Walt-O-Matic

I like to get my hair cut at the same place by the same Korean barber; it’s enjoyable because he’s learning conversational English, and I find it interesting to get an outsider’s perspective on picking up the language.

He explains, “When on break, I listen to customer.” He points at various barber chairs, “Overhear conversation. Pick up words.”

I nod, “Any other ways? Like the radio?”

“No radio. Also TV. Tried listening to Friends. No understand – use slang.”

Empathetically, I could see how this would be a problem, especially with the double meanings and catch phrases. However, he had an ingenious solution.

“Instead, watch cartoons with son. Words simple. Words slower.”

It made total sense. Shows intended for children took things at a better pace and used a more trivial vocabulary.

“What cartoons do you watch?”

He hung his head in immediate shame. “SpongeBob.”

Quickly recovering, he mentioned that he had some problem pronouncing certain animal names.

“Could you give me an example?”

“Yes! You teach me.” He then took a deep breath: “Re-zeh-da.”

“Come again?”

“Rē. Zĕh. Dăh.”

“Is that English?”

“Yes. No can pronounce.”

“Can you describe the animal?”

“Uh, it has a head…”

“That’s a good start,” I jest.

“It has craws…” (I assume he meant claws, as he made gestured talons with his hands.)

“Is it a Lion?”

“No.”

“Tiger?”

“No.”

“What’s the first letter? R?”

“No. Reh.”

“L?”

“Yes, yes! Reh.”

What’s the next letter?

“Eh.”

“E?”

“No, eeeeeh.”

“I?” By this time I pulled out my iPhone and was typing the letters out.

“Yes. Next is zeh,” and he drew a big squiggle in the air.

“Z?”

“Yes!”

I’m looking down at the iPhone. ‘L-I-Z.’ “Not an O, it’s a Z?” He affirms.

Oh, I get it — LIZARD. The moment I saw the word, he brightens. I also see what’s going on. He can’t pronounce L, and it’s coming out as R. And he can’t pronounce ‘zard’ as one syllable, so he drifted the soft a into an soft e, and added a third syllable to account for the d on the end.

We try a few times, “Lih-zard” “Re-zeh-da.” “Lih.” “Re.” “L-i-h.” “Reeeeee.”

At this point a young Korean girl, also a barber, comes over with her hand over her mouth giggling. She doesn’t speak much English, but she says Lizard perfectly.

Apparently, she learned how to say it, and “taught” him a new word to torment him all day in order to watch him go through a linguistic nightmare, knowing his determination to get it.

It reminded me of the Prell shampoo reference in Drawn Together, where Ling-Ling describes his new shampoo as his worst lingual enemy, asking how “Plerr” can give his hair such shine and body yet leave his soul with shame and embarrassment.

For the record, I saw no “Plerr” in the barber shop.

Anyone who knows me is aware that power tools and I do not get along. At all.

Perhaps it seems from the time my dad handed me a huge power drill with a circle cutter bit on it with instructions to drill holes in dry wall so he could blow insulation into the wall. “What happens if I hit something, inside the wall, like a wire?” was my first question.

“Then, you simply let go. I can replace the wall, I can’t replace you.” Kind words, but seconds later I was about to learn it was a lie.

The first two holes went just fine, upon the third, I hit a stud, the bit seized up, but the torque on the drill was quite strong an unexpected, wrenching my arm in the opposite direction. So, I let go, and now the drill’s free weight on the bit snapped it, as the circle blade caught the dry wall and tore a huge hole in the wall. He wasn’t pleased.

Or, there was the time I went to vacuum up grout after laying tile. When I was done, I discovered I couldn’t hear — the noise of the shop vac had damaged my ears.

Hand held tools aren’t much better.

Hammers hurt when you miss the nail.

And there was the time I went to help climb a ladder and pry off the shutters with a simple screw driver to bring them down for painting and replace them, only to discover a wasp nest behind them, dropping the shutter, which was made of fragile plastic, shattering it.

Even something as simple as attaching stereo speakers can result in a bloody call to 911.

I’ve been instructed by those closest to me that I’m to always ask for assistance, and my job is to either boil water and tear sheets (though I don’t understand how this helps, but it does keep me busy in the other room away from the project) or go order a pizza.

Given the colorful language and injuries that would often happen from the wood-shop in the basement, even as a child, I knew that despite every safety precaution, tools were cursed. I hated assisting for this reason. Supervision didn’t help. Shop classes in high school only increased the danger. And the expanded vocabulary wasn’t one I was allowed to use anyhow.

Apparently there’s some code of honor, that it’s more important the project survive than the repair person. This difference of opinion is where I and those of the trade-craft part ways.

Do-it-yourself home projects are quite possibly the sole reason I chose software development as a career profession and then pay other people to risk life and limb. I won’t even go into what happens if I attempt to change the oil in my own car.

So you think I would have instantly known better than to freely offer assistance when my friend was trying to install a new oven ventilation fixture. However, this looked pretty safe, hold the unit in place while he manually screws it in. What could go wrong? Indeed.

In all fairness, I did explain my history with tools before we started. So, it turns out he was prepared to deal with my “assistance karma.”

The first step was easy: do nothing and watch. Observing that he was putting wire nuts on exposed wires, I asked the obvious question: “Is the power off?”

The answer was no, as that would impact other places in the house, such as the kids watching television. No problem, I’ve seen it done this way before, and I took a healthy step back anyhow. And, of course, for him, there was no shock or sparks.

Now it was my turn. Lift the unit up, and hold it in place. This, of course, required a gingerly touch as the wires were still hanging out of the wall. So as I slid the unit upwards, and he reached in with his hands and pushed the wires back into the hole.

Except that his hand didn’t fit. So he grabbed a metal screw driver and started jabbing at the wirenut, which promptly fell off.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it came undone,” I exclaimed as I was now holding a large metal box inches from a live wire while grounding myself through the gas stove with my groin.

We lowered it, tried a better wire nut, and I lifted it back into place. We used the unit itself to push the wires back, and now I’m holding a metal housing with heavy fan in place with outstretched arms, and it’s getting heavier by the second as muscle fatigue slowly sets in. Meanwhile, he’s got to go look for a longer screwdriver. In the garage.

I’m still good for holding, but not for long, and as he’s getting the first screw aligned, I start to smell gas. Then I hear a clicking sound. Then I hear a whoosh. I look down and I see that not one, but both burners on my side have kicked on, and my shirt, which is hanging over them, has flames shooting out of it.

“Need to stop, I’m on fire.” I say this calmly, trying to suck in my gut, but can’t let go because his head is under this metal box which is going to electrocute us both if I let it slip.

“Just a moment,” he tells me, “almost go it.”

“No, no, no. I’m on fire. Seriously, I’m on fire!”

He looks over sees what’s happened, and it would have been nice if he turned off the stove and then put me out in that order. But the stove gets turned off, and he holds the unit in place, and I go to extinguish my shirt.

Checking for damage, I see none, and it must have been the gas cloud that had ignited that shot flames out of my chest.

“See, you’re not on fire,” he reassures me, but I’m still checking for scorched cloth. I smell it.

Turns out, in order to catch any fallen screws, he put a towel over the burners. We lift it and discover two large round scorched circles. Had that not been there…

And just as I’m thinking that, he pulls it away so it won’t catch fire, should I unknowingly bump the easy-lite controls again.

He got one side in and switched to the other side where I was holding it. It looked like a vertical men-only game of Twister. This time, however, he brushed against the switch, and flames shot out under me again.

“Fire!”

He quickly turned it off, “wow, it’s easy to do that, huh?”

“Yeah. Screw.”

Anyhow, we get the fixture up and stand back to admire our work.

I’m not kidding, but about 30 seconds after that, we hear a large klunk, and the think falls on one side a few inches, wedging it in at an odd angle. The glue which held the screw support had given way.

He looks at me, “lets go watch a movie.” And we give up for the evening.

Of course, the next day I come over to see how the project is going, and this time he’s got bolts coming down from the top shelves. Brilliant. He’s going to lift it and push it into position, so while he’s doing that I get to push the wires back into the wall and then guide the bolts into the screw holes.

Only, I don’t get that far.

Just as I get my hand back there, “Bzzzzzt!” and I feel a familiar electrical shock — kind of like the time I tried adjusting an old fashioned television antenna but had my bare foot touching a heating vent on the floor. Apparently those are grounded, despite looking like they sit in carpet.

I pull my hand back, “I’m pretty sure a wire nut wasn’t fastened very well.”

“You get shocked?”

