Dr. Zin

Zin AWOL

2008-04-20T10:33:00.004-04:00

Old Zin has been AWOL for quick AWHILE. Just busy with other projects, including one of my favorite annual events. I'm a host and foster host for several Flat Stanleys every year about this time. This year I'm hosting Stanley O from nephew Orry Butler in SOCAL and also Orry's pal Jason and his Stanley J. We go on adventures and I write stories with pictures for the boys weekly. It is a great deal of fun, especially since these are second graders and I have just about a second grade aptitude - at least that's what my wife says. You know what I mean, burps and farts are still hilarious.

I fit right in with the Stanley boys and their mythical pal Walter.... the farting dog. Really. Walter has several books of his own and everything. Here Stanley O and pals Walter and Colonel Sanders play pirate.

Stanley O and Stanley J don their peep bonnets for Easter.

Lydie

2008-02-01T19:29:00.000-05:00

2/3 towards Dr. Whaley PhD

How Did I Miss This?

2008-01-06T20:20:00.000-05:00

Envy

Only not in America

2008-01-01T11:04:00.000-05:00

The other day, a co-worker asked me if I'd ever heard of this stuff. He said a distant cousin mails it to him from Australia. Talk about needing a fix...

Milo

In The Bull's Eye

2008-01-01T10:54:00.000-05:00

It is winter. And it is western NY.

As The World Turns

2008-01-01T10:40:00.000-05:00

Niece and new elf. As niece's hubby puts it, "Made in San Francisco".

Plum Goes West

2008

2008-01-01T10:15:00.000-05:00

It's time to turn over a new leaf. I haven't been blogging much for, oh, the last year or so. I miss it - not that I have anything interesting to say - just that I miss the echo chamber that is a personal blog. Beside that, I need to take some new pictures, the others are a bit dusty.

I decided to change my theme and blog layout, so plan to experiment with both for a while until I find something that suits me.

There is plenty of news at the Zin links.

Happy New Year to all. Make 2008 a great one, I plan to.

It Depends On The Meaning Of Cold

2007-04-12T11:01:00.000-04:00

Where is that scoundrel that claims we are entering into an era of global warming? I'd like to visit a sharp head slap what for on him/her.

It's been 30 or less every day of April so far. It's snowed three times this month. I'm headed out to watch my daughter play lacrosse and I'm bound head to toe in winter gear. What gives?

I'll bet Rosie knows something about this.

Blogger Experiment

2007-04-12T10:45:00.000-04:00

Blogger now provides an option to blog in different languages. OK. So I clicked on the options page and scrolled to English (UK). What happened? Nothing so far as I can tell.

I think I'll try Irish English next.

Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.

Harpooning a Pig

2007-02-10T08:23:00.000-05:00

It's been snowing and freezing in Zinland. One of these days I'm going to get harpooned with one of the giant shards of ice hanging from the side of my house. Must diet. I'm becoming too big a target.

Holy Jaysus

2007-02-10T08:15:00.000-05:00

Admittedly, I haven't been visiting the Zin spot much, let alone blogging, but what's happening here? I show up today only to find that Blogger has been taken over by Google. Google? Is there a place in the sphere these people haven't invaded? I want my blog back.....damnit.

Nearly There....

2006-12-12T22:01:00.000-05:00

Constipation affects almost everyone at one time or another.
Many people think they're constipated when really they aren't.

I'm Almost........Back

2006-12-12T21:55:00.000-05:00

Ptui.

Almost back from my third time under. Beginning to surface...

Watch Your Back

2006-06-28T10:25:00.000-04:00

World famous Afghany proctologist and adventurer Assia Bakass is planning to embark on a two year research project to document how kebobs process through the human digestive tract.

Assia recently completed development of a personal anal probe (pictured at left) to aid his research.

Assia is currently interviewing potential study volunteers.

The Dog Ate My Paper

2006-04-24T10:54:00.000-04:00

Last week I lost an important piece of paper.

I thought about blaming it on the dog since dogs have been put on this earth precisely to take blame for any number of things humans don't want to ‘fess up to. Things like unfinished homework, missing M&Ms, mysterious odors and such.

Dogs make this blame game simple. Most dogs are so loyal they’ll gladly accept responsibility for anything so long as there’s a biscuit or a pat on the head at the other end. They like rewards so much, I swear they smile in anticipation. In fact, they smile even when they know they’re about to be punished. I believe I once saw our dog smile just before she stretched out to sniff a guest's crotch. Happy dog – bad dog.

We have a New Dog. We took him in shortly after our Old Dog died and was processed into road gravel. You see; my wife has a recurring nightmare of her deceased pet lying atop a smoldering pile of other people's deceased pets, so she figures a complete cremation is best. When I bury the decorative canister in the back yard, we’ll know exactly where to find Old Dog if my wife has one of her pet nightmares. I only wonder whose road gravel is really in the tin.

Back to New Dog, who really isn't all that new. Just old enough to have peed on someone else's carpet until he learned that it's less painful to do that business outdoors. The real trick for New Dog now is learning when to eat or drink in order to match up bathroom breaks with the schedule at our home. To avoid a painful mistake.

It's difficult for me to imagine why New Dog looks so happy and nonchalant when, minute by minute, he's adjusting to unfamiliar human rituals. First, getting acquainted with two evil cats that already lived at the house. Then wondering if he had his testicles removed as punishment for eating half a bag of M&Ms he found on the floor. After all, the bag of candy was on the floor because the cats dragged it off the desk. New Dog watched the cats do it and apparently figured it was a peace offering.

