Farmer Bone

I've always said I wanted a garden.

Turns out just saying it doesn't mean it gets dug, planted, watered, blessed by a priest, and whatever other steps are involved in facilitating fresh vegetables springing forth from God's green.

No, it's kinda like saying you want to climb Mt. Everest.  It's a nice thought, but unless you buy climbing gear, do numerous smaller climbs to prep, happen to know a good Sherpa, and many other steps I'm sure, your chances of ever scaling the Lhotse Face are slightly less than your chances of winning the Powerball.

After moving in to the house and actually having a yard for the first time in twenty years, my agricultural dreams -- unlike most of my other dreams -- seemed on the verge of coming true.  Time and home improvement projects would not allow for it last year.  So all winter I set my sights on this spring.

Then it rained for approximately 28 of the first 25 days in April and apparently standing water, while ideal for starting the world's largest natural mosquito habitat and malaria hotspot, is not good for planting.

There was also an issue finding a tiller.  While many people I know have a garden, not a single one had a tiller I could borrow.  "Oh, John Brown comes over and plows ours every year."  Unfortunately, I didn't know John Brown from... well, John Brown.  And even if I had, I'm fairly certain his tractor wasn't fitting through the four-foot wide gate in my back fence.

Renting a tiller didn't work, either.  We'd reserve one, but then had to call and cancel.  Again because of that pesky little 28 days of rain.

Then one day it hit me: If there was going to be a garden, I was going to have to dig it myself.

There are few realizations I hate more than the one where you realize if something is going to get done, you are going to have to be the one to do it.  It's right up there with "I'm going to have to confront this person" and "This toilet water is rising instead of going down" amongst my least-fave realizations of all-time.

But I was going to have to do it.  Old school.  By hand.  Like MacGyver.  Surely you remember that time MacGyver had to dig his own garden?  No?  Maybe it was one of the lost episodes.  Pesticides and hormones in commercial produce were the enemies.

Yes, I would MacGyver a garden right there in my own backyard.  First step?  Go to Lowe's and buy a shovel.   (This was the last season of the series when MacGyver was just mailing it in mostly.  It was sad to watch.)

Then I started digging.  And digging.  And digging. I dug a hole about 9 feet by 6 feet and roughly a foot deep.  It gave me a whole new appreciation for those people on "Forensic Files" who dig a hole to bury a body.  Unlike those lazy criminals who just dump it off the side of the road and down into some ravine.

I dug so much I got a callous!  My first, I believe.  Thankfully, some Aveeno did wonders for that.  (I'm pretty sure Aveeno was probably a big sponsor of MacGyver.  And now we know why.)  

My hamstrings hurt like they'd been beaten a thousand times with a cane by one of those women you saw on a video you accidentally came across years ago on the internet who whip people for sexual gratification.  But you could only watch like four seconds of it because it was 1998 and you still had dial-up.  Not that you tried.  I never remember MacGyver having hamstring problems.

During my 72-hour hamstring recovery period, I was able to ponder my next move, which would obviously be implanting my seeds into Mother Earth.  Though exactly when and how deeply I was unsure.  I asked, but again, there didn't seem to be a single garden Sherpa amongst my circle of family and friends.

But I'd forgotten about one friend that I knew.  The garden Sherpa warehouse: Lowe's.

And suddenly I was shoveling manure, per their advice.  Two 50 pound bags of pure cow malarkey.  I always figured I'd wind up shoveling manure at some point in my life, I just never thought it'd be voluntary.  (MacGyver refused to do the manure shoveling scene, which I believe is why the series was canceled.)

Finally it was time to impregnate the Earth.  Which I did, with seeds I had purchased from another man.  (It briefly occurs to me that perhaps there is a better way to phrase this?)

With lotioned hands and hopeful heart, I now wait for God to give the increase.  For the Earth to swell and spring forth with pesticide-free vegetables, which I and "Chad" from Lowe's hath made together.

