Dreaming of a White Green Christmas...

It was mid-winter 2009, and I faced a potentially disastrous holiday situation. Just hours away from Christmas Eve and lacking even a single roll of wrapping paper, I found myself staring at a mountain of unwrapped gifts. I asked myself what MacGyver would do in such a situation, and I quickly decided I'd have to improvise. While most people would proceed timidly in the face of the unknown, I forged ahead with a confidence that could only come from a strong track record of improvisational success.

My solution, much like myself, was simple and brilliant: newspaper. Whenever I used wrapping paper in the past, the wastefulness of the whole situation made me sick. Paper companies raze miles and miles of forest, and for what? To cover Christmas gifts for a few days, only to watch the paper get torn up and thrown away by December 26th. The wrapping paper industry must have John Denver and dead environmentalist hippies across the world spinning in their graves. I felt quite proud of my creativity and environmental sensitivity as I admired my pile of newspaper-covered gifts.

When Christmas 2010 rolled around, my choice of wrapping paper was a no-brainer: I would once again turn to the newspaper. No additional cost, no additional waste--clearly a win-win situation. Aside from helping out my old friend Mother Nature, I realized that wrapping my gifts with newspaper had a few other benefits that I hadn't considered in 2009.

First of all, wrapping with newspaper allows the gift-giver to custom-match the paper to the recipient. With standard Christmas-themed paper, your choices are pretty much limited to wintry landscapes, images of Santa or reindeer, or the basic red and green-colored paper. But with newspaper, the options are limitless. Giving a gift to an overweight food fiend? Wrap it with a Krispy Kreme or Old Country Buffet ad. An avid follower of business and politics? Wrap that present with a few pages from the Wall Street Journal. When you're selecting a paper for the convicted felon in your life, pull a page or two from the police report section of your local paper.

And it's not just newspaper's versatility that makes it my preferred method of wrapping--it's so much more informative. What can a person really learn from looking at stack of gifts that were wrapped with traditional Christmas paper? Absolutely nothing. I, on the other hand, learned a great deal during my brief gift-wrapping session. In less than thirty minutes that I spent wrapping with newspapers ranging in age from several weeks to several years old, I picked up countless invaluable nuggets of information, including, but not limited to the following: that Hy-Vee ran a sale on prime rib in late December 2009, that the Dow Jones Industrial Average increased by 19 points on May 24, 2005, and that Harold Barnes of Marshalltown, Iowa died at age 78 on June 25, 2008. Not once in all of my previous years wrapping gifts with "normal" paper did I pick up even a fraction of that kind of useful information.

When I finished wrapping, I decided 2010 was the year I'd attack another lingering gift-giving nuisance: the labels. Those sticky little "To/From" rascals seem every bit as wasteful as wrapping paper. And though I've never purchased any myself, I can only assume they're at least as expensive as wrapping paper. Luckily, I'd stumbled across an equally MacGyver-worthy solution a few months before while paging though the December, 2005 issue of BusinessWeek:

My favorite automobile manufacturer, General Motors, printed a full-page "Red Tag Event" ad, complete with actual To/From tags. The only potential snag in this plan was that each tag included a picture of one of GM's various automobile models. My first thought was that my gift recipients might jump to the conclusion that I'd bought them each a new car, but I realized these labels actually worked in my favor. Since they were General Motors cars on the labels, I felt confident that anyone opening one of my gifts would feel an overwhelming sense of relief when they realized that I hadn't burdened them with a lifetime of expensive and frustrating auto repairs. It didn't matter what newspaper-wrapped crap people pulled out of the box; relief and thankfulness were sure to follow.

With the labels in place, my task was complete. I was particularly proud of my wrapping job on one odd-shaped gift. With this cylindrical package, I immediately gave up on aesthetics and went straight for efficiency and practicality. What could have taken days to wrap ended up taking less than 15 seconds:

I avoided tape entirely and opted for three rubber bands and two full-page sheets of newspaper. My heart swelled with holiday spirit as I pictured Santa and Jesus high-fiving each other at the North Pole. I stood back and admired the final result of my tree-saving handiwork:

Sure, my gifts weren't as colorful as some of the others under the tree, but when they're all mixed together, newspaper doesn't look too bad (dim lighting and a slightly blurry photo don't hurt in this case, either):

For those of you who decide to adopt my wrapping strategy next Christmas, be warned that you will inevitably run into people who accuse you of "ruining the holiday spirit" or something similar. The logical rebuttal, obviously, is to accuse those of destroying the earth, and pile on the guilt as you point out their wasteful use of paper, labels, and bows, ribbons, and all that needless holiday decoration. And if they took the time to decorate their house with holiday lights, accuse them of wasting electricity, too.

