A Case of the Shakes

While home for the holidays back in December, I had a conversation with my uncle, David "Blaze" Lebowski that stuck with me. We discussed the many ways in which a handshake can go awry. It seems like it should be a simple procedure, but even without the many variants that now exist, it can be harrowing. I was originally going to draw pictures of all of the various styles and mishaps but, while I consider myself a good artist, I cannot draw hands well (doubly worse in MS Paint). So deal with it, yo.

First off, the basics. The Standard Handshake. Take the right hand, and reach, thumb up, fingers down, towards the matching right hand of your Shake-Friend. When the bases of the thumbs touch, grip firmly. Shake the conjoined hands if desired. Should be easy! But it goes wrong.

One frustrating possibility is the Iron Grip. This is the person who thinks "grip firmly" means "take lessons from a vise." He (could be a she, sure, but it's almost always a he) wants to pull you into a mini contest of strength. So either you ramp up your own intensity while staring back (this guy always eye locks) and then you're two grown men gazing into each others' eyes while holding the other's body part as if it was the edge of a cliff you're tumbling off OR you allow the smug bastard the satisfaction of winning the handshake. As if it were a contest. But he made it a contest! And now you can't let him win! And it's really homoerotic! You might as well be playing a tiny game of shirtless beach volleyball while "Playing With The Boys" blares in the background (yes, Top Gun is really the only homoeroticism reference I make because what the fuck other one do you need?[PS - I love Top Gun.]).

Not that the opposite problem is any better: the Wet Noodle. This is the person who gives literally no grip back. The hand is placed in the proper position and then, well, nothing. They let you hold their hand. They have wasted your time and theirs. If I wanted this, I would hang out with corpses and/or mannequins. I want to interact with a human being, give me some sign that you're alive! And there is an even more troubling variant on the Wet Noodle that I will discuss later.

Sometimes the intensity of the grip is not the issue. My personal pet peeve is the Early Squeeze. You all know this one. You go in for the Standard Handshake and the other person doesn't wait for the bases of the thumbs to touch. They grip firmly, appropriately, but way too early. They clench your fingers as if taking up a handful of markers. You're left with no leverage and a grip strength of zero. You think "I must explain! I must demand a re-shake!" but you know you'll sound like an idiot ("Can you grab my hand again?") or a jerk ("You handshake wrongly, asshat!"). And the worst part is, you know they knew they fucked up. The handshake is just as awkward for them. This isn't a power play, like the Iron Grip. This is the premature ejaculation of handshakes. It's embarrassing for you both, especially if this is your first shake ("I swear, baby, this isn't like me!"). It happens to everyone once in a while, and it's always awkward.

Now, not all hand-interactions are meant to be the Standard Handshake. Sometimes it turns into the Icing On The Cake (left hand covering clasped rights), the Booster Shot (punch or clasp of gripping arm with left hand), or the Pathway to Intimacy (shake into hug). These all begin as the Standard Handshake. Other variants are different from start to finish. The Soul Grab or Reverse Grip is nice, that's the fingers up one that feels very 70's (see Predator for a great example early on). There's the Fist Bump, which is frequently congratulatory, and the High Five, more celebratory. Don't bother with the Warrior's Bond (hands grasp forearms) unless you are an actual warrior or you will look like an ass. With all this variety, there's bound to be misunderstandings. And there are indeed misunderstandings.

Sometimes you and your Shake-Friend have different ideas. For example, you wanted a Soul Grab, (s)he wanted a Fist Bump. Your attempts at Grabbing and Fisting fail. Awkward beat, then you try to correct to what (s)he had proferred... as they do to your initial offering. Reverse failure! Oh no! More than 5 corrections should end in tears. More than 8 in a public apology. More than 10, seppuku.

I mentioned earlier a nightmare variant of the Wet Noodle. I call it the Stefan, after Stefan Kinkajou, a fraternity brother of mine. Now, maybe he thought that because he was gay, this was OK (I have no such prejudice, equal handshakes for all!) but his handshake style was to offer his hand, completely limp, palm/fingers down. As if I should lightly hold his fingers, and perhaps curtsy. The Stefan is acceptable in two situations: 1) You are an elderly woman from Victorian England. 2) You have suffered a stroke and have partial paralysis in your hand, leaving this your only option. That's it. No other exceptions. But Stefan insisted on offering the Stefan to all. Any attempts to correct it into a Standard Handshake resulted in a judgmental glare.