New Dog also seems to understand that my loafers are off limits and probably don't taste as good as they look. Evidently, it's not worth a sore ass to find out for certain. He hasn’t so much as sniffed at them. On the other hand, he had no problem ratcheting up the courage to sample my wife’s expensive wooden knitting needles and my daughter’s eyeglasses. He received a strong tongue lashing for both.

I guess with New Dog, it may be about risk and reward. Considering New Dog’s attitude, I guess I’ll blame him for the important paper I lost last week after all. He probably won’t mind.

I Want One of These

2006-03-25T09:10:00.000-05:00

Seems like a lot of work just to catch poo. The PS geniuses at Worth are at it again.

Amazing Technology

2006-03-10T16:26:00.000-05:00

My friend Stan invented this nifty device to determine how many actual dog chomps it takes to draw blood through a mailman's britches. Even used his own dog.(I know from the name on the tag)

Plumber Thong

2006-03-05T22:09:00.000-05:00

When Peeps Go Bad

2006-02-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

Spring Training

2006-02-19T18:24:00.000-05:00

Westminster Blues

2006-02-16T15:13:00.000-05:00

In a radical move to boost sagging ratings, Westminster Kennel Club will add Malamute Ballet to next year's televised competition.

What To Get The Girl Who Has Everything

2006-02-14T08:29:00.000-05:00

Dog Fark

2006-02-11T15:26:00.000-05:00

Hmm...

2006-02-11T15:22:00.000-05:00

..which head should I wear today?

As Baby Boomers Age...

2006-02-09T16:00:00.000-05:00

..they'll redefine "blue hairs".

Origami Hunt

2006-02-05T12:02:00.000-05:00

I Knew It!

2006-02-03T14:52:00.000-05:00

Now, Be Honest

2006-02-01T13:13:00.000-05:00

Who remembers this?

THEME SONG
The biggest show in town is Huckleberry Hound
For all you guys and gals.
The biggest clown in town is Huckleberry Hound
With all his cartoon pals.

It's Huckleberry fun, it's for everyone,
So come on, gather 'round.
Get yourself all set,
Turn on your TV set
For Huckleberry Hound

That oh, so merry, Chuckleberry,
Huckleberry Hound.

OR THIS? (click pic)

Madonna and Child Redux

2006-01-30T16:30:00.000-05:00

Got Milk?

2006-01-29T10:08:00.000-05:00

Gene Pool Pollution

2006-01-27T13:33:00.000-05:00

No one in the family talks much about Uncle Fred anymore.

How Was Your Day?

2006-01-26T16:50:00.000-05:00

Avant-Guard

2006-01-25T12:36:00.000-05:00

Dog Lust

2006-01-19T15:32:00.000-05:00

Batter Up

2006-01-19T14:15:00.000-05:00

Airhead

2006-01-19T14:02:00.000-05:00

Truth in Advertising

2006-01-18T14:50:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Coke Side of Life

2006-01-18T14:34:00.000-05:00

Ever wonder what the bears do when they're not making commercials?

Winter Doldrums

2006-01-18T10:06:00.000-05:00

It’s Wednesday, so I have a perfunctory rant/rave. Sort of.

Wednesday is as good a day of the week as any to rant and/or rave. It’s now the mid-winter high point, which in western NY, late January, means cabin fever has firmly taken hold and there remain only 45 days of claustrophobic cloud cover before March snowstorms commence. If that doesn’t slip one into a ranting/hysterical raving mood on a late January Wednesday, nothing will.

I generally reserve rants for squirrels, feral cats or neighborhood busybodies. The serious subjects of life, to be sure, but not necessarily on everyone’s radar. Most ranters/ravers tend to get preoccupied with subtler life issues; work, family, macramé and IRAs. What is the purpose of ranting over such arcane issues, I ask you? In the scheme of things, the latter will haunt us our entire lives. The former, on the other hand, offer a quick guerrilla hit and retreat rant opportunity. I’m after instant gratification.

Take squirrels, for example. I hate squirrels, which in retrospect, could have something to do with the fact that I have six black walnut trees in my yard. And a handy detached carriage house, suitable for these nut-thieving rodents to store their fall booty.

Every spring I shovel piles of discarded walnut shells from the inside corners of my beloved carriage house, all the while bristling at the audacity of squirrels I imagine sitting around with a smile on their mug as they enjoy walnut fruit at my expense, under cover of my carriage house roof.

And, every summer, I examine the structure in minutiae for potential points of entry the interlopers have used; a hole large enough not only for the squirrel, but also to permit a sack of whole walnuts to slip through.

I have yet to find such a hole, which leads me to one of two conclusions. Either the squirrels have perfected a means of spiriting themselves and their nuts through walls or one of them has a key.

This past summer I committed to all-out warfare.

I made an important discovery during the off-season: dried, concentrated, organic fox pee. The disproportionate heft of the small container I ordered over the internet suggested its ultimate level of concentration. I imagined something nuclear, with a half-life of a several millennia but, no, the label stated that the ingredient inside was simply concentrated fox pee, suitable to scare any varmint that might have reason to be concerned that there is a fox about. That would include squirrels, of course.

The label also suggested that other urines, namely bobcat and coyote are available and should be employed if the problem happened to be an invasion of domestic cats, armadillos or javalinas. Not this year.