Having flirted with perfection during the 2010 holiday season, you might find yourself wondering how I can possibly raise the bar again next year. The answer is simple: a Christmas-themed, gift-concealing curtain. This innovative idea is based on my vision of a world in which gift wrapping disappears entirely, suffering the same fate as the telegraph or childhood fitness and academic achievement in America. The exciting part is that I think we can abolish gift wrapping without losing that tremendous sense of anticipation and surprise that comes from unwrapping presents.

For the sake of environmental friendliness, the gift-concealing curtain will, of course, be fashioned out of durable, reusable organic cotton. Each holiday season, families across the country will set up their gift-concealing curtain and simply deposit their unwrapped gifts behind it, saving countless forests and thousands of hours of unnecessary wrapping. To keep the element of surprise intact, you'll have to find a neutral third-party to keep pets, curious children, and potential thieves from sneaking behind the curtain before Christmas. And, of course, this person can help distribute gifts on Christmas morning. I recommend an easily-bribed homeless person, who will jump at the chance to spend part of the winter indoors.

In the past, smiling parents watched their excited children tear the wrapping paper of their gifts on Christmas morning. In the Christmas of the future, parents can sit back and listen to screams of delight as the homeless man in the corner pulls the kids' Christmas gifts from behind the curtain, one at a time. It's my gift to the world--a sustainable Christmas tradition that saves time, money, the environment, and more than a few homeless people. The only sad part is that Christmas 2011 is so far way...

The Malibu Chronicles: Part II

Less than twenty-four hours after clicking the "Publish" button on my previous blog post, I found myself in another blog-worthy situation, courtesy of the Malibu's shoddy window quality. As I mentioned before, when I took the the Malibu to the shop last weekend, I told the mechanics to manually close the window and not to do any other work. I'd try to make it through the winter without a functioning driver's side window and delay the $200+ repair until springtime. For a mere $20, the window was finally closed. But the situation took an unfortunate twist, and so I now present a follow-up to my previous blog post, a tale of my incredible foresight...and unbridled stupidity.

Before I picked up the car, an important thought crossed my mind: aside from voicing my intense distaste for children and cold weather, rolling down my driver's side window is one of the few things that I've done nearly every single day for the past four years. Every time I return home from work, I pull into the parking lot, roll down window, and wave my key fob in front of the reader to open the garage door. Habits like that don't go away overnight...I was feeling pretty smart when I walked in to pick up my car.

I knew there was a good chance that I'd forget the window didn't work, habit would take over, and I'd press the switch without even thinking. I asked the mechanic if there was any chance that even with the switch supposedly not working, that I'd press it and end up with my window stuck in the "down" position again--at $20 a pop, it could get very expensive to have my window manually closed a few times a week for the rest of the winter.

The mechanic told me the switch shouldn't move the window at all--up or down--but if for some reason the window went down and got stuck again, I could remove the switch panel and jiggle the wires while I pressed "up," and I should be able to get it closed. I was feeling pretty pleased with my brilliant foresight as I drove home. And I even remembered not to use my window when I opened the garage door.

And then Saturday arrived. I pulled into the drive-up window at the bank that morning and sat there with my door open like an idiot, but I was beaming with pride for remembering to keep my hands off the window button again. As I drove home after a few more errands, my driver's side window started fogging over. Without thinking, I pressed the "down" button. The window was open about two inches before I realized my mistake. I pressed the "up" bottom, and my unlucky Malibu streak remained intact--the window didn't move.

When I returned home, I immediately went to work on Plan B. I removed the switch panel, jiggled the wires, and incessantly hit the "up" button. Still, the window remained as motionless as an awe-struck fat person watching a cupcake parade. During my fury of wire jiggling and button pressing, I managed to bump the "down" switch again, which is apparently one of the only remaining parts on the Malibu that still functions flawlessly. By the time I abandoned my efforts to get the window up, the opening had widened to four inches, more than enough for someone to easily reach in and unlock the door.