It was Andrew Kazakhstan who followed the Stefan to its logical conclusion. He wondered aloud one day what would happen if Stefan was to meet a second Stefan. They would both offer the Stefan (handshake). This is the worst possible handshake of all: Stefarmageddon. It is two people, hands limp, bumping the backs of their hands together while their fingers dangle uselessly. Don't let it happen. Do your part to keep Stefarmageddon only a theory. We'll all be better for it.

Love and Death in Skyrim

Back in early December, Tracy Allvis gave me a six-month anniversary (semianniversary?) present - The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim for XBox360. Now, I had never played an Elder Scrolls game before. I had heard through various geeky channels that Skyrim was a massive, gorgeous fantasy RPG with insane customization and a nearly infinite world of places to go and things to do. I'd also heard it was thoroughly addictive. Tracy was told as much when she purchased the game for me, warned she would become a "Skyrim widow", one of many significant others of nerds who found more and more of their time spent in Skyrim (the name of the continent on which the game is set, as well as the subtitle of the game itself).

The rumors were right. This game is ENORMOUS, and it is extraordinarily addictive. While I am able to limit my play time enough to not shirk work or boyfriendly duties, I have nonetheless logged many, many hours of my free time into Skyrim in the past couple of months, and have really only done 1/4 to 1/3 of the things to do in this game. This is partially because of the sheer amount of stuff to do, but also because of the way the game gives you minimal prodding to do anything in particular. If I want to spend 20 minutes trying to glitch-hop my way up a mountain for no reason, the game lets me. If I want to run around stealing food items and cooking them into different food items, I can. What's that? Dragons are attacking and there's a civil war and the world is in jeopardy? Sorry, no time for that, I'm trying to catch this firefly now.

As part of the immense openness of the game, there are numerous NPC's with whom you can form various relationships. Including romantic relationships. In Skyrim, I am a married man. This is hilarious. Not because marriage is inherently hilarious (it's not), nor even because video game marriage is inherently hilarious (it is), but because this game's conception of romance is ludicrous. Here is my tale of hearts intertwining (photos are not screencaps of my actual game and characters, but rather shots pulled from the web that were close enough).

My wife is a merchant. I like her because she has red hair and is not racist to the cat people. When we met, she was having trouble finding mammoth tusks. I found her some mammoth tusks. From that point on, every time I saw her in town, she would flirt with me and/or buy Sleeping Tree Sap from me. Later, I bought a necklace at a church in a different town. The next time I spoke to her, while wearing the necklace, she pretty much immediately asked me if I wanted to ask her to marry me. Just like that. I went back to the other town, set up the ceremony, slept at an inn until it was time, and headed to the church.

Ysolda, AKA the future Mrs. Remus the Breton

It was time for the wedding. About 10 real-world minutes after the engagement. Which occurred after a grand total of probably 15 interactions, most of them business. Here is what I wore to the wedding:

I spent hours crafting and enchanting this shit, like I'm gonna take it off for some WEDDING!

But I decided it all felt a little... forced. It was all happening too fast. I needed some tradition. I needed a Best Man. And who better to be my Best Man than my constant quest companion/servant/carrier of heavy stuff. Her name is Lydia. Lydia has cleaved more heads with axes to protect me (even when I don't want her to) than I can count. And sometimes I shoot her with my magic bow by accident when she runs in front of me and then she dies and I curse and reload my last save file. Because I am progressive and awesome, I am OK with a woman being my best man. This is what Lydia wears, and indeed, what she wore to the wedding:

Darth Vader + Boobs = My Best Man

But I couldn't find her. I don't know where she was. She usually is directly behind me, especially when I've entered a tiny room and want to back out of the door, wondering what me SPRINTING in place in her direction means in terms of whether she should move or not. But on my wedding day, the most important 3 minutes of my life in Skyrim so far, she was nowhere to be found. I knew she wasn't dead, just missing. Maybe she was jealous I was marrying another woman after she'd literally died for me repeatedly and hauled a metric fuckton of heavy dragon bones all over the continent for me. Fair enough. I'd need a different best man, though. Lucky for me, I am a conjurer:

SAY "YICE" TO THE ICE!!! BEST MAN #2!!!