The miracle known as life.

"Hey farmer, farmer, put away that DDT now / Give me spots on my apples / But leave me the birds and the bees, please..."

The time Google saved me 300 bucks

Blogust rolls on. We're on our 4th consecutive day of over 100 degrees here. Don't tell anyone, but I secretly love the heat...

One night last week on my way to go for a run, the keyless remote wouldn't unlock the car door. Shifting seamlessly into MacGyver mode, I used the key-shaped object attached to the remote and was somehow able to manually unlock the door. I figured maybe the battery in the remote had died.

When I got to the park, I noticed something else askew. The interior lights wouldn't go off. I opened the door and closed it again, took out the keys, got out of the car, closed the door and waited for thirty seconds. I did everything but march seven times around the car blowing a trumpet. The lights were still on.

Finally, I discovered if I turned the dimmer switch all the way down until it clicked, the lights would go off. However, this meant that they wouldn't come on when I opened the door. And also that I would scarcely be able to see the speedometer, gas gauge, and most importantly, the radio, when driving at night.

Befuddled, I googled a couple of things and found a site with several suggestions of things to try. Such as, disconnect the battery for ten minutes, check to see if a button in the driver's side door might be stuck, take out all the bulbs, sell the car for scrap, etc.

The situation grew even stranger the next day when I discovered that nothing on the driver side door panel worked: mirrors, windows, door locks, my Dixie horn (kidding!), nothing. So I decided to call Dad and see what he thought. He said he'd drive over Friday afternoon to look at it.

In the meantime, I googled again with my new details. This time I found a site where a couple of people had suggested that there was a short in a ground wire in the driver's side door.

Well, long story slightly shorter, that ended up being exactly what it was. After removing the rubber boot from the door revealing a cluster of wires, we found a large black one that had been completely snapped in two.

All that was left was a trip to Radio Shack to give them my phone number and pick up some crimps and extra wire. Total cost, about ten bucks. So thank you, fixya.com. And thank you, Google. You are amazing. I predict that pretty soon, people will be performing medical procedures on themselves.

I can see it now: "I'm sorry, Mister Bone, but it appears that you used AskJeeves to perform your self-tonsillectomy. Unfortunately, that is not one of the preferred-search engines covered by your insurance."

As we got into Dad's van to go to Radio Shack, he put on these huge sunglasses. Before I could say anything -- and believe me I was going to -- he spoke.

"Are these women's glasses?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so."

"Oh me."

"Let me see 'em." I tried them on and looked at myself in the mirror. "Yep, they're women's."

"It's hard to tell the difference."

"Yeah, it is sometimes."

"Well," he continued, slipping the glasses back on, "I went back and bought a different pair, but I still wear these in the car."

So in closing, if you should see a 60ish man driving around in a white van with Paris Hilton glasses on, I don't know him.

"Fixin' up my car, workin' for a livin'. Drive down to the seashore, lookin' at the pretty women. I'm an American boy..."

The simple plans of mice and Bone

Sunday night brought an unexpected visitor to casa de Bone. I was downstairs on the couch when I spotted it out of the corner of my eye darting in front of the staircase.

A mouse! In my house. Eww!

After an involuntary full-body shiver, I went over to investigate. At which point, it ran back behind the entertainment center and presumably into the utility room. And there's no hope of finding it in there because, well, you could lose a small child in there.

After another full-body shiver, I pondered my next move. I didn't have any mouse traps or other rodent-inhibiting devices. In all my years of living on my own, this is the first mouse I've had. It was like 11:30 so I wasn't really up for a Wal-Mart trip at that point. Besides, I figured why pay $2.49 for something I should be able to do myself.

Well, it turns out that virtually all my knowledge of mice comes from Tom & Jerry cartoons, so I decided to pay my good friend Google a visit. Using what I learned spending a couple of minutes on there along with knowledge gleaned from years of watching MacGyver reruns, I began to construct my very own mouse trap.

My crude-but-efficient homemade trap consisted of some cardboard, a small bucket, an empty toilet paper dispenser, and a shelf I had left over after I put my DVD case together a few months ago. I have debated whether or not to share a picture of my invention with you here, as I've yet to file a patent application. With that in mind, I would just ask that you use great discretion as I unveil for the first time in the history of blogging, a photograph of my homemade rodent capturing mechanism.

Behold, a mouse's worst nightmare:



Not bad, eh? (This is where I pause a few seconds with a proud, cheesy grin on my face to allow you to admire my handywork.) I mean, what rodent brain could outwit this marvel of human ingenuity and resourcefulness?

Since I am fairly certain most of you have never seen anything like this before, let me explain how it works. Ideally, the mouse will run up the black piece of wood to the first step, then up the cardboard to the second step. It will a then enter the toilet roll dispenser on the left side to reach the a piece of delicious feta cheese which I have strategically placed on the right side. (Do mice like feta? That's all I had.) However, little does the mouse know that I have left the dispenser teetering on the edge of the stairs so that the weight of the mouse will cause it to go tumbling into the bucket. And down will come mouse, feta and all.

And so, the trap was set. I retired upstairs to my bedroom, barely able to sleep knowing the rodent was scurrying around, but at least it was downstairs. Wait, mice can't climb stairs can they? Don't answer that.

Monday morning, I hurried downstairs with great anticipation, fully expecting to find the trap sprung and my mouse problem solved. Unfortunately, it was just as I left it. Disappointed but not defeated, I left it in place and hoped that maybe something would happen while I was at work.

No dice... or mice, as the case may be. (I think the main problem is that there were no MacGyvers where he had to catch a mouse.)

Unable to stand the thought of sleeping another night in my rodent-infested abode, I broke down and journeyed to Wal-Mart. I purchased some kind of twist-and-set traps that enclose the mouse so you don't have to see it, and also some of those sticky pads.

I set one of the traps in the utility room and placed four of the sticky pads in various hot spots I thought a mouse might go. (That got me to thinking about prepositions because a teacher once told me a preposition is anywhere a mouse can go. So I lost a few minutes there. But I digress.) That was Monday. This is Wednesday. Still no mouse.

So the commercial traps didn't work. The homemade trap didn't work. Or did it? Because while I haven't caught the mouse yet, I also have not seen the mouse again.

Here's what I'm thinking. (You may want to sit down for this.) Do you remember that anti-theft device for cars, it was called The Club or something? And in the ad, it said when theives see The Club, they move on to another car.

Well my friends, that's exactly what I think has happened here. I think that mouse came out of its hole Sunday night, saw this intimidating yet magnificent contraption, and said, "(Expletive) this (expletive), I'm going to another house!"

I have just invented The Club, for mice. The ultimate rodent-deterring device.

At least I hope that's what I've done. Otherwise, my next option may be to don some pied clothing and start playing a horn.

"Come on, babe, can't you see? I'm the Pied Piper. Trust in me. I'm the Pied Piper. And I'll show you where it's at..."

Car Wash: The Remake

Today on IYROOBTY, we are proud to announce a modern-day, updated version of a true cult classic, Car Wash. Keen observers and film aficionados may notice a few inconsistencies between the new version of Car Wash and the original. This can mostly be attributed to the fact that I never watched the whole movie.

Really, this is more like a mime version of the original. It stars, coincidentally, a guy named Bone, and naturally, a car wash. The setting is on or about July the thirtieth, two thousand and eight. Here's a brief summary, or a lengthy detailed description. Whichever.

Act The First:

Our star, Bone, is driving around with bugs on his car, a not uncommon human dilemma. He has waited patiently for three days hoping for rain to come and wash the bugs away, but the land remains dry and dusty. Tired of public ridicule and people writing "wash me" on his vehicle, our star decides to take action. The express drive thru car wash is already closed for the evening, so he pulls into the self-service car wash, thinking he'll spray off the car for a temporary fix. (Yes, you can tell what he's thinking by his miming. He's really good.)