I gave up and unloaded my valuables from the car--I didn't want anyone stealing my collection of vintage CDs that I burned during the late 90s. Driving around on Saturday afternoon was every bit as cold as I expected. To make matters worse, the cars in front of me were caking my windshield with salty road-spray, and using the wipers while the car was in motion would only douse myself and the interior of the car with windshield washer fluid. And so I navigated my way home, peering through the quarter-sized spot on my windshield that was still clean enough to see though. It was around that time that I decided I should probably go ahead and get the window fixed--when I got home, I reluctantly scheduled an appointment for the Malibu the next day.

When I parked the car in the garage that night, I left the ignition key on the seat inside, hoping someone would reach in, unlock the door, and just drive off with my problem. But with the Malibu's track record and my luck, a potential thief would probably climb in, turn the key, and a red "Theft System" light would start flashing while the engine refused to turn over. Sure enough, the car was still there Sunday morning.

A few hours and $225 later, I was once again the proud owner of a fully functional driver's side power window. I was initially upset with myself for having made such a stupid mistake...I could have delayed this expensive mess for a few months if only I hadn't pressed that button. But on the bright side, I realized that my automotive blunders presented a unique and potentially entertaining money-making opportunity.

Those of you who loyally follow this blog (you both know who you are) will recall that one of my main objectives in writing this is to compete with James's Africa blog. He's in the process of raising $8,000 for a new school in his village. I hereby present an additional twist in our dueling-blog challenge: can James raise $8,000 for a school before I reach $10,000 in Malibu repairs?

I know what you're thinking, and it crossed my mind, too. This can't possibly be a fair challenge--doesn't James have a lot more ground to cover in his fund raising journey than I have in my race to $10,000? After all, I started making repairs on the Malibu long before James could even locate Africa on a globe (which occurred sometime around late 2005, if I remember correctly). But let's face it--he has a whole army of friends and family helping him raise funds, and my side consists only of me and a rapidly aging car.

If you've checked James's blog recently, you'll notice that he has a fund raising thermometer on the right side to track his progress. Lucky for me, the fund raising thermometer can also be re-purposed to track auto repair expenses. With this, I declare the official beginning of the challenge:

To make things more interesting, I'll even present an alternative donation option for those who would prefer to support a more..."local" cause. Generous donors who support my noble effort will allow me to accomplish one of two things: (1) help the Malibu chug past the 100,000 barrier, or (2) help fund the purchase of a Nissan 370Z.

If you're like me, you expect to get something in return when you donate to charity. What do you get if you fork over some money for James's school in Africa? Best case scenario, you'll have some short-lived, warm fuzzy feelings, knowing that you helped some impoverished children who you'll never meet learn how to count to ten. Those who help my cause, on the other hand, will receive much, much more.

If the Malibu hangs on long enough, I'm offering my supporters a chance to ride shotgun as the Malibu goes where no Malibu has gone before--that's right, you can sit right there beside me, watching as the odometer rolls past 99,999 and the Malibu joins the elusive 100,000 mile club. If, on the other hand, the more likely scenario plays out and the Malibu dies before reaching that prestigious milestone, my supporters can ride around the block with me in a new 370Z. Either way, donors are welcome to take all the pictures they want of me and the car.

And so, before you reach for your pocketbook to make a donation this holiday season, I encourage you to do what any responsible person would do and ask yourself, "What's in it for me?" Take a look at these pictures--which seems like a better option?

A ride in this...

or donating money to support this, which you'll never actually see in person anyway.

If for some reason you're still on the fence, a simple look at the facts makes the answer that much more obvious: those children in Africa can learn just fine outdoors--the average low temperature in Burkina Faso is something like 70°. Back here in America, if I find myself without a car and try walking to work, I'll freeze to death before I make it out of the parking lot. This weekend's forecast calls for sixteen inches of snow and a high temperature of 4° on Sunday. Seriously! The button's right here...you know what you should do:

Malibu: Spectacular City, Terrible Car

Here's a question for drivers everywhere: what is the value of a functioning driver's side window? That's a question I now find myself debating as the great Chevy Malibu has left me in yet another predicament.

