Pitching a Tent

MESSAGE FROM THE HANK SMOOT FILES EDITORIAL STAFF: Yes, we know that the title of this posting can take on a different meaning, but rest assured this blog entry is about a literal tent. Hank had originally considered calling this entry "Erecting a Tent," which we thought would be worse yet.

If you ever see me, and you think that I'm in a really, really good mood and I need to be brought back down, just suggest that I go out and attempt to put up a new tent.

This winter we ordered a new tent through an incentive program offered by our bank. For every dollar we spend with their debit cards, they give us "points" which we can redeem for fancy merchandise. For example, $100,000 gets you a fancy shirt with the bank's logo on it. After about 17 years and trillions of dollars worth of collecting points, we earned enough to get a new tent.

Our old tent was getting a bit worn, as I noticed by the stream of water that flowed through it the last time I used it during a rain storm. So the new tent has been sitting in the basement for several months, waiting for me to get up the nerve to try to put it up.

Little Smoot and I retreated to the back yard the other night, and after some degree of toil, we managed to form the materials into the shape of a tent. Little Smoot was very excited about the whole thing, meaning that she has been bugging me non-stop about going camping since then.

The bad part of the deal is trying to get the damn tent back into the impossibly small bag that it originally came in. I suspect that the people at the Coleman company hide a camera in each bag so they can watch people attempt this stunt, knowing full well that it's impossible. They'll use the footage for entertainment at their annual Christmas parties.

Anyway, after using a series of winches, wrenches, wenches and witches, I managed to get the zipper closed with the tent inside. And then, naturally, I realized that I still had a whole bunch of other accessories -- strings, posts, canopies, etc. -- still sitting outside the bag.

I was just glad that the Swearing Neighbors weren't outside to hear me at that point. I don't like to compete with them. Eventually I somehow managed to get it all stuffed inside, hidden camera and all. Next time I do this feat, I'll get to do it at a campground surrounded by people who can watch and mock my actions. Oh, goody!

Checking Out

In my Utopian world, I would create some new requirements for people who want to use the self-checkout line at stores.

It seems that I have a nasty habit of getting behind people who have never in their lifetimes encountered an electronic device of any sort, let alone something like a self-checkout line.

The other day I was at Wal-Mart (or "Stuff-Mart" as our friends like to call it), and I managed to get behind a woman who had no clue in the world what she was doing. Periodically the automated screen would talk to her ("Please insert payment card," etc.), and she would talk back at it, as though it was going to carry on an entire conversation with her. Perhaps she didn't notice that this wasn't an actual person, I don't know.

In response to this woman and other clueless people of the world, I would create several new rules:

1. If you're over the age of 110, please choose a line with an actual person behind the counter.

2. Even then, you should not be allowed to use a debit card. It will only confuse you. Pay with money, or, if you're really old, just trade a pelt.

3. People choosing to stand in front of me in the self-checkout line will have to first pass a competency screening exam to see if you have any comfort level when it comes to dealing with electronics. The test will consist of a computer screen that says, "Press the green button." The screen will consist of nothing but a large, green button. If the person cannot figure out how to press the green button, they must go elsewhere. I promise you that a lot of people would fail this test.

Oh, and another thing. On another, somewhat related topic, I am starting to think that people should have to pass some sort of "shopping cart driving test." I was walking through the store and it seemed like some of these people were specifically aiming for me. I had to dart out of the way of oblivious cart operators several times during my very short visit.

I was getting a little concerned when it occurred to me that these same people would be driving actual motor vehicles in the parking lot.

Beating Around the Bush

Before I get to today's tremendously exciting topic (hedge trimming), I must point out that it is always disturbing to see articles like this in the paper.

Anyway, on to today's topic... It has been a long, long time since I've touched our hedge clippers, but I got brave and attempted to give 'em a whirl last week.

Shortly after we bought the house a dozen years ago, Mrs. Smoot told me to trim the hedges. I wasn't thrilled about doing it, and I wound up doing a remarkably crappy job at it. When I was done our bushes looked like a row of depression-era children who, for economic reasons, had their dads cut their hair. The bushes were all crooked and mangled up, and basically looked horrible.

As "punishment" for doing such a bad job, Mrs. Smoot has always taken the hedge trimming into her own hands so it would be done right. You can imagine how much of a bummer this has been for me.

So anyway, the other day I thought I'd give it another try and surprise Mrs. Smoot when she got home from work. Little Smoot and I toiled for a couple hours, pulling weeds, trimming the hedges and adding new mulch to the scene.