The label conveniently pointed out advantage of powdered urine over traditional liquid.

-Powdered urine is less messy than liquid urine

-Powdered urine won’t evaporate or freeze

-Urine granules are naturally moist for better “clinging”

Oh, and this important safety tip: This Product is NOT For Human Consumption. Interesting. I made a mental note.

All that remained was to sprinkle the pee pellets on paper plates and place strategically around the inside of squirrel central.

So far this winter I haven’t seen hide or hair of trespassing squirrels nor are there any discarded walnut shells. Heh, heh. Varmints in the crosshairs.

I did, however, find this unusual calendar hanging on the wall.

Emma the Cat

2006-01-12T12:26:00.000-05:00

Daughter eldest has a new friend.

Mysterious grey and inquisitive; dangerously so.

Cruel Hats

2006-01-11T10:58:00.000-05:00

What happens when you swallow your pride?

Inventors Gone Wild

2006-01-11T09:56:00.000-05:00

Pup tent for poopers.

Crystal Cats

2006-01-08T12:03:00.000-05:00

Phun with PS.

Overheard in Starbuck's French Roast Aisle

2006-01-07T14:28:00.000-05:00

He: "Ah, madam, your eye is so like your uzzer eye, your legs are joost like zee fine sculptour, your breasts, ah mon amour, your breasts are firm like ballons de eau. I shall make sauvage love to you until you can take it no longer, oui?"

She: "Stick a sock in it, Froggy, and take your grimey hands off my French Roast."

He: "Your mother, she was a hamster and you father smelt of berrie de elders." Sniff.

She: "Yeah? Well, smell this."

He: "Holy merde!"

Yep

2006-01-02T13:26:00.000-05:00

This was the guy in front of me at the bank drive-thru this morning. He stuffed what looked like 10 transactions into the tube and we waited...

Last Year's Christmas Hash

2005-12-31T16:33:00.000-05:00

There is one Christmas mystery I've never quite figured out. I mean, I was made straight on the old Santa Claus thing a couple of years ago when I caught my wife putting presents under the tree on Christmas Eve, but there's another piece of Christmas folklore that haunts me to this day. I've witnessed the results of this phenomenon personally on several occasions but haven't a clue what's behind it.

The Mystery of the Fallen Christmas Tree.

It always happens at night. No one in the house hears it. I'm certain that has something to do with the age-old philosophical maxim that asks, "if a tree falls in the middle of the parlor and there's no one around to hear it, does it make any noise?" Obviously, it does not.

My wife was surprised and horrified this morning to find a large ornamented pine lying horizontal across the beloved antique baby grand she bought and restored a couple years ago. Ornaments were strewn about the room like discarded toys, many in pieces. She launched an f-bomb volley at anything that moved. There arose such a clatter, I stumbled downstairs to see what was the matter only to find my wife in a heap at the base of the fallen tree.

We immediately roped off the scene and began picking up ornaments and remnants of ornaments. After an hour, we righted the tree and finished collecting the victims. Some went off to the graveyard, others to Santa's repair shop.

My wife glared in my direction; the accusatory "if you had set the tree up right in the first place, this wouldn't have happened", dagger thrust directly at my heart. The tree stand was not the problem.

It might have been a different story 500 years ago, about the time Germans simultaneously invented beer and tannenbaums. After a few brews, Wolfgang and the boys would axe-whip an evergreen and drag it back to the hut, just for fun. When it tipped over on baby Wolfgang's head, no harm done. Just another loin girding medieval life experience. The inventor of the Christmas tree stand didn't come along for another hundred years or so because, there was simply no need.

But since that miraculous invention, Christmas tree stand technology has become rocket science. Tip-free stands are the gold standard. It's not possible to tip a tree when its trunk is properly trussed into the tree stand. And mine always are.

As far as I was concerned, the latest tree tip was much more likely an egregious act of criminal vandalism. I put myself in charge of the investigation.

I interrogated the dog for half an hour. Predictably, the dog had nothing worthwhile to offer. Nor did suspect number two. My questions were met with a stone-faced silence.

The hue and cry for justice was deafening and I was not about to take the fall on this one, so to speak. I decided something had to be done; something that would take the heat off me and discourage any possibility of tree tipping in the future. It was necessary to make an example of someone or some thing. Guilty or not, suspect number two was my some thing.

The die was cast and the fate of a random innocent was sealed. Justice was swift and harsh.

I warn you, one image is rather gruesome.

Two weeks ago.

After vigilante justice was carried out.

I can only hope I don't have to revisit anything so ugly anytime soon.

Rest in Peace, Tannenbaum.

Winter In My Neighborhood

2005-12-27T19:20:00.000-05:00

Hand Shadows

2005-12-22T15:58:00.000-05:00

I Understand

2005-12-21T08:36:00.000-05:00

Some guys are always on the lookout for natural-looking "hair in a can."

I suffer from genetic hair shortage but refuse to indulge in hairpieces or spray-on hair flock to cover my head, especially after watching one of those infomercials showing 5 or 6 guys seated in barber chairs having flock applied to the back of their heads with high pressure hoses. Those guys actually believed that a mixture of recycled pop bottles and super glue embedded in the back of their head somehow looked natural.

Another option to repopulate a naked pate are those hair plugs one can have planted in one's head like so many tulip bulbs. It takes years for the hair to fill in between the plugs and in the end, it still looks like hair taken from one's ass; which is exactly what it is.

My personal favorite hair replacement technique is the "snap on" hairpiece. Guys actually have metal snaps surgically implanted in their head to mate up with the the snap halves attached to the underside of the faux hairpiece. Not good if you spend a lot of time passing through airport security.

I confess that I stayed with the trapdoor hair thing too long. You know the style; bald on top and longer on one side, which required that I threw the hair up over the top, hoping the hair would stay anchored to my opposite ear. This rarely works outside the lab. Any sort of breeze will unmask you and expose your vanity to glares and chuckles. I decided to abandon this style the day I saw a guy cruising along in his convertible with a shoulder length shock of hair trailing from one side of his head.

It was then that I decided to go with the buzzed Bruce Willis look. It's low maintenance and inexpensive. I order a "number 3" at Abby's Hair Barn and can be in and out in less than ten minutes.

I gave up the male hair ego trip a long time ago and am a happier man for it. If it works for Patrick Stewart, who am I to disagree?

Now, on the other hand, I take my musical preferences very seriously.

The Good Lake

2005-12-20T12:02:00.000-05:00

My oldest daughter spent her first two years of college on the shores of Lake Champlain, a large, black body of water that inhabits a vast expanse between New York, Vermont and Quebec. Not only is Lake Champlain large by regional standards, it’s the main topic of a great deal of local debate.

Many of the “Champlainers” who live along its shores consider Lake Champlain the sixth great lake, albeit a runt among peers. The other five Great Lakes are much fatter and longer, difficult to miss on any map of North America. Lake Champlain most likely would be a mere footnote on that same map, so it’s difficult to make a case for Champlain on size alone. Still, the disciples of Champlain’s greatness persist in their efforts to add their lake to the troupe of greater Lakes Michigan, Ontario and their sister lakes.

Unfortunately, the bureaucratic classifiers of lakes refuse to categorize Lake Champlain officially as a Great Lake, presumably relegating it to only a “good lake”. And I must admit, to my ear the evidence supports the good lake line of reasoning.

I loved to visit Lake Champlain and the water's edge town of Plattsburgh where my daughter Lauren spent her first two years of college. The only obstacle getting to the good Lake Champlain from Rochester, interestingly enough, was the gigantic Adirondack Park.

The shortest, most picturesque and, many travelers say, enjoyable path from Rochester to the good Lake Champlain is a two lane highway directly through Adirondack Park, from the southwest corner to the northeast corner, the breadth of the largest park, state or national, in the contiguous US. Roughly six million acres of land and one thousand lakes in all.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several years ago I had a noteworthy adventure at the expense of my daughter and the Good Lake...True Story

Experts recommend that when traveling by car during the winter, it’s prudent to take extra precautions in case a mishap leaves you stranded, isolated in cold weather conditions. They suggest that blankets, boots, hats, gloves, shovels and extra food should be included alongside the everyday essentials stashed in your car.

I figure that an extra coat and a candy bar will do nicely for my leisurely six-hour pleasure trip to Plattsburgh.

My daughter is packed and ready for Christmas break. Although she’s six hours away in Plattsburgh, I can imagine her sitting on the edge of her bed and I hear her tapping foot inside my head. I detour from the office to pick up the extra coat and candy bar at home, hardly listening to the radio snarl about a snowy prediction spinning toward Rochester. Since I’m headed in the opposite direction, I convince myself the extra coat and a candy bar is more than enough preparation. Warm shafts of winter sun are passing through my windshield, warming my hands on the steering wheel. For Rochester in mid-December, it’s a decidedly good omen as far as I’m concerned.

I reach the New York Thruway about 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon and grind out the first two hours through western New York’s occasionally green farmland; now asleep, uncovered and brown from frost, lying contentedly along the northern edge of the Finger Lakes. Fueled by coffee, loud music and arrogance, I’m five miles over the speed limit and just two hours from Adirondack Park, making pretty good time.

Within a mile of the official Adirondack Park border, as if by fiat, snow is heaped in the underbrush. By the time I officially pass over the threshold to the park and onto a two-lane road, snow is stacked twelve inches high near the trunks of winter’s bald birches and shaggy firs. I put in at Old Forge, the unofficial snowmobile capital of New York and official door to the Adirondack Mountains.

The countryside is coated with snowmobiles, some racing around like insects in noisy swarms. Others cruise in slow lines, showing off like hot rods coasting the main drag on a Saturday night. Everything from custom painted shells atop yellow fluorescent front spring suspensions to delicate sporty coupes with fancy nameplates.

I’m driving the only four-wheeled vehicle within sight and suddenly, I’m collecting stares from all the snowmobile drivers and passengers within gawking distance. I feel embarrassingly conspicuous, as if I’ve schmoozed around a party for an hour only to have the host delicately inform me my fly is open.

I slink into Gas Town behind a group of snowmobilers who are following a Barbie pink sled driven by a precisely pink rider masked in a head-to-toe pink snowsuit, matching boots and pink helmet. I park my four-wheeler as far from the snowmobiles lining up at the gas pumps as I can, retrieve my second coat from the back seat and pull the hood over my head in a miserable attempt to blend in.

The inside of the Gas Town Quick Mart looks disheveled and smells like Twinkies. A display of windshield washer fluid marked “clearance” is leaning precariously, about to tip. In its own display, prominent on the left, some bags of potato chips sit sideways while others sit upright above the rest, like an anxious young hand raised to be chosen first.

“Looks like a busy night.” The clerk I’m speaking to looks up from the combination gas pump controller/cash register he’s punch-starting long enough to take me in before going back to the keys. He steals a quick glance out the window at the pumps before returning to the machine to silence a couple irksome beeps.

“You frum outta town?” he asks. Before I can answer he jabs me again, “Were always this busy at Snowfest, s‘ar biggest holiday nexta Christmas. You got ‘a sled and ‘a costume?”

“No, actually, I’m just passing through on my way to Plattsburgh.” I’m anxious to end the banter that seems to be going nowhere I want to go, since I really could care less about sleds and Barbie costumes.

“Man, you got ‘a long haul ahead ‘a ya. Better gas up, there ain’t much between here and there this time ‘a year.”

I’m relieved he doesn’t look up and notice the blood draining from my face. “Yeah, I might as well top off my tank. But, I’ve made this trip in the winter before, it’s not bad,” I lie. “Is there a pump for cars?”

“Nope. Just pull in behind them four guys dressed like clowns”, he snickers. “Wanna prepay, or use ‘a credit card at the pump?” he asks, finally looking up at me again.

“No, I’ll use my card. Thanks. Do you have any fresh coffee?” Which is why I bothered stopping here in the first place.

“Nope. Just beer and pop. In the cooler over there behind the chips and stuff.” He pokes a greasy finger in the general direction of the chip display before being recalled to the keypad by another beep.

I pull my car in behind the clowns. Beer and clowns on snowmobiles doesn’t sound like a healthy combination to me.

Ten miles out of out of Old Forge the snow is moose-hock deep and shadows have sucked away any leftover daylight. My headlights chase the curves and hills of the road but every time the lights catch up, the road runs off in a new direction. Fortunately, the road is clear and dry and I meander through the curves and up and down rises with an easy sense of confidence. Oddly, whenever I near one of the numerous unseen lakes I remember from previous trips, a mysterious fog envelopes the car for a few seconds, then quickly melts away.

Yellow reflective deer signs are whizzing by regularly. The ones with a large antlered buck leaping toward the side of your car. Vandals often take it upon themselves to make the buck appear “anatomically correct”, making the thought of colliding with one of these beasts even less appealing. The leaping deer signs become interspersed with signs depicting an odd looking, large and blocky pedestrian.

I sit bolt upright with fear when it dawns on me what these signs portend. As if a leaping buck is not enough to be concerned about, rounding a curve at fifty miles an hour, I might freeze a five hundred pound blocky pedestrian in my headlights. I hit the brakes as I round the next curve and take a direct hit from a second bolt of terror.

Black ice, the bane of winter driving. Daytime snowmelt-turned water that stealthily finds the low spot in the road and freezes into a sheet of nearly invisible ice by night. I picture my four-wheeled sled losing traction, careening over the hill and plunging to the bottom of some uncharted prehistoric crevasse. I’ll never be found; or worse, I’ll be discovered by a ravenous carnivore or an amorous black bear on break from hibernation to satisfy pent-up carnal urges.

My brain is roiling with dull-witted visions of dangerous, unfamiliar creatures. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen another car for about thirty minutes. I’m alone in the middle of nowhere. A tang of serious concern rises to my nostrils from my open shirt collar. Maybe I should pull over at the next town and collect myself. “Stop it,” I spit. “It’s only another two hours.” “Eat your candy bar.” I think I will.

Another thirty minutes pass. At long last I come upon another car and it’s coming toward me from the opposite direction. The driver seems intent on getting to Old Forge as quickly as possible because the car is speeding along in total disregard for black ice or wandering carnivores. “What a nut. Obviously he hasn’t been paying attention to those idiotic signs.”

Finally...I spy a sign up ahead with words instead of silly images. Welcome to the Hamlet of Blue Mountain Lake. I creep into town, passing through a small bank of fog. There must be a lake nearby. But there are no lights, only signs in windows stating the obvious: Closed for the Season. “What season? Season of ravenous carnivores? Car-jacking black bears?” “What?” Wait, another sign.

You Are Leaving the Hamlet of Blue Mountain Lake. “But, I just got here,” I whine. “The next burgh better damn well be a full ham, with a few permanent residents” The candy bar is one of those half-pound Snickers bars and it tastes like crème brulee.

Presumably in a state of self-induced transcendental hypnosis, I manage to navigate another thirty or forty miles before a ghastly light flashes, triggering an uncontrollable episode of rapid eye blinks before I recover my night vision. “What the hell is that?”

I’ve come over a hill to be greeted by bright mercury lights burning around a dozen or so used cars in a muddy lot. Must be a town. With lights. And a stoplight. And a pedestrian on the corner. An unusually large blocky form wrapped in a bulky coat with a hat pulled down to his eyes. He smiles at me. He appears to have most of his teeth. They’re bright and squared off, unnaturally so. The light turns red. “Damn.” I slow down and stop at the intersection and my hand glides to automatic door lock switch. Click. Sigh. He doesn’t move, so I do. Through the still red light.

The sign ahead reads: Welcome to Saranac Lake “Delighted to be here.” I push through town with a renewed sense of purpose and a distinct feeling I’ve just avoided terrible misfortune. I’m most of the way to Plattsburgh. Another hour to go in the company of many fellow travelers, in four-wheeled sleds just like mine. I honk my horn at a couple just to prove I’m friendly and happy to make their acquaintance.

I break the final crest in the road and fall into the lights from the City of Plattsburgh. The final approach down the hill to the city breaks me into a smile because, through a cut in the lights ahead, there’s a large inky blackness. The good, no, the Great Lake Champlain lies beyond.

What A World

2005-12-18T08:45:00.000-05:00

It's hard to remember what life was like before the wankers who write email ads invaded my Inbox. Just how on earth did I manage to get by day-by-day before the avalanche of life-enhancing add-ons became available?

I don't recall what I was doing the day that a top team of British scientists and medical experts developed a state-of-the-art Enlargement Patch for my kershmizzle. I was probably considering painfully expensive surgery or replumbing old Mr. Johnson to squeeze out that last smidgen of extra performance. Who could have imagined that a simple patch would do the trick? It's good that I discovered that magical patch before I placed my manhood in someone else's hands. Someone much less willing to guarantee results in 30 days or less.

Then there's my anemic stock portfolio, languishing in mediocrity before the tip came across advising me to sell all my assets and invest the proceeds in the next Microsoft. I mean, think of it - a world-class tech support team designs an innovative suite of turnkey web design templates that empower small business owners to quickly establish a personalized online presence. Katy Bar the Door when that stock goes public; I plan to be riding atop the crest to serious personal wealth.

And where do those folks find the lost stockpile of prescription drugs and Rolex watches they purchase at half price in order to offer me such outrageous savings? I don't recognize them, but they obviously know me. "Hey, Zin, your old pal Martha here, with a deal you simply can't refuse."

At the end of the day, however, my favorite email offer is the one that encourages me to meet and telecommune with nubile babes around world. Some don't even bother translating into English; but I understand nonetheless. The language of pornography is universal, I suppose.

Life without email ads; it seems like a world ago.

Today

2005-12-16T11:39:00.000-05:00

It snowed last night and today is my birthday. I get to spend it with my lovely wife and wonderful children. This makes me very happy.

Cold On The North Coast

2005-12-14T16:41:00.000-05:00

Two Bits

2005-12-14T15:27:00.000-05:00

Modern sculpture that spans the chasm bewteen art and hygiene. Oh, and captures a chunk of cat in the process.

Brilliant!

2005-12-14T15:06:00.000-05:00

I Know What Really Happened

2005-12-14T15:02:00.000-05:00

Catasses

2005-12-14T14:16:00.000-05:00

I love refridgerator magnets. Really. A sample from my collection.

Who Needs Turduken?

2005-12-14T14:08:00.000-05:00

When you have canned chicken.

Long Season

2005-12-13T18:39:00.000-05:00

The Buffalo Bills' season crashed and burned, leaving disappointed fans searching for answers.

Why The Dog Left Home

2005-12-13T18:37:00.000-05:00

Tube Steak Pate

2005-12-13T17:13:00.000-05:00

Next time you get invited to one of those fancy neighborhood soirees, do what Dr. Zin does - wow 'em with a culinary masterpiece.

1 Hotdog, slightly cooked
1 Teaspoon dried smegma
8 Saltine crackers
1 Dollup mayonnaise
Hershey's chocolate sauce

Put all ingredients except crackers and chocolate sauce into blender and spin vigorously. Lather onto saltines.

If they don't like it , add Hershey's chocolate sauce to taste.

Brilliant!

2005-12-12T15:51:00.000-05:00

Zin's Holiday Shopping Guide, Part Deux

2005-12-09T15:44:00.000-05:00

These babies were flying off the shelves. Arrived just in time to snag one for the guy down the street whose dog craps in my yard.

Zin's Holiday Shopping Guide

2005-12-09T15:39:00.000-05:00

Did a little Christmas shopping at lunch. For son Matt:

Curves Ahead

2005-12-09T14:13:00.000-05:00

Holiday Recipes

2005-12-06T15:33:00.000-05:00

One of the favorite things about the Christmas holiday for me is the food. Whether it's my mother's deliciously mysterious cookie recipes or the cholesterol laden thrice baked potatoes with "everything in the world that could block your arteries" thrown in for flavor; I live for that two week span between Christmas and New Years when circulatory caution gets thrown to the wind.

I've said before that most families hold on to traditional recipes for decades, even centuries. There's undoubtedly recipes in my wife's repertoire that date to a time when her ancestors were hunters and gatherers. The dead giveaway to this is when no one in the family can remember where a particular recipe came from.

This food tradition is great for family members because it's the glue that holds holiday traditions together over generations; sort of a "eating history", if you will. Recipes that are seldom written down but, instead, passed across generations by word of mouth. If they are written, it's usually in some strange dialect and scribbled on ancient parchment.

These foods represent a real danger to non-family members who haven't had an opportunity to build up resistance over time. The consequence of eating another family's ancient recipes can be disastrous, if somewhat embarrassing. Just imagine spending the post-holiday meal retching uncontrollably in the only open bathroom in the house; the one near the family room where everyone else has gone to digest their holiday meal.

So, in a tribute to all the gagging son-in-laws the world over, I dedicate the following dishes that could be some family's favorite holiday food.

Camel Heart Tartare.
Certainly a recipe that dates to prehistoric holidays when one had to eat what one killed on the spot. Without the luxury of fire. The other animal delicacies probably went early to the biggest and strongest hunters and this less desirable organ would inevitably get tossed to the children's rock.