On Thursday afternoon, I noticed the power window switch was sticking a little, but the window was still functioning, so I didn't worry about it much. That night when I rolled the window down to open the garage door, the window initially wouldn't budge when I tried to roll it back up. I eventually got it closed, but I pulled the car into the garage and immediately made a very poor decision: I decided I'd roll the window down just a crack to see if it was still working. Sure enough, it wasn't.

The Malibu sat overnight with the window open about two inches. I was a little concerned about how Friday was going to play out--the forecast called for a snowstorm, and the car would be sitting outside all day. I pictured myself shoveling a snowdrift out of the front seats at the end of the day. Not to mention that driving down the highway with the window open--even a little--would certainly make for a very uncomfortable drive with temperatures below freezing.

Luckily, when I got into the car yesterday morning, the window budged a little more. It was still open, but the crack had narrowed significantly. I still left a towel on the driver's seat all day just in case, but the automobile gods apparently did me a favor after having mocked me for so many years, and the snow didn't start until after I returned home.

I dropped the Malibu off to have the window checked last night, and it didn't take long for them figure out that the power window switch had gone bad. A mere $20 covered the cost of having the mechanics check it out and return the window to it's full upright and locked position, but fixing the problem would cost over $200.

I decided to hold off on the repair, at least for now--after all, I probably won't be driving with the windows down for another six months when it finally warms up again. But the window has rendered the Malibu virtually useless for numerous situations--driving up at the bank, going through restaurant drive-thrus, sleeping in the car on winter road trips, and even opening the garage door at my apartment. So if you see someone standing outside, shivering near a tan Chevy Malibu at a fast food window or a bank, take a second look, because chances are it'll be me.

I'd like to say that the recent window debacle was one of only a few problems with the Malibu, but that's hardly the case. My stack of invoices from auto repair shops continues to grow, and I recently added up the total--in the past four years, the repair and service bills are pushing $6,300, not including oil changes. Granted, some of those repairs--new tires, realignment, etc.--are to be expected with an aging car, but $6,300 is an awfully high number for a car with less than 95,000 miles on in. Plus, that staggering total doesn't even take into account all of the unfixed problems plaguing the mighty Malibu.

The check engine light spends most of it's time glowing brighter than an expectant mother, the unfortunate side effect of a faulty catalytic converter, which would cost around $900 to repair. The Malibu apparently leaks oil like a defunct BP offshore rig, another problem with a $900 solution. And, of course, there's the recent $200 window issue. All that for a car with a Kelley Blue Book value under $2,000...and that assumes the Malibu is in excellent condition...which it very obviously is not.

Perhaps more frustrating of any of these other problems is the infamous "Theft System" issue, which first reared its ugly head in 2007. When the "Theft System" issue occurs, the engine won't turn over and a red "Theft System" light flashes for exactly ten minutes. The car won't start as long as the light is flashing, and when it stops, I get to try the key again. At that point the car will either start or the "Theft System" light will start blinking for another ten minutes, during which the engine once again will not start. So far, I've experienced several back-to-back Theft System delays, but never back-to-back-to-back delays.

After this happened to me a few times, I took the Malibu in for service, and several hundred dollars later, the mechanics claimed that they had "fixed" the problem. For over a year, I started the car without any Theft System delays, though I always wondered in the back of my mind whether the problem would return. Having Googled "Chevy Malibu Theft System problem," I knew that legions of unhappy Malibu owners had experienced the same symptoms with their cars, and not once had I read a complaint where the owner was able to find a mechanic who could permanently solve the problem.

As I feared, the "Theft System" delay returned in late 2008, then mysteriously went away again for over a year. About ten months ago, Mr. Theft System came back once again, leaving me sitting in my car, stranded for 10 to 20 minutes at a time, at least five or six times a week. I quickly learned two important lessons: (1) If I had something important scheduled and I couldn't afford to show up late, I needed to leave at least 20 minutes earlier than I otherwise would, and (2) time grinds to a virtual stand-still when you're sitting in a car, waiting for that *&#$% blinking light to go off. I always made sure to have some magazines laying around the car to help pass the time. Lucky for me, the Theft System problem returned to its dormant state before winter set in, but it's anyone's guess when it will strike again.

And finally, I reach the point of this pathetic tale: how on earth did the Chevy team who designed this monstrosity finally decide to name it "Malibu?" I've been driving this car for more than seven years and have yet to find a single similarity between one of the most beautiful, wealthy, and exclusive areas in the country and Chevy's sorry excuse for an automobile.


Ironically, if you drive through Malibu, California, there's a good chance that you won't find a single Chevy Malibu within ten miles of the city limits. General Motors should be liable for false advertising. If the design team felt obligated to name the car after an L.A. suburb, it would be far more appropriate if I was driving a Chevy Compton, or at best, a Chevy Van Nuys. Honestly, I really think they should have broadened their geography, because I can't think of a more deserving name than the Chevy East St. Louis.


If only it was possible to dig up an old transcript from the meeting where the geniuses at Chevy got together to brainstorm a name for this monster...I wouldn't be surprised to find a conversation that went something like this:

High school intern: "What do you guys think of this new model?"
Engineer 1: "This is the worst summer intern project ever--we'll be lucky if a single one of these cars makes it to 100,000 miles."
High school intern: "So you're not going to launch it?"
Engineer 1: "I didn't say that. Lucky for you, we don't have any quality standards."
Engineer 2: "What should we call this new model?"
Engineer 1: "Let's call it...the Malibu!"
Engineer 2: "Doesn't that seem a little misleading, what with the poor quality and all the design flaws?"
Engineer 1: "Who cares...with a name like Malibu, we could build this thing out of craft sticks, macaroni, and superglue and people would still buy it."

I find it odd that General Motors decided on such a grossly inaccurate name for this particular model, especially when their previous "Like a Rock" ad campaign for the Chevy brand was remarkably spot-on. When I think about large, awkward, immobile objects that remind me of rocks, the first image that comes to mind is my 1998 Chevy Malibu.


P.S.: You'll never find anything this entertaining on James's Africa blog. The closest thing you'll get to a transportation problem there is a story about an underfed pack mule or a flat tire on his Peace Corps-issued Huffy.

'Accidental' Furniture Theives and the Break Room Bandits

Last weekend when I went downstairs to check the mail, a flyer on the bulletin board above the mailboxes caught my eye, with "Missing" written in large, bold letters across the top. My initial hope was that one of the children in the building had been kidnapped--specifically, the crying baby whose crib apparently sits directly on the opposite side of the wall where I try to sleep.


Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the case. But what the flyer lacked in good news, it made up for with hilarity. Apparently a dresser went missing during a recent move-in. The theft itself wasn't the funny part, though. The best part? The building owner's reluctance to accuse someone of what was obviously an intentional act of theft: "If you have seen a small brown dresser or taken it by mistake..."

It's happened to all of us, right? You're sitting in your living room watching TV when something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head to investigate, and seconds later you find yourself wondering, "Where the *%@# did that coffee table come from?" You don't remember hauling the table into your house, so the only logical explanation is that you "accidentally" saw an unattended piece of furniture, "accidentally" asked a friend to help you move it, and it "accidentally" ended up in your living room.

I wasn't too concerned that I was living among thieves, but I shuddered at the realization that my work life and home life were unexpectedly colliding. I have no idea who stole the dresser, but I'm sure that person must work in an office, and they perfected their "accidental" thievery in the break room. How do I know this? I've witnessed an outbreak of similar crimes at work in recent months.

This past summer, as part of a week-long funding raising event, the organizing committee placed a small, car-shaped bank near the vending machines where people could donate spare change. By 9:30AM on Monday (the first day of the fund raiser!), a mass-email came out that read something like this: "It appears that someone has mistaken the red car bank in the south break room as a give-away. However, the bank was placed there to collect donations for the Diverity Week Fund Raiser. We understand how this accident might have occurred, but we ask that the person who took the bank please return it to the break room as soon as possible." The bank was returned later that day.

Less than two weeks later, the sales department held another event (referred to as T.O.S.S., an acronym for "Throw Out Superfluous Stuff"), encouraging employees to organize their desks, throw out old files, etc. In the middle of the afternoon, the organizers set large baskets of complimentary snacks in the break rooms as a reward for the day's clean-up efforts. Around 3PM, an eerily familiar mass email showed up in my inbox: "Would the person who took the basket from the north break room please return it. The basket was part of the T.O.S.S. event and was not intended to be a give-away." No word on whether the basket ever showed up again.

As strange as these events might seem, I really wasn't surprised--after a few years of work, I've noticed that my co-workers have turned the break rooms into earth-bound black holes. Anything--and I mean anything--that gets set in the break room is gone within seconds. Interestingly, it's the same group of culprits every time...a group relatively small in number but large in both body mass and circumference. Despite sitting nowhere near either of the break rooms on our floor, this group has somehow developed a sixth sense for detecting free food.

It would seem that these people have devised a thoroughly-planned strategy in which they "steak" out all of the conference rooms around lunchtime, hunting for meetings that feature a catered meal. The instant a meeting lets out and the leftovers are set out for the taking, it looks like a stampede of water buffalo. Once inside the break room, the scene that unfolds vaguely resembles an overweight SWAT team storming a crime scene. I'm waiting for the day when National Geographic photographers show up to capture this unique urban phenomenon.


The sad truth: it doesn't matter what gets set on those counters. All that matters is that it's free, and more often than not, it's food. Food safety concerns? Not for these portly scavengers. Mayonnaise sitting out at room temperature for nine hours? Not a problem. And I get the impression that the actual taste of the food is equally unimportant. I'd be willing to bet good money that a bowl of expired dog food sitting in the break room would get eaten, and it probably wouldn't take more than about fifteen minutes.

Normally this odd ritual doesn't concern me--I just try to stay out of the way as I admire nature's savage, twisted beauty from a distance, a scene reminiscent of a pack of hungry wolves tearing apart a carcass at mealtime. But the increasing aggressiveness of these break room bandits has become downright alarming. They've evolved from hoarding leftovers: they're now starting to dabble in blatant intra-refrigerator theft. If anything in the refrigerator appears as if it might be unclaimed leftovers, it's as good as gone. I've fallen victim to one of these attacks myself.

This past summer, I received a boxed lunch at at meeting. I had already eaten, so I set it in the refrigerator to take home that night. I even tried to stay one step ahead of my enemies and strategically placed the box inside a bag in the refrigerator. When I returned at the end of the day to retrieve the lunch, I found an empty bag. My brilliant plan had been foiled, and based on conversations with a few other co-workers, I wasn't the first victim of such a devious scheme.

These outlaws are surprisingly stealthy, which is particularly impressive considering their ample carriage--to my knowledge, not a single member of the gang has been caught in the act. If a witness ever catches one of the culprits red-handed and full-mouthed, I imagine the first excuse will be something like, "I thought it was free to take! I didn't see anyone's name on it!" Keeping that in mind, I now clearly label everything I place in the refrigerator with my name...though given the trend toward more aggressive break room antics, I'm not sure how long that tactic will protect me.

So what should we, the normal-sized, non-frenzied food fans do about this issue? I regret to admit that I don't have the perfect solution to this expanding problem. My only idea thus far is to take advantage of this opportunity for a potentially groundbreaking sociological experiment that will test the moral and gastrointestinal limits of the break room bandits. So far, I've tried unloading way-past-expiration Hamburger Helper samples that had gone ignored and forgotten in my desk drawer at work for more than a year. Once placed in the break room, they were gone within minutes.

In the coming months, I plan to expand this experiment, test my dog food theory, and answer a few other burning questions. Just how far past expiration is too far? Does "too far" even exist for the break room bandits? Would a sign marked "Not Fit For Human Consumption" sitting next to a plate of cupcakes even slow them down? It seems like a fair trade-off: they pillage the refrigerator, and society makes some important discoveries in human psychology.

Amish Rebels and the Original Hybrid Car

Who needs to move to Africa to find an adventure? On a recent day-trip to eastern Minnesota, I encountered plenty of unexpected excitement--no less than two entertaining, unrelated sightings within an hour of each other.

My first encounter was an interesting trailer on a rural highway:


Apparently the Amish have made great strides toward modernization since I last heard anything about them. My limited knowledge of the Amish had me believing that they lived without any modern conveniences--no electricity, no cars, no phones, and so on. Less than one year ago, I even spotted an Amish family riding along the shoulder of a highway in a horse and buggy in eastern Iowa. They're so common in certain areas that the Iowa DOT has installed special signs trying to prevent drivers from turning the buggies into Amish speed-bumps.


Yet somehow I found myself staring at the back of a trailer presumably carrying Amish furniture...a trailer being pulled by a truck, with a phone number and web address prominently displayed all over it. Did I miss something? I quickly came to the conclusion that I must be driving behind one of the greatest rebels in Amish history.

I imagine the driver of that truck is regarded the James Dean of the Amish community, zipping around the countryside in his horseless carriage, shamelessly flaunting his telephone and computer usage. During his childhood, that little rebel must have spent countless hours sitting in the corner, grounded, denied access to his butter churn by his worried parents.

Who knows, the driver probably designed his own website, too. In mainstream American society, "IT Professional" sits somewhere near the bottom of the list of sexiest jobs. But in this case, it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that Amish women are dropping out of their bonnets at the chance to roll in the hay (probably quite literally) with this wild man. After all, how could Amish ladies not be turned on by his blatant disregard for Amish authority, throwing caution to the wind as he plugs cords into outlets and horselessly transports himself around Minnesota?

Sadly, I never got the chance to meet this crazy Amish bad boy--he turned off the highway, and I regrettably failed to follow him. But my curiosity never faded, and I immediately checked out his website when I returned home that night (click fast, who knows how long before the Amish community tries to sabotage this sinful website). I have some bad news: the Sunrise Amish Store is going out of business. But visiting the website reaffirmed my suspicion about the rock-star lifestyle this guy must lead--his business is open on Sundays, and he accepts online orders...with credit cards! I'm still kicking myself for letting a golden opportunity literally drive away from me.

Fortunately, I couldn't wallow in despair too long, as I stumbled across something equally exciting in a a parking lot just a few miles away. As people focus more and more on sustainable living and protecting the environment, hybrid cars are quickly becoming commonplace on the roads these days. Most people are familiar with the concept of a hybrid car, which combines an internal combustion engine with an electric power source to improve fuel efficiency.

However, even the most knowledgeable experts are unfamiliar with the earliest versions of hybrid vehicles. I was fortune enough to encounter the original hybrid car in that parking lot that afternoon. I'll introduce you to my findings with a simple equation:

+

=

That's right, the original hybrid car didn't combine engine and electricity, it combined engine with animal. Where do you think the term "horsepower" came from? Clearly, some slow-witted car guy grossly misidentified an animal when he coined the term that has become the standard for measuring engine power. The moo-mobile's greatest feature? Never again do you have to worry about rising gas prices--just park this beauty in a grassy meadow and let it graze until the fuel gauge points to "F."

All kidding aside, I've gotta hand it to the driver of this vehicle. While most Geo Metro owners understandably hang their heads in shame while driving their glorified golf carts, this guy took the opposite approach and decided to draw as much attention to himself as he possibly could. And he didn't just take out the can of black spray paint and turn his pathetic car into a giant cow, he went the whole nine yards--you'll notice that the even the steering wheel and seats are sporting cow-print covers.

I really wonder how many auto accessory shops a person has to visit before they can find cow-print accessories to fully convert a car into a steer. I'm guessing the owner found himself in the middle of more than a few Abbott and Costello-esque conversations during his search:

Cow car guy: "I'm looking for some cow seat covers."

Salesman: "You mean leather?
Cow car guy: "No...cow!"
Salesman: "Yeah, leather comes from a cow..."

My only remaining question is this: when the tragic day finally comes and this vehicle reaches the end of it's useful life, does the owner have it stripped for parts or slaughtered?

Putting The 'Hug' In 'Hugo'

A few weeks ago, as I paged though and old issue of BusinessWeek, I came across an article titled "Chavez: Trading Oil for Influence" in the Global Outlook section. I normally skip over these types of international oil and politics articles, but something in the article drew me in...something I couldn't quite put my finger on at first. I started skimming through the article and learned about a developing alliance between Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez and Argentinian president Nestor Kirchner.

I tried to read on, but sure enough, the article was every bit as boring as I'd expected, and I couldn't force myself to continue. I did, however, realize what had caught my attention in the first place--it was the disturbing photo in the middle of the page. I flipped back to the cover of the magazine just to double check that it was, in fact, a copy of BusinessWeek that I was reading. Sure enough, it was. I flipped back to the article and looked at the image again, with it's caption, "On Good Terms." I'll say...