“That’s how I figured out it wasn’t fastened so quickly.”

So finally tally, to get it hung, I was set on fire twice and shocked once. This could have very well been one of my smoothest projects ever.

From Dec 20th, 2008 through Jan 3rd, 2009 the artists at ArtKlub have art on display at the Atlanta Bread Company near the Dulles Town Center mall.

This Saturday and Sunday various local artists, including myself, got to hang out, and chat with the public. We were even pleasantly surprised by the visit of Frank Cho.

During lunch, a young lady came up to me and asked me for my autograph and pushed a pad and pen in my hands excitedly.

Now although I have drawn comics, I’ve recently taken up more of an interest in photography, which I had on display. And while I have a heavy internet presence and can be found in some technical books, I doubted either of these were contributing factors and that she was just collecting names for the enjoyment of the experience.

So, I whipped up an original cartoon with her in it and signed my name. She was very pleased.

However, I wasn’t able to return to my lunch, because her considerably younger brother came up and mimicked the request. Almost.

“Can you have my autograph?”

I smiled, “Sure you can give me your autograph!” And I pushed a blank napkin at him.

He looked down at it and asked, “What’s an autograph?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to write it?”

He got all excited, “…yes!”

“Then,” I explained, “you have an autograph.”

At that point, he was simply thrilled and went running to his sister and accounted loudly, proudly, and slowly for all to hear: “I have an awe-toe-graph!” and kept writing his name to himself in his pad.

After returning home today, I hopped out of the car and saw our next door neighbor’s little girl raking leaves. Although the small child-sized rake still towered over her by a good foot, she was doing her best at the apron of the tree. Nearby was a small colorful pile.

“Make sure you only do the red ones.” I pointed at our tree, which was a solid bright orange. It was also the the only color of leaves scattered over our unraked lawn.

She looked up at her red sugar maple, which was littered in bright red and orange leaves, down at her pile, and pushed the rake away, “Why didn’t someone tell me that? I’ve been working all day!”

I quickly went inside. Mission accomplished.

So, I go to the polls to vote today, show my id, and the woman wants to know what kind of ballot I want.

“Paper or plastic?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Paper or electronic. I keep doing that.”

“Let’s do paper, it’s better for the environment.”

So, we’ve just finished eating at Arby’s and are backing out of the parking space when suddenly we see white van whip behind us at incredible speeds, clueless that we were in motion backing out.

“He almost hit us!” exclaimed our driver.

I looked out the rear view matter and read the sign on the van, which as now in drive thru. Point it out to the others, I stated “wouldn’t have mattered, it’s a Progressive auto insurance evaluator — we’d be reimbursed on the spot.”

I just had another keyboard mishap moment this afternoon.

A keyboard mishap moment is when you go to press one key, and you get two. Or you type one letter, and you’re off by a keystroke. Or, perhaps, you press the key, but it doesn’t register. Either way, you’ve hit the return key and the message is sent before you notice what actually was typed.

eMail saves us from such events. Instant Messaging, however, makes such mistakes permanent.

Here’s my earliest KMM memory, followed by today’s.

Back in college we had a classic computer room, with a mainframe sitting behind glass, run by operators, while the students were at lab benches working on terminals. I was friends with a number of the assistants. Of particular notice was one named Shelaine, who was a good computer scientist and an even better biologist that happened to have long blonde hair, legs to match, and who was one of the few people I ever knew who’s figure made spandex look good.

Each time she’d sit down at the console, someone would come up to the divided door and ask for a printout off the line printer. This continued for a quite a while, and at was apparent we were not going to be able to hold any real-time conversation at the time.

What I meant to type was: You look busy!

What actually happened was… my finger hit the Y key just to the left, and what I ended up typing and sending was: You look busty!

Of course there was no undo, my face turned red, and she grinned as she erected the most perky and flattering posture in my direction. She knew exactly what had happened, and played up every moment of it. Pretty evil, as neither of us ever had a thing for the other.

Today’s KMM might have been worse.

I work with an intern named Paul, and he’d been tasked with a very demanding job and and even more demanding deadline.

So, rather than bothering him for a status report, I thought I’d have a co-worker check on Paul without disturbing him.

What I meant to type was: How’s Paul doing?

What actually happened was… my finger hit the key, as I rolled off the O, but it didn’t register, and what I ended up typing and sending was: How’s Paul dong?