Personally, I think it actually all turned out very nicely. If Mrs. Smoot doesn't like it, perhaps I'll be "punished" again and I'll just have to suffer through another decade or so without messing with the hedge trimmers. Oh, the grief.

Another One Down...

Yesterday was the last day of school. I know that when I was in school, it seemed like it took an eternity to get through each grade. But now it seems like they just fly on by, at least for me as a parent. It really doesn't seem like it was all that long ago that Little Smoot began her first day of 5th Grade.

I'm not exactly sure what the kids may have learned in these last couple weeks. It seems like the last couple weeks of school purely exist to meet state requirements, and apparently the state doesn't require the kids to learn anything.

Our last couple weeks have included Kennywood Day (a day at an amusement park), Field Trip Day, Fun Day (with bouncy things to play on), Sleep Through Class Day, Bring a Wii to School Day, Blow Off Day, Pretend to be Sick Day, Teacher Hangover Day and Two Hours of School to Meet the State Requirement Day.

Yesterday, the kids began school at 9:00, and were home at 11:00. I'm sure they crammed a lot of education into those two hours.

Thankfully, Little Smoot has been doing great, academically. This year she suffered her first B+ (in music, of all things), but she had straight-A report cards the rest of the year. I guess we'll have to buy her a pony as a reward, or something.

I know that school has been very beneficial to her because yesterday I asked her, "So, what did you learn this year?" And of course she answered, "Um. Nothing." That's my girl!

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I've pretty much ditched the idea of being much of a gardener. When we first bought our house, I was pretty excited about the notion of turning part of the yard into a garden. And for many years I'd get all gung-ho in the Spring and plant a whole bunch of stuff.

Of course I'm not a big fan of weeding, so once the excitement of planting vegetables was over (about 5 minutes after planting them), I'd abandon the garden in hopes that it would take care of itself and turn into a bounty of produce late in the summer.

Well, that pretty much never happened. Sometimes I'd get lucky and actually get an edible onion out of the deal, and I had some sporadic luck with tomatoes. In recent years I've always planted a tomato plant or two, and oftentimes they would actually produce a few actual tomatoes.

The problem is that I'd watch a tomato grow from a little blossom, into a little green tomato, into a big tomato, and then into a big tomato with a large bite in the side of it thanks to the stinkin' deer.

Last year I finally got frustrated with this process, yanked everything out of the garden and planted grass back over it. Since I do really enjoy the taste of fresh garden tomatoes, we're taking a different approach this year. I have set up one of those "Topsy Turvy" tomato planters, "As Seen On TV!" Of course, if it's advertised on television, it must be a fine product, right?

We'll see how it goes. I'm not sure whether this device will produce upside-down tomatoes, or exactly what is going to come of it. If I put the tomatoes on a hamburger, perhaps I'll eat it upside-down out of respect for the process.

May The Force Be With You

I had a chance to see something unusual last weekend: professional women's football!

Unbeknownst to me, but knownst to others in the area, the Smoots' community is the home of the Pittsburgh Force, part of the Women's Football Alliance.

Friends of ours (and avid readers of the Smoot Files, I might add!) had been trying to get us to come to a game all season, but our schedules hadn't permitted it until last week.

It turns out that one of the girls from The Force is a Punxsutawney native, just like me. And she was quite impressive to watch, too. Jessica (in black, facing the camera in the photo above) played both offense and defense, and scored a couple times while we were there (yes, I am fully aware that this sentence could be interpreted in an entirely different way -- get your minds out of the gutter, people).

I'm not sure what I was expecting when Little Smoot and I arrived at the game, but I must say it was quite entertaining to watch! I was probably expecting the players to be... I dunno... more "girly" about the sport. I thought maybe they'd be apologizing to one another after tackles, and taking great care not to mess up their hair or nails or whatever.

But that certainly wasn't the case. Some of these girls were roughly the size of Mack trucks, and they seemed to have little trouble with the concept of knocking the crap out of the opposition. I was rather glad I was in the stands and not on the field, frankly.


I also thought maybe they'd have male cheerleaders on the sideline to go along with the gender-stereotype-bending theme, but that wasn't the case either. Instead, believe it or not, they had: Darth Vader. Get it? The Force? Darth Vader? So that was a little odd, seeing Darth and a Storm Trooper wandering around along the field.

At the end of the game, the fans headed down to the sidelines to greet their favorite players. It was amusing to see that some of the young fans would run up to the players, addressing them as "Mommy." You just don't hear that at Steelers games.

B Movies

Nature is getting way out of hand, and I'm getting a little concerned and disturbed about the whole thing.