Is it just me, or does it look like Chavez and Kirchner are on the brink of a serious makeout session? If I remember correctly, I saw about six different scenes in Brokeback Mountain that started with the same longing gaze. I'm willing to bet that if I removed the caption and photo-shopped the faces of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal into the picture, Roger Ebert or even the ghost of Gene Siskel himself couldn't tell if he was looking at a photo from a BusinessWeek article or a screen shot from the movie.

There's certainly nothing wrong with two men hugging, but I think straight guys can learn an important lesson from this unusual image: if you're going to hug another man, deep, intense, emotional eye contact is not necessary. People are going to turn a suspicious eye when they see two men hugging in public, and staring into each other's eyes with what appears to be burning desire will only lead to further judgment.

Well, this ordeal has taught me that there's no point in reading outdated issues of BusinessWeek from late 2005. Thanks to the article, I now have recurring Hugo Chavez nightmares several times a week. I don't know much about international politics, but I feel justified in disputing the article's title. Based on the photo, I'd venture to guess that Chavez was trading more than just oil for influence.

African Observations

Until recently, my contact with James had been limited to a few emails and a handful of pictures since he left for Africa in June. I won't lie--I'm more than a little worried. Strangely enough, my concern has nothing to do with the release that Al Qaeda issued less than a month after his arrival, threatening to kidnap Americans in the part of Burkina Faso where he was living at the time. It was the photos that had me unnerved.

The first James-in-Africa photo I laid eyes on was a shot of James and Julie standing in front of their concrete shack in Karfiguela. At first glance, the photo looks nice enough...palm trees, an ugly but sturdy-looking shelter, and a few bikes.


But after taking a closer look at James, I noticed that he was looking abnormally scrawny. James wasn't exactly built like a linebacker when he left, but he looks especially sickly in this shot. Unsure if I'd just forgotten how small he was when he left, I asked a few others to take a look, and the first response I got was that James looked "30 pounds lighter than when he left." Hmm.

My second, and more alarming, observation was that both bikes are girl's bikes. Given a chance, I'm sure James would come up with some excuse and tell me that the Peace Corps only offers girls bikes, but I have a hard time believing that there are no men's bikes available in a country where bicycles outnumber automobiles by a 10-to-1 ratio. So apparently my brother is riding around a foreign continent on a girl's bike for two years. On it's own, I guess I could overlook that, but the next picture only added to my worries.



In this shot, James appears to be wearing some sort of traditional African pajama outfit that most Americans would probably mistake for a dress. Again, I might be able to forgive this lapse in judgment, but I regret to admit that's not the first time I'd seen James is something so ridiculous. I witnessed this monstrosity first-hand last Christmas:



So my brother is riding around West Africa on a girl's bike, quite possibly wearing a dress. The plot thickens...and my worry increases. And once again, the next photo I stumbled across offered little reason for hope. What could be worse?


That's right, it's a pair of tourists with matching outfits. This is the West African equivalent of the husband-and-wife couples you see standing at the Grand Canyon, wearing matching "I ♥ Grand Canyon" shirts from the local gift shop. I can only hope that the Burkina Fascists look at matching tourist couples with a less judgmental eye than we do here in America. But if National Lampoons European Vacation ever films a sequel in Africa, I have a recommendation for the casting director....

Then, clicking through more photos, I stumbled across this gem:


Going in, James knew the Peace Corps wasn't exactly going to pay top dollar for his efforts. But apparently his financial situation has deteriorated to the point that he's decided his last option is to attempt to launch a modeling career for Oakley's West Africa sunglasses catalog.

Have you ever seen images of Africa in National Geographic or on the Discovery channel? In those pictures and video clips, how many times did you see the poor, hungry Africans wearing sunglasses? Probably not too many...and now you know why. Who wants to look like that skinny foreigner posing barefoot on that rock over there? I guess I can take some comfort in the fact that he's wearing real pants...

The most relieving piece of news I received from James came in the form of a Facebook status update. Once I read this, I felt confident that at least one thing about him wasn't going to change while he's away:

Rather than venture out to the latrine when it was dark and rainy, I may have pooped into a plastic bag....

I can rest easy tonight knowing that some things will always remain the same.