Nose Fries
Invented by little Danny Doyle in 1986 while sharing a not-so-traditional holiday meal with his grandparents at a local Denny's restaurant. Little Danny was performing the popular "French fries in the nose" routine when he caught a heavy wiff of pepper.

The rest, as they say, is culinary history.

Buffalo Chip Cookies

No one is certain where this recipe originated. Many culinary historians suspect it was created by a tribe of plains Indians. Whatever the origin, Nestles' later bought the rights and created a less pungent version, renaming it Nestles' Toll House Cookies.

Happy Holidays and... safe eating.

Girl With Mother - Whoa

2005-12-04T17:30:00.000-05:00

This is a fine example of art which does not represent reality as seen by the human eye. Abstract is simply not a strong enough term for this piece.

This impasto has no fewer that fifteen distinct color layers, some lathered on by trowel and others apparently deposited from some distance away.

Note the primary facial colors and sharp highlights. The demonic eyes match the lip hues perfectly. Hair color is complimentary...of something unknown to Zin.

And the unusual hand of the mother, what can be said about that? Truly baffling

Sure to become a classic.

Greason's Seatings

2005-12-04T17:10:00.000-05:00

With Christmas and New Year holidays,comes the inevitable annual party and seasonal merrymaking with co-workers. This unavoidable social affair takes form as the Office Christmas Party.

"So, Zin, what did you think of this year's bonus schedule?"

"There's a schedule?"

"Sure. Watkins and me hit it big this year. I thought for sure you'd be on the 'A' list too."

"What the hell is the 'A' list?"

"You're kidding, right? Me and Watkins shattered our sales goal this year. That's 'A' list, buddy."

The only thing I figured you and Watkins shattered this year were a few kneecaps with all the floggings you dished out to the secretarial pool.

"After a performance like that, what are you and Watkins planning for next year?"

"Ah, Zin, I don't know about Watkins, but I've got my eye on a new Beemer and on Barbara over there. I think I can afford them both this year. Nice. huh?"

"Nice." You ass.

There's something about mixing alcohol and morons; the volume heads toward drum punctures and the content goes to horse dung. Thank goodness I won't have to go through this for another year.

The "official" portrait of this year's sales employee of the year.

New Feature

2005-11-30T14:46:00.000-05:00

As a tribute to those, shall we say, "artistically challenged" among us, Zin will occasionally post some really bad art. All entries come unedited, directly from the Museum of Bad Art.

THE ATHLETE

If Cats Could Talk

2005-11-28T21:55:00.000-05:00

This is what they'd say.

Who Said That?

2005-11-24T14:02:00.000-05:00

Ain't Got No Turduken

2005-11-24T10:14:00.000-05:00

We didn't go with this year's trendy Thanksgiving feast; seafood dressing stuffed inside a boneless chicken, stuffed inside a boneless duck, stuffed inside a boneless turkey. What will they think of next?

I think I know.

My brother, our family's holiday cooking specialist, has his own version in development. The final recipe is still hush-hush but I understand that at least two of three ingredients are road kill. The third may be a pocket pet. Can't wait.

Special Thanksgiving greetings go out to all family and friends and especially to cousin Dan in Iraq.

Have a wonderful holiday!

A Matter of Taste

2005-11-21T08:16:00.000-05:00

It seems that the celebration of Christmas comes earlier every year. I don't know if it's true loathing of Thanksgiving and leftover turkey sandwiches or a lack of interest in the Macy's Day Parade now that Macy's has diluted the brand with Bon-Macy's, Burdines-Macy's, Goldsmith's-Macy's, Lazarus-Macy's and Rich's-Macy's. Who knows?

What I do know is that neighborhood exterior decorators now skip right from Halloween into Christmas. The puckered, gap-toothed pumpkins disappear the same day the strange nodding white deer show up to graze in select lawns. The deer often hide among a stand of circular-wound lighted trees that roughly resemble miniature evergreens.

The timing bothers me but perhaps only because I have to look at these holiday aberrations longer every year. On top of it all, there's simply no accounting for taste.

Traditional Christmas decorations have been elbowed out by a mob of swaying fan-powered PVC lawn Santas and digitally choreographed metal trees performing synchronized lighting themes in a spiral of multi-colored flashes. Strobes blare emphasis on house mounted wreathes and flapping red ribbons.

I'm an "old fart" Christmas holiday traditionalist. In fact, I'm so old I remember the strawberry-sized bulbs that came only in primary colors. I probably have a few strands stored away in a box of old Christmas decorations someplace, because they were non-disposable.

The light strings required a careful examination every year before they went up. Blown bulbs would be replaced carefully so as not to bounce the lights off the floor and ruin otherwise functioning bulb filaments. Bulbs with chips in the color would be replaced with shiny new ones, mindful of keeping the proper color sequence. The light strings were designated either strictly for outdoor use or inside only. I'm not sure why, they looked the same.

The inside bulbs had handy metal clips attached to the base of the bulb. This made for handy attachment to the tree branches so that the bulbs could be judiciously placed for proper spacing and color mix. A talented tree lighting specialist was considered an artist.

Once the lights were mounted to the specialist's satisfaction, the second team would come in to hang the ornaments and tinsel. Ornaments required the same equal spacing and the tinsel would be hung one strand at a time to get the right look. No shortcuts.