As Exhibit A, I present to you the photo on the right. I discovered this rather unusual item when I went out on our deck earlier this week.

When I saw it, I couldn't help but ask myself the very obvious question: "Why on Earth would bees feel that it is necessary to create a large phallic symbol in the corner of our awning?" Seriously.

I decided I had to photograph this construction before proceeding to thwack at it with a broom handle. A few moments after I removed this suggestive item, one of the bees came flying up that way, looking for its former, swanky home. I tried to interrogate the bee in an attempt to learn more about what, exactly, they were doing out there on our deck, but I got very few answers.

I have to wonder if, late at night, they're showing tiny little bee porn flicks out there. If I start seeing birds out there with the bees, I'm going to really wonder what's going on.

Direct Questioning

I think I have gotten myself onto some sort of list at DirecTV. I have a feeling they keep a list of customers they suspect are profoundly stupid, and my name is rising higher and higher on it.

You see, we got DirecTV last summer, and I absolutely love it. The combination of the initials "HD" and "DVR" have forever changed my life. The only bad part about DirecTV is that their receivers were apparently built as a science project by preschool children with zero quality control involved in the process.

In addition to the HD DVR, we also have three additional receivers for other TVs, and these things keep dying on us.

Several months ago, the first one died in our spare bedroom. So I called the company, and after some hemming and hawing, they sent us a new one. A couple months passed, and the one in Little Smoot's room died, meaning she was suffering from SBSPDS (Sponge Bob Square Pants Deficiency Syndrome). So I called the company, and, a little more reluctantly, they sent me another unit.

So this week our third unit bit the dust. I knew it was going to be a fun phone call to the DirecTV people. When I attempted to call the first time, my call was apparently transferred to a call center on Jupiter or something, because the line was filled with so much static I couldn't even hear the person (or android, as the case may have been) on the other end of the line. So I called back, which meant fishing through their incredibly annoying automated phone service until I was able to once again reach an actual person. I have slash marks on my wrists from this process alone.

This person, upon learning that this was the third time that I had a receiver drop dead, decided that one of their people should call me and go over some troubleshooting tactics. Swell. I knew that would be a lot of fun.

Two hours later, a man named Steve who spoke v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y called me in an apparent attempt to catch me lying about the fact that the receiver was dead. You see, in their minds, the only possible reason that three of these units could have failed over these past several months is that I must be the most stupid person alive, and I am causing the problem. It obviously has nothing to do with the fact that these things are apparently built out of a few wires and actual horse crap.

So Steve led me through a thorough and tough line of questioning, like: "Is it plugged in?" "Is there a power switch connected to the outlet where it is plugged in?" "Is it plugged into a power strip, which could be off?" "Did you actually make it past first grade?" "Have you been beating the crap out of the receiver with a baseball bat, or other long, slender object?" "Are you sure it is plugged in?" And so forth.

Of course I had to play along with their little game of "20 Stupid Questions," or else I'd honk Steve off and they'd never send me a replacement unit. I wasn't about to tell him that I am actually quite technically savvy, and that I have been dubbed a geek by many people over the years, and when anything goes wrong with any electronic device in the neighborhood, I'm the one who gets the call and I can usually fix the problem... and trust me, Steve, the damn receiver is D-E-A-D! But I digress.

So now I have to wait a couple days for the new unit to arrive, so I can resume beating it with a stick.

Ice Creeeeeeeeam!

Now that it's summertime, the Ice Cream Man has been swinging through the neighborhood.

I hear him almost every day now, with his extremely low-fidelity speakers on his van, playing terribly annoying music, slowly prowling the neighborhood to entice kids to come running.

I was outside mowing the yard the first day I heard him a few weeks back. Since it was hot out, I sprinted out in front of him to make sure he stopped so I could buy an ice cream cookie thing.

A couple days later, I heard him coming through the neighborhood, and Little Smoot and I both ran out to stop him in his tracks.

Now here's the problem. It seems that now Mr. Ice Cream Man seems to have developed a strategy with us. Like I mentioned, and as I'm sure you're aware, ice cream trucks come equipped with really bad loudspeakers, and they play the absolute worst music ever created ("Turkey in the Straw" and "It's a Small World" for example).

For several days in a row now, he has been literally stopping his van out in front of our house, knowing that Little Smoot and I have little ability to resist ice cream, and knowing that his music is dreadfully annoying. So while he's sitting there, we'll be subjected to that terrible music until either he eventually goes away on his own, or we finally go insane, give in and buy more ice cream.

Clever man, I must say.

Losