The Lawnmower Man
When I was a young teenager, I had the opportunity to make a few bucks mowing a lawn a few miles from our house. The homeowner was out of town and didn't want the yard to get overgrown in his absence. My father drove me there and helped me get the mower started. As I began to tackle the tall grass, Dad yelled over the sputtering mower that he would return to pick me up in an hour or so, and then he backed out of the driveway and left.
It was a particularly hot summer day, and the afternoon sun shone mercilessly upon the unshaded lawn. Rivulets of sweat began to trickle from my forehead before I had cleared more than a few yards. The grass was taller than I would have liked, causing me to advance slowly. I pushed forward a little faster, eager to accomplish the chore as quickly as I could. A few feet further, the motor abruptly died. It was not a good sign, I decided, wiping my forearm across my beaded brow.
I Was A Private In The KISS Army
Today's Brain Buster: Which of these people might have trouble finding lifeguard work?
One October in the mid-Nineties, my wife and I were invited to a Halloween party. It struck me as a funny idea for the two of us to wear carefully applied KISS makeup but to otherwise make no changes to our everyday wardrobe. We set out across town along I-70, Julie sporting the Starchild design of Paul Stanley and me bearing the Demon likeness of Gene Simmons. We enjoyed the varied reactions of passing motorists, but upon arriving at the party, we were dismayed to discover that we were the only guests in costume. Rather than appearing ironically witty, we instead looked just plain stupid. When it comes to successfully pulling off such a stunt, there is safety in numbers.
I was reminded of the incident after traveling a few hours in the other direction on I-70 to catch KISS at the Indiana State Fair in Indianapolis on Monday. A friend and I arrived with plenty of time to enjoy the fair before the show, and during the interval we observed increasing numbers of KISS fans arriving in tour shirts, many of them wearing makeup and some outfitted in full stage gear. Though the more elaborately costumed provoked sidelong glances from average fairgoers, they also earned the admiration and support of their peers. In the strange world that is the KISS Army, cavorting about in costume makes anyone a sideshow celebrity.
Something (Fried) For Everybody
The Brothers Mothersbaugh whip it good at the Ohio State Fair.
"How many people believe de-evolution is real?" called out DEVO bassist Jerry Casale during a lively performance at the Ohio State Fair on Wednesday. Perhaps no other venue is better suited for procuring anecdotal evidence for the band's philosophy, as the fair was populated by a typical assortment of Ohioans representing a wide swath of the evolutionary scale. There to indulge their worst dietary habits were a number of vendors offering the signature fair food, which is anything that has been deep-fried. Beyond the traditional elephant ears, funnel cakes and french fries wafted the aroma of deep-fried candy bars, Twinkies, Oreos, Pop Tarts, peanut butter buckeyes and even garlic mashed potatoes. "If you fry it, they will come" seems to be the mantra of our state fair, and that may be as damning a tidbit of evidence for de-evolution as any.
How fitting, though, that amongst the fetid stalls of prize-winning livestock and numerous exhibits featuring the best of Ohio's diverse products should be a showcase for the Akron band that was not only ahead of its time but ahead of its place as well. Promoting their recent release, Something For Everybody, DEVO is enjoying a resurgence in popularity and long-overdue recognition for a unique and enduring artistic statement. They gave their home state an entertaining set that demonstrated the compelling mix that they have offered throughout their career: incisive social satire and infectious songs delivered with great technical skill and an irresistible sense of humor.
Cause And Effect
A golf ball sails across the fairway. A loaf of bread rests upon the cutting board in two neat halves. A balloon explodes as a child inflates it. Each of these scenarios suggests an obvious cause: A golfer has swung a club at the ball, a baker has applied a bread knife to the loaf, the child has exhaled more air than the balloon's capacity. The sailing ball, divided loaf, and exploding balloon are therefore the effects of their respective causes. All of this is so clear that it hardly warrants discussion. Yet the fundamental concept of cause and effect is often frustratingly elusive. At the risk of appearing smugly metacognitive, I ask the question, What is the cause of this misunderstanding?
Part of the problem rests in the brain's unceasing habit of inferring information regardless of the quantity or quality of the data it receives. Our minds are constantly mulling over sensory intake with a silent hmmm... and very often proposing unsolicited hypotheses preceded by maybe because... This phenomenon exhibits itself regularly in my elementary classroom, where I need only ask for the cause of, say, a fictional character's sudden wealth, and all at once a couple dozen young brains start churning. Some hands go up much too early in a competitive impulse. Should I call on one of the first volunteers, the odds are good that the chosen student will not have thought through the problem for the best answer. I can always tell this when a child starts to answer a question that requires a definitive cause by using the words Maybe because..., often said with interrogative intonation. In fact, so pervasive did this response become last year that I banned the phrase maybe because from our classroom whenever a clearly identifiable cause was readily available.