The answer I got back was along the lines of, “I don’t think that’s a very appropriate question for a work environment.”

As I’m leaving the local Sushi bar, one of the cooks notices me limping away and asks, “What happened to your foot?”

My answer back caused the entire restaurant to go quiet, “A firefighter kicked me.” Which, as it turned out, was the gosh-honest truth.

Here’s what happened.

My brother-in-law was helping to set up a commercial fireworks display for a local baseball game, and I got permission to go on site and take some photography of the crew and the display.

While I’m back there, I hear the crowd go wild, and a baseball comes flying over the fence. It lands and rolls away. After a few moments of talking, I ask, “Should I go get it?” And they indicate ‘why not,’ as that always happens and they pointed to one back over by the wall sitting in the grass.

So, I start walking over to it. As I do, I notice that there’s some lady (a term I’ll revoke shortly) way off in the distance behind me who’s running toward the ball. Turns out, it was one of the local firefighters who’s there every night there’s fireworks.

Figuring she’s had ample opportunity all season to pick up things flying over the fence, I sprint for the ball and easily get to it before her. As I go to reach down and pick it up, she shoves me.

Having a camera in one hand, I knock the ball away from both of us, run over to it, and plant both feet tightly around the ball so it can’t be dislodged.

She comes running over, and while I want to surmise she was “playfully” trying to kick the ball out from between my feet, she ended up kicking my heel in. And, from what I’ve recently learned, those boots have steel toes in them.

Eventually, I relented, deciding that to me it was just another piece of worthless clutter; I stepped back and let her have it. The ball, not with the back of a shovel, like I now contemplate.

Jerry Carr is a cartoonist, known for monkeys, babes, and the graphic novel Cryptozoo Crew, which looks like it may be made into a movie, amongst other things.

While visiting Jerry’s Facebook page, I saw his status message was set to this:

Jerry is freshly motivated after a day at the Jim Henson Muppets display at the Smithsonian!

Unfortunately, I couldn’t help myself. I had to comment on his wall:

The display you really want to see is “Muppet Bodies,” where they take a bunch of preserved, dead muppets and puppeteers and cut them in half, showing you the insides.

You can see how the tendons connect to the distal phalanges in order to produce more articulated facial expressions.

Note, though, there’s a special baby muppets section, which shows the progression of muppet fetuses, starting from a simple spool of thread and piece of fabric. A word of caution, it’s pretty emotional, because at the end are a small number of muppets with birth defects; it’s very sad.

Forgive me Jerry.

So I’m visiting my sister’s church, and after the service I go into the nursery to see if she needs help cleaning up. There’s one little girl left who’s about two years old and cute as a button; she takes an instant liking to me, sharing with me her impression of a lion right after accidentally bouncing a toy off my head.

The adults clean the room and my sister says she knows the parents and scoops the kid in her arms, heading back to the sanctuary to find them. The little girl waves to me playfully as she’s carried out the door to come join them.

When we get to the destination, there’s still a lot of people standing about and having conversations. My sister puts the little girl down who then looks up at me with doe eyes and says “Chase me!”

I tell her I’m tired. But, she insists, “Chase me!”

Fine. I take a false step toward her, and she squeals in delight and goes running down the aisle a few steps before she notices I’m actually not in pursuit.

Stomping her little foot, she declares, “Chase me!”

So, complying, I start to chase her at a slow pace where she’s sure to get away safely. She’s giggling and having the time of her life. She turns the corner, looks over her shoulder, and sees me.

“I’m gonna get you…” and I wiggle my fingers at her. She grins and runs off, with me slowly following.

Then the unexpected happens.

She turns the next corner, goes running up to some set of couples in a post-service conversation, and declares “He’s chasing me! Protect me.” Next thing I know, they’re putting themselves between her and me in a very “I need an adult” kind of manner. I quickly discover that this is one of the pastors’ daughter. While, I, on the other hand, am a stranger that no one at the church recognizes.

Great. Just great.

“She told me to…” I start to explain, and now it’s clear that it’s my veracity that is being tested. The fact that people have cell phones in their hands and 911 on speed dial isn’t helping.

That’s when I see my sister and the pastor who’s the father having a really good laugh at my expense across the room.

Once the group saw that, and joined in, the little girl’s asylum was forfeit; now the chase was real.