OK, I had my 2nd string Best Man, it was time to get married. So I got married. There was like a 60-second scene of a priest guy talking, then we were married. There were some rings. My wife asked if she wanted me to move in with her or vice versa (she moved in with me, I had too much stuff to move out). And it turns out Lydia did come to my wedding, she must have been in the back, giving her tacit approval to my happiness without her (she is still my battle partner/servant/quest friend). Now my wife lives in my house and gives me money sometimes and cooks meals if I ask. I don't know if we've consummated our marriage, the game is fuzzy on that detail.

But not all in Skyrim is love(ish?) and roses (I have not seen a single rose in this game, to my knowledge). Sometimes life events are of a harsher nature. One time, I stole a horse. Well, stole is kind of a strong word I guess. I stole him for somebody else, along with some pedigree papers or something. I think he was stolen to begin with. I don't know, I just follow the arrows on the map. Anyway, when I went to bring Frost (that is the horse's name) back to the guy who wanted me to steal it, an option came up to persuade him to fuck off and let me keep the horse. That sounded good, so I tried that. And then Frost was my horse.

Death on four hooves

Frost was a great horse, and rather than run from danger, he would actively assault my foes. The best was when I was hiding and firing arrows into a fort, trying to snipe off enemy bandits, and then Frost took off. I thought he was running away. Quite the opposite. He ran into the fortress. I got worried. Then I saw him, on the battlements, kicking the shit out of an enemy. He ran INSIDE AND UP THE STAIRS to mess dudes up for me. That is a true horse friend.

Sometimes Frost died too, and I would reload and save him. But recently, the magical college in which I am enrolled went all wonky and the neighboring town was attacked by magic ghost comet things. I forgot I had left Frost in the town, and when I rushed back to fight these dudes, which were FAR harder to kill than they looked, I noticed like half of them weren't there in the town (I had to kill 10, 5 were unaccounted for). I followed my radar thing to the road out of town.

Frost was bravely, desperately fighting all 5 of them himself. It was a hopeless battle, and he fell. It had been way too long since my last save, so I finally opted to not reload to get him back. I was sad, and I mournfully avenged my loyal horse warrior by destroying the magic ghost comets with a vengeance. RIP Frost, you died as you lived: kicking the living shit out of bad guys.

Oh, but the messed up part? When I checked his corpse to make sure he was really gone, the game gave me the option of removing one horse hide from his inventory. "Where was he carrying a- oh, no. No way." I opted not to skin my horse friend. His body lies in state, frozen and ageless on the road out of Winterhold. I'll visit some time and try to set up a shrine of dropped belongings. This is what passes for respect for the dead in Skyrim.

And To All a Good Night?

In the finest Festivus tradition, I'd like to bother you all for a few moments and use this blog to air a grievance I have with you (the general you, quite likely not you specifically). I'm pissed off about people who get pissed off about the the holidays. Now, I'm not Christian. I was raised Roman Catholic, but have officially renounced that faith and consider myself agnostic or humanist. I do celebrate Christmas though, not as a religious holiday, but as a cultural holiday. A lot of the trappings and whatnot around Christmas I find saccharine, boomer-oriented, commercialized, and annoying, but I love Christmas itself, particularly the idea of goodwill towards others. That sentiment IS Christmas to me. For a little bit of time each year, it's like people get a "be nice to others" booster shot and spread cheer, for the most part. It's really nice.

Well, it's usually nice. But too many people have made a battleground over the whole damn thing. What prompted this post is that, around this time of year when I interact with people, I like to end conversations with a nice holiday greeting. I don't care what that greeting is. Happy Holidays is a nice catch-all because it's inclusive to people who don't celebrate Christmas AND it also covers both Christmas and New Years for the yes-Christmas crowd. Great. Merry Christmas is fine too, especially if I'm certain the person I'm speaking to does in fact celebrate Christmas. Other holiday-specific ones are fine too (Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, etc) if I know that's what the person celebrates.

But here's the thing. Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas have been claimed by opposite camps. The "there's a war on Christmas!" crowd, whom I loathe, has made Merry Christmas from a nice gesture into a friggin' battle cry, or a secret password of their Christmas club. Meanwhile, Happy Holidays has been made to feel like the response battle cry of Team Atheism (don't get me wrong, I've got a fair amount in common with this team). But the dilemma is this: I am saying whatever I'm saying to be nice and spread cheer, not to get into a fucking fight over whose version of the holiday season is "correct." Anyone who uses these kindly greetings as an item of division instead of unity, of polarization instead of good cheer, seriously, fuck you. Everyone else, Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays. Much love!

Food Products, Essentially

So apparently, on a recent episode of Bill O'Reilly's television show on Fox News ("The O'Reilly Factor", series working title: "An Embittered, Privileged, Middle-Aged White Man Complains About Everyone Who Is Not Him") Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly visited to discuss the forced dispersal of Occupy UC Davis protestors from a campus quad by police. Including egregious use of large quantities of pepper spray on unarmed, peaceful protestors (uh oh, if sitting is a sprayable offense, I'm going to get pepper DRENCHED some day!). Megyn, whose name Bill O'Reilly would probably complain was intolerable if she had any other job besides Fox News Anchor, informed us that pepper spray is, in fact, "a food product essentially". You know, because it's made from pepper. OK Megyn, let's play by your rules. Here's a few other substances that are food products, essentially, and by your logic must be at least somewhat OK to use on peaceful citizens, in moderation.

1) Nutraloaf - A food amalgam that provides nutrition while effectively functioning as a punishment in prison. It is so bad that the legality of feeding it to inmates is regularly questioned as cruel and unusual punishment. Feeding it to people is tantamount to depriving them of food, even though it sustains life. It is probably the worst thing someone can be forced to eat that is still technically food. But it is, of course, "a food product, essentially."

2) Rock Salt - The stuff you use so you don't slip and break your neck on your outdoor stairs contains the stuff (sodium chloride) that you use with malt vinegar to make french fries extra awesome. This is the same stuff Budd uses as shotgun ammo in Kill Bill to incapacitate The Bride. But apparently this is just fine. I mean, "it's a food product, essentially."

3) Blowfish Toxin - In several Asian cuisines, knowledgeable chefs are able to prepare highly toxic fish for human consumption. For example, the puffer fish or fugu is considered a delicacy in Japan. Well, the parts that aren't fatal anyway. The parts that are fatal are really damn fatal. Puffer fish are some of the most poisonous animals on the planet. But, since they can be eaten, I guess we must consider their toxin "a food product, essentially."

4) Cyanide - Cyanide, a poison so well known for being poisonous it doesn't need to be explained when it kills people in shitty cop shows, can be found in trace amounts in almonds, apple pips, cherry, peach, and apricot pits, and the cassava root. In most of those, the amount is negligible, and easily dealt with by the digestive system, although the cassava, if prepared improperly, can be toxic. However, I'd say it easily meets Megyn Kelly's criteria for "a food product, essentially."

5) Human Entrails - Cannibalism is a thing, a thing that is done sometimes. Probably as long as there have been people, some of those people have opted to eat others of those people. Maybe due to starvation, maybe due to religious belief, maybe due to bizarre curiosity. It would be nice if we could believe that every instance of cannibalism was basically a Uruguayan rugby team in the Andes sort of incident, but we all know that's not true. Some people choose to eat other people even though other non-people foods are present. So I guess that makes chunks of human flesh food. Or at least, "a food product, essentially." If the cops start lobbing human heads at the protestors via catapult like it was Minas Tirith or some shit, it's nice to know we'll be able to count on Fox News to spin that damage.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

One of the best things about fall in New England is apples. Apples, generally speaking, rule. In Jr. High my nickname was Apples because on the first day I mumbled my name and Chris Garlichorse thought I said "Apples." Mary "Nonnie" Lebowski's favorite muttered insult while driving was Appleass. Nobody knows where she got Appleass from, and I grew up thinking it was a normal swear word that normal adults used.

Now that we've got all that out of the way, we can focus on apples, not 7th-grade-me Apples, nor Appleasses, but actual apples. One of the tricky things about this delicious treat is that there are many varieties to choose from. Some are awesome, others wish they were. Let's explore some of the options for the apple connoisseur.

