citation needed]}

That din of adulation can no longer be ignored.

With an operating budget that would dwarf the average garage sale, my most effective commodity was shoe-leather, which is unfortunate because I am naturally very lazy. Plus, I don't particularly like people. One example why:

On a sunny Wednesday evening in October, I eked a hesitating path toward a beige-ish one-story on a dead-end street -- one more of a hundred houses I'd approached since five o'clock. An elaborate zigzag of a homemade redwood wheelchair ramp consumed the grassless front yard on its way to an unhinged aluminum screen door, and the roof over the front stoop sloped under the weight of a large dead tree limb that certainly hadn't dropped there recently. Standing there in the yard, propped against one corner of the ramp, a messy-looking fellow dragged deeply from a filterless cigarette, then stared daggers into me as he exhaled through his nose like an angry cartoon bull.

"Evenin'," I said, in my most condescending faux-folksy drawl.

Smoking Bull tugged his lips in over his dentureless gums, then spit heartily onto his own shoe. "Shit," he said, before scraping at the spot with the sole of his other foot. The shift in weight distribution wrecked his entire world, evidently, since he immediately flailed his arms and grabbed at the railing to keep from falling backward. By the time he'd re-situated and located my face again, I had a pretty good idea of just how drunk he was.

"I'm running for the City Council this year," I plowed on despite the fact that his entire head had acquired a slow sway, and one eyebrow seemed to be stuck in the 'surprised' position, "and I'd like to know if you've decided who you're going to vote for." (Insert thousand-watt insincere smile here.)

"She's a sonuvabitch...," Bull managed. Despite the odd gender confusion, I assumed he was talking about the incumbent, which was promising for me. "She voted for the... the smoking bans."

"That's true. Now if I'm elected, one of the things I'd like to--"

"She passed the smoking bans and we didn't get trash picked up like... like she promised." Bull drew his sleeve mightily across his nose, then gestured with his cigarette. At this point I could no longer determine if he knew I was still there. "Branches from... branches from the... sat out on the curb for a month."

"You mean after the big storm last summer?" I asked, but I might as well have invited the wheelchair ramp to prom. Bull -- more Wild Turkey than man -- was having a conversation to which no other human being had been invited.

"And I called... Mom called and all she... She didn't even return the call." After two or three attempts, Bull's cigarette found his lips. Drawing again, his limbs seemed to settle a bit around him as each toxin fought for dominance.

I sensed my opportunity, and pounced. "So then I guess I can count on your vote in November?" (And yes, the question feels just as desperate the thousandth time as it did the first.)

Bull seemed to notice me again. Then, somewhere in his mind, swizzled as it was with sour mash and nicotine, he dug deep and drew upon a faith more stalwart than any religion: party loyalty.

"I'm voting for her... same as I did the last two times," he told me. "She's the Democrat."

And that was that.

Will Google Actually Deliver my Earnings in Canvas Bags Stamped with Dollar Signs?

[UPDATE added below]

Curiosity has overcome me. Today I signed up for Google's AdSense program, which will post ads on ScotticusFinch based on content. I simply must know what Google's automated server squirrels will come up with.

Will my general malaise trigger ads for posh Miami depression-treatment clinics? Will a foaming conniption about the Deflector-in-Chief lead to a pitch for Dreams from My Father? Or will every day simply be a rotating parade of ads for Guatemalan Viagra, low-interest ARMs, and mail-order brides? Stay tuned.

I'm also instructed not to actively encourage you to click on the ads (which should start appearing in about 48 hours). So don't. Or whatever. It's not like I pay my interns anyway.

UPDATE: Day one -- all lawyer ads. Could Google be foreshadowing a police confrontation in my future?

It's a Wiggly Sack of Potatoes! It's a Smelly Plush Doll! It's... It's... Okay, it's my Kid in a Costume

Granted, so far it's all just playing dress-up, but the seeds are officially sown. I wonder if this is how Gandhi felt the first time he saw Gandhi Jr in a dhoti, or when Rollie Fingers first saw his boy sporting a dirty junior-high mustache.



On a superpower-related note, I can't help but notice that several of the millions of daily visitors to ScotticusFinch have neglected to vote on the last two polls (left sidebar). How can I be expected to advance the science of personal opinions unless you people participate? If you have already voted, go to your neighbor's cubicle while she's at lunch and vote again*. My bloated self-esteem could be at stake.

If you want to suggest a more click-worthy poll, please do so in the comments.

*See what I mean about being devoted to science?

14 Days Without Sleep Makes One Weak

A full two weeks ago, I drifted off under anesthetic while some eight-year-old with palsy practiced pumpkin-carving in my sinuses. Since then, and into the foreseeable future, I have been spending the hours between 10pm and 6am on the sofa, sitting straight up, pretending that I might eventually sleep. This overnight posture is required because of the 74 gallons of drainage (the medical term for snot) I now generate per night.

Every hour or so, I abandon my post on the sofa, stumble in the dark through the gauntlet of baby paraphernalia and empty tissue boxes to the bathroom, and force saltwater up my nose in direct conflict with everything I learned at YMCA swim class. The commotion, of course, convinces the dogs that it’s time for breakfast, so even after I find my way back to the couch, alternately dripping tainted saltwater and “drainage”, they sit attentively by my side, reminding me in that whiny dog language that their bowls are still empty. Never mind that it’s 1:45am.

Eventually baby Wyatt wakes up, and we go about our morning as if the night was somehow rejuvenating.