Crusty old curmugeon I am, over the years I've conceded the large bulbs and tinsel to strings of small disposable lights and garlands. Lights are mostly white now, but that's strictly a matter of personal taste. The multi-colored lights don't throw me off.

I prefer a few window wreathes and have caved to the icicle lights that hang classically from the eaves and follow the roof outline around the house. My sacrifice to tradition, I suppose. I just can't abide the swaying PVC lawn Santas.

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2005-11-17T19:26:00.000-05:00

Sorry about all the messy html. Team enroute to fix.....@@@!##$$%$%%%$

Dr. Zin's Weird Science

2005-11-17T12:45:00.000-05:00

Ever wonder where yellow snow comes from?

Cat Humor

2005-11-17T12:01:00.000-05:00

"If you want a dog to take a pill, tape it under another dog's tail."

Oops

2005-11-13T12:32:00.000-05:00

-The trebuchet was invented to serve hot meals to soldiers stuck at the rear of the column.

-Carrier pigeons were summarily shot for delivering bad news, hastening their extinction in France first.

-Hitler alternately wore men’s and women’s underwear on alternate weekdays . Weekends were reserved for “freefall”. Stalin wore fur-lined underwear every day and kept fire ants in them.

-The Scots wore kilts so they could poo while they retreated.

-On his way to the executioner, King Charles I invented slouching.

-On his way to the guillotine Louie XIV invented Crab Louie Salad. He kept the recipe in his head so it remained undiscovered for many years.

Pucker

2005-11-13T10:03:00.000-05:00

"Wow, that juice is tart"

Cats and Dogs

2005-11-11T14:42:00.000-05:00

"So, whatchu doin' after the shoot, big guy?"

Whence the name, Dr. Zin?

2005-11-09T12:04:00.000-05:00

That’s the question my friend Camy asked after her first visit here. By the way, Camy’s blog is linked at the right. Go visit; she’s a wonderful writer. And go visit my niece, Plum, also a peach of a site. First, back to the question of Zin.

Camy’s question came up before I changed the text under the Dr. Zin title, so a better question might be: “Whence the name, Dr. Zin, and what on earth does he have to do with Mark Twain?” Good question. First, Dr. Zin.

It’s a story from my last birthday. In the last few years I’ve taken to celebrating birthdays with a few close friends, friends I can bribe with good whisky to buy their silence. My last birthday was something of a milestone I’m told, so I decided to gather up my brother Joe and best friend Jon for some harmless debauchery fueled by whisky.

Brother Joe, best friend Jon and I holed up in my kitchen with the door to the rest of the house closed, choking down a gallon of Jack Daniels (Sorry, did I say good whisky? My best friends aren’t that particular, which is why they’re my best friends. And, they have a tendency to blab anyway. Jack is plenty good enough for those reprobates.).

Sometime around 2:00am the conversation swerved/stumbled/swayed into the 60s TV cartoon, Johnny Quest, and our collective, trivial, alcohol induced, inspirational wellspring began to bubble.

Yeah, Dr. Quest, Race Banon, Johnny and pal Hadji, with Hadj’s magical climbing rope trick, all drowning in the noise of that annoying, constantly barking little white dog. What was his name? We worked feverishly to brand that animal. The breakthrough finally came when I decided I’d hop down to the floor, bay and bounce around, offering a bit of inspiration to my saturated pals.

At this point brother Joe, certain we’d forget all this great material by morning, began taking notes. For posterity, of course. However, either his pen malfunctioned or, more likely, the nerve synapses in his hand lost contact with his arm synapses, his shoulder and finally with his brain. By the next morning his notes and creative artwork looked like some form of hieroglyphics and was, mostly, unintelligible. Except for two items.

Apparently, we had decided that the stupid white dog’s name was Badger. I’d rather not say how we arrived at that conclusion, but at the time, we were fairly certain on the point. Secondly, no matter how many brain cells we bathed in Nectar of Jack, we simply could not recall the name of the evil genius that stalked Race and the boys every Saturday morning. The bald guy with the cool henchmen. And that’s exactly what brother Joe’s note said – “henchmen”.

In another life, I’d be that bald guy with the cool henchmen. In fact, I’m working on it in this life. If you knew brother Joe and best friend Jon a little better, you’d appreciate that I’m off to a decent start.

As for Twain, I simply believe that he’s one of America’s greatest authors and probably her finest chronicler of the human condition.

Twain has nothing to do with Dr. Zin, and the dog’s real name is Bandit. Heh, heh.

Haven't Quit Yet

2005-11-08T19:11:00.000-05:00

I just returned from a long business trip to discover that my wonderful niece, le Plum has added me to her blog roll. This immediately threw me into an uncontrollable fit of French. Always happens when I'm under pressure to perform.

Ma ni'¨ce, la prune m'a identifi. Maintenant je dois produire beaucoup des mots ©crits ainsi ses amis ne me trouvent pas pour ªtre un ªtre terrible.

Don't bother trying to translate, my French is horrid. Roughly, my niece has put me on the spot (which is OK) to produce much words that make no sense so her friends wonÂ't consider me an awful bore.

I'm flattered, nonetheless. Thanks, Kris.

Ciao'

Cruel Shoes

2005-11-01T12:57:00.000-05:00

Dr. Zin's prescription for restorative arch support.

Cloven Horrors

2005-11-01T10:12:00.000-05:00

Why parents should not trick-0r-treat with their children.