1) Honeycrisp - Honeycrisps are the best apples on Earth. And I wouldn't be surprised if they were the best in the Universe (so far space has delivered zero apples for further consideration). They are deliciously juicy, sweet with just a hint of tartness, they tend to be of good size, and their coloration is pleasing to the eye. There is nothing bad about honeycrisp apples and if I ever ask you for an apple, this is what I want. I bet the apple the serpent tempted Eve with was a Honeycrisp, because that shit is irresistible. You know, if that story actually happened and wasn't just a creation myth that way more people believe than you'd ever think.

Apple Points: 11/10

2) Gala - Gala apples are the apples I eat when Honeycrisps aren't in season and aren't at the store. They are inferior to honeycrisps in every way, but not terribly so. The only complaint some may have with them would be their mild flavor, as some prefer a lot of tartness to their apples.

Apple Points: 8/10

3) Fuji - Fuji apples look neat, and I think I like them almost as much as Gala apples. I have no problem with these guys, but I don't get particularly excited about them either. Fully acceptable.

Apple Points: 7/10

4) McIntosh - McIntosh is like, the classic New England apple. It was named this by people who never ate a honeycrisp. For those who prefer tartness to sweetness, it is a good choice. It's not overwhelmingly tart, but the balance is swinging more towards tart than sweet at this point. Usually not my choice, but I've been known to appreciate a good McIntosh now and again, when in the mood. I used to like them even more when I was younger (before Honeycrisps).

Apple Points: 7/10

5) Granny Smith - Granny Smiths are the tart masters. For a while I really liked tart apples best, and these were my favorite. Not as much anymore. Still, I like that they're green, because green is a good color. This is a fact.

Apple Points: 5/10

6) Asian Pears - Asian Pears are like, half-apple, half-pear, all delicious. The best of both worlds. Seriously, quite good. They're so good that they made it onto the apple comparison list despite being not quite apples! I highly advise you check out this tasty treat!

Apple Points: 4/5, Pear Points: 5/5 - Total Fruit Points: 9/10

7) Red Delicious - What a pile of horseshit. Who named these pathetic apples-in-name-only? Yeah, OK, you got the red part right, congratulations. Delicious? Had you just licked a raccoon's butthole to compare against? Bland, worthless, ass-apples, possibly inspiring the term Appleass.

Apple Points: 1/10 (1 point given for spelling its name right)

8) Any apple that is mealy - Any and every apple is ruined by a mealy texture. Even Honeycrisps. A mealy Red Delicious? I'll just lick this handful of coins from a sweaty businessman's pocket instead, thanks.

Apple Points: -273.15/10 Celsius, aka Absolute Zero/10. Can't get worse.

Aptly, apple-y yours,
Remus Thirty

Leading, By Examples #3 - Night of the Leading Dead

My 3rd entry for my workplace's leadership blog. You can see past entries here and here for the backstory of what this is all about!

"Not every leader intends to be a leader. In fact, I sometimes get a little bit leery of anyone who seems just a bit too eager to lead. What are their motivations? Are they seeking power for power’s sake, fame, something to look nice on a résumé? Sure some people just have a knack and affinity for leading (possibly innate, possibly developed, probably both) and I don’t mean to malign anyone just for liking the power of leadership. After all, power isn’t “bad” by nature; it’s all about what you do with it. But this entry isn’t about people who were born to lead and who love to lead. No, some of us are thrust into leadership because there’s a need, not a desire. Today we’ll look at one of my favorite examples of this, Shaun from the film Shaun of the Dead.

Shaun (no last name is ever given) isn’t any paragon of leadership at the film’s beginning. He’s a lazy guy who can barely keep his life together. His best friend Ed is a jackass (a loveable jackass, don’t get me wrong, but a jackass), his roommate is pissed at him, his girlfriend Liz is ready to dump him, his step-father thinks he can’t be counted on to keep up a good relationship with his mum (British movie, British spelling), he hates his job, and all he wants to do is sit on the couch and play video games or go to the local pub, the Winchester. While he may technically be a “leader” at his job in an appliance store, he commands and receives no respect whatsoever from his teenage employees, who see him as a loser. Shaun doesn’t seem like much of anyone you’d want to emulate, even if he is a nice enough guy, and funny to boot. You like him, but you don’t want his life.