59 minutes out of every hour during the day, I hold my breath. Not by choice, but because my nose is clogged full of that stuff inside Cadbury Crème Eggs and breathing through my mouth all night has turned my throat into some sort of parched, scorched Taliban survival course. I try to save that one breath per hour for when the boss comes around to ask if everything is okay. “Yep,” I bark, which is code for “Please ignore the fact that I look like Martin Landau three days into a meth bender; I do not actually have the swine flu.” At least I assume it’s my boss. The hallucinations lately make it difficult to tell him apart from the giant Pillsbury Dough Boy who lives in the supply closet behind me.

Assurances have been made that I will eventually heal, although the “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!” banner hanging behind the Doc at my follow-up appointment was a bit disconcerting. And I’m pretty sure it was his lawyer who poked his head into the exam room, telling the Doc, “Hey, the judge totally isn’t buying it. You should probably have a bag packed and keep your passport on you.”

So for now, it’s back to the sofa and the Scotticus-shaped indentation that has formed within it, where I offer a fatted calf to the gods Kleenex, Ocean, Afrin, and Advil. I pray that they are appeased and benevolent, but I’m not holding my breath.

You Devious Septum, You

My septum has mutinied. And not a quick, keelhaul-the-captain, pirate-type mutiny; it’s been more of a slow, forget-limited-government-let’s-elevate-George-W-Bush-and-John-McCain-to-leadership-positions, Republican-Party-type mutiny.

A normal, functional septum looks like this:


Evidently, mine looks something like this:


So, while the doctor was examining my CAT scans and explaining just how much of my face he is going to scrape away with a tiny Dremel, I experienced a vasovagal episode and nearly fell out of his fancy exam chair.

Doc Dremel calmly told me what was happening, leaned my chair back, and allowed me to marinate for a bit. Here's the awesome part: After probably three minutes (me still sweating through my button-down and watching dancing white spots) the doctor asks, “Are you feeling well enough to sign the consent forms?” Dry as a bone.

True story.

"I Knew Ward Cleaver. Ward Cleaver was a Friend of Mine. You, Sir, are no Ward Cleaver."

Thank the gods I have crimefighting.

There was a time, after floundering through my twenties from job to job and struggling to find much success at anything, that I embraced the comforting idea that I had been born to be a father. It was my calling, I decided. Protecting, nurturing, and caring for my son would – I was certain – come as naturally to me as drafting did to Frank Lloyd Wright. Just as Ted Williams was a hitter, I would be a father.

The sentiment explained my restlessness at work, since I had no more business pushing pencils than Julia Child had digging ditches, right? I gripped the idea and let it pull me through the workweeks like a rescue rope in a flooded river. I had purpose now; meaning, and motivation.

Reality has been rudely unaccommodating of my expectations. I may be Gretzky in my mind, but fatherhood is more oil painting than ice hockey.

Now, I love my son, and fiercely. I stare at him in my wife’s arms and I know that I would charge the Maginot Line armed with sparklers if that’s what it took to protect him. But that is where he is happiest: in her arms; and the feeling is fairly mutual. I’m frustrated faster than I should be; I’m stymied by his fussing; I’m bored by his squirming. Desperately I want to live up to Heathcliff Huxtable, but each successive evening proves me more Al Bundy. Of course I will never give up, and I’m certain a competent fatherhood will settle in on me just as it has on other men for thousands of years. Still, it would have been nice to be a natural.

So, as I said, thank the gods I have crimefighting. Without that clear and fulfilling calling, I might be left to wonder what the hell I’m here for after all...

Leave as a Boy; Come Home as a Really Pedantic Boy

From the July pages of The Economist (the second-best dead-tree magazine around) comes this piece about a humanist summer camp.

Kids aged 8 to 17 share cabins in the woods. During the day, they paddle canoes, shoot arrows, go swimming and explore nature.

But [cue sinister music]:

Lunch comes with a five-minute talk about a famous freethinker. Campers are told that invisible unicorns inhabit the forest, and offered a prize if they can prove that the unicorns do not exist. The older kids learn something about the difficulty of proving a negative. The younger ones grow giggly at the prospect of stepping in invisible unicorn poop.

…Campers are not told that there is no God; only that they should weigh the evidence. They learn about the scientific method. …The kids are encouraged to explore ethical questions, too. The more argumentative ones sit in a clearing and debate the nature of justice.

Granted, this camp probably produces some of the most unbearably condescending 16-year-olds on Earth. But a skeptical mind is life’s most useful tool, so sign baby Wyatt up for 2017.

Plus, archery!

Hat tip to longtime commenter “Ryan” for the article.

Maternity Malcontent. Or, Neonatal Nefariousness

Despite checking in under my secret identity, I'm beginning to suspect my archenemy Red Leader is orchestrating the staff here at the hospital. My infrequent sleep is constantly interrupted, and they have been withholding food since day one. The few foot-massages my wife has had time to offer me seem to always be a second priority at best, and my morale is suffering.

Still, the boy is gaining strength. Many of the world's greatest superheroes did not develop powers until puberty, so hope is not lost. And things could always be worse.

Scotticus: TNG

Wyatt was born yesterday at 20:24. So far there is no sign of him being superpowered, and to be honest I have my doubts that he could even overcome a low-level henchman at this stage.

For years I swore no son of mine would ever grow up to be a sidekick, but... perhaps I've been rash. I look into his face and I know that I will still love him even if he never develops the crimefighting moxie to carry his own storyline.

But by the gods, if some supercycle-riding gadgeteer ever tries to put Wyatt in a sidecar, he'll have a whole new nemesis on his hands.