Act The Second:

This scene begins with a wide angle view of the car wash, which shows someone washing another car in an adjacent bay. There has been speculation that this someone is one of the original members of Rose Royce, but at this time, that is still unconfirmed. The camera then pans to a close up of the control box and a sign that reads: "$1.50 to start. Extra quarters mean extra time. Quarters must be deposited before time expires."

Our hero (notice how our star has now become our hero) then retreats to his vehicle where he opens the top of a container, revealing a hidden treasure of quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and napkins. And not just any quarters, but new ones like Oklahoma and New Mexico. (NOTE: Despite an internet leak, this is not the story's climax.)

Our hero deposits nine quarters into the slot, figuring that will give him ample time to spray off the car. After soaping and rinsing the entire car with the super high powered jet sprayer, and in the process speeding up the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome by one thousand percent, our hero discovers that the machine is still running. The camera pans to the foam brush across the bay.

Act The Third:

Still in the car wash, our hero flips the knob to "foam brush" and a hot pink--how shall I describe this--well, foam starts coming out in clumps. In a flash, Bone rushes over and begins to cover the car in pink foamy goodness.

Unfortunately, there is no "time remaining" indicator. Somehow our hero senses his time may be short--not on this Earth, just in the car wash. So he returns to the vessel of loose change, retrieving three more quarters. He deposits them into the slot, but it is too late. The car wash has stopped.

Distraught but not defeated, our star--who was once compared to a young Danny Glover--returns yet again to the vessel of loose change. Using his lone superpower--ability to solve simple math problems without the use of pen and paper--he figures it will require three more quarters in addition to the three he has already deposited to start the car wash again. He has figured correctly.

A thorough foaming is followed by more high powered rinsing and carpal tunnel acceleration. This is definitely the action scene, which includes frequent splattering of the pink foam onto our hero's otherwise manly ensemble of distressed slightly below the knee cargo khaki shorts, bright orange and white fitted striped polo, and American Eagle flip flops. (Can you say endorsement deal?)

Act The Fourth:

Still at the car wash, rinsing is almost complete when the not unthinkable happens. The time has expired again. It is here where our hero appears to yell something. However, to preserve the integrity of the mime performance, this audio has been omitted. It is unclear what he says, but in this instant he appears to be less than enamored with the vehicle cleansing contraption.

And here we have the great conflict in our story. There is still foam on the grill of the car, as well as part of the hood and front quarter panels. Our hero grapples with the decision of whether to spend $1.50 more, or whether to drive out of the car wash looking like an idiot with pink foam covering the front of his car.

Deciding his twelve bits can be put to better use someplace else, our hero devises a plan. He will try and drive really fast on the way home in hopes the suds will blow off his car. This leads us to the requisite car chase scene. Except it's not really a chase. Just a single car race. Against normal human behavior and common sense.

I Plead The Fifth:

(SPOILER WARNING!!!!)
Our final act opens with our hero arriving home. He gets out of the car and walks to the front, appearing both hesitant and anxious to see if his plan has worked.

It has not.

Whether foiled by the 30 mph speed limit or the fact that it was only a four block drive from the car wash home, it is unclear. Our hero is once again down. The pink foam still clinging to the front serves as a sudsy reminder of his latest setback.

Displaying amazing resilience, learned from losing thirty consecutive games of Othello online, this modern-day MacGyver comes up with one final plan. He goes inside and soon returns to the parking lot with a pitcher full of water.

Our final scene shows our hero standing in the parking lot of his apartment complex at 8:30 in the evening pouring a pitcher of water over his car, gracefully and successfully washing away the remaining pink foam. Twelve bits none the poorer.

Who's the idiot now.

"Let me tell you it's always cool. And the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool..."