But then, zombies happen (oops, we’re not meant to use the “zed-word”!). Suddenly Shaun’s life is turned upside-down, even if it takes him a while to realize it. Under the pressure of this outbreak of the walking dead, Shaun doesn’t crack. Instead, he plans, he improvises, he rallies his friends and family, and he manages to keep everyone safe for a while. Now, it’s a safe bet that Shaun had never encountered animated corpses before. He certainly didn’t wish for them to arrive. At no point did Shaun try to name himself a leader in these circumstances. But in this new, frightening situation, Shaun stepped up and became a leader nonetheless.

How did he do it? Fairly simply, he stayed focused on the group mission. The mission was straightforward: survive. Nearly every action Shaun took from the moment he realized the state London was in was done in the service of this goal. But he wasn’t out to just survive alone; he also had the members of his group to consider. Commitment to this goal of shared survival allowed him to make peace with his step-father, confront his best friend about his inconsiderate behavior, and even earn back the respect of his (ex?)girlfriend. And while his best friend and girlfriend might’ve been people he really had a vested interest in saving, he even acted to keep people he didn’t particularly like alive, such as Liz’s dour and annoying friend David. He was committed to the group and the mission.

As a leader, Shaun’s biggest gift was probably his ability to adapt. Over and over his group faced new challenges and watched their situation go from bad to worse. Each time, Shaun was able to improvise a solution, or look within his group for a solution, such as relying on Dianne’s acting skills to help them imitate zombies through an infested area. Shaun used vinyl records, flatware, a cricket bat, and pool cues to fight off the undead, making use of whatever resources were available to help him and his group. At every step, he displayed ingenuity and an unwillingness to give up until things were absolutely hopeless (even then, they turned out not to be).

When it was all over, Shaun went back to pretty much the same life as before. He still enjoyed relaxing on the couch, eating snacks from the convenience store, and playing video games with his buddy. There were a few changes, but all in all, he enjoyed simple pleasures. But now he had a new confidence and satisfaction in the fact that when the going got tough, he got going. Like a modern, lazy, funny Cincinnatus, he stood up and led when he was needed, and then gave up that title to go back to a simpler life. So for all of you out there who haven’t really stepped up and taken leadership roles yet, take heart! Your chance may come once you find the cause you care about and the situation that needs your skills! And hey, you probably won’t even have to deal with zombies."

Tales From The Lebowskis - A Toast to Jaja

Here's a brief one, just to keep the updates rolling. About 3 or 4 years ago, my aunt, Patty "Pappy" Rudedawg née Lebowski took my grandfather, Dave "Jaja" Lebowski out for lunch at a local pizza restaurant. I can vouch that this place makes a pretty decent slice, in particular having a good buffalo chicken pizza. However, neither was in the mood for pizza that day. Jaja in particular wanted a salad. Their waitress that day at the restaurant is a good waitress. I've eaten there and been served by her before. However, English is not her first language, and sometimes she struggles a bit with it. No problem, like I said, still a very good waitress.

They ordered their lunches from her, Jaja ordering his salad. He had a special instruction though. He wanted to make sure they "don't give me any goddamn toast with it." This was an odd request for our waitress. Maybe this old man didn't realize that the salad didn't come with a basket of bread. It would certainly be no trouble not to bring bread, and even less trouble not to toast said bread. Because that's what the word "toast" means, right? Bread, heated to the point of crispness. She knew the word toast. She would definitely not bring any toast.

"OK, sir, no toast."

"Good." And then to his daughter, "They always bring that god damn toast for the salad!" She too wrote it off as some bizarre idea he'd gotten in his head.

The meal came and Jaja almost blew a gasket. "God damn it, I said no toast! No toast! Look at all this god damn toast! I can't stand it when they put the god damn toast!"

"Dad, what are you talking about? Miss, I'm sorry for my father. Dad, there's no toast!"

"Look at all this god damn, shit toast!" he said, gesturing to the salad. Or rather, the croutons. Toast, apparently, means croutons. I guess I could see how he'd think that. I mean, croutons are made of bread, heated until crispy. But nobody calls them toast. Nobody but him, and while cursing at the poor waitress to boot. Sometimes I wonder if he's the one who doesn't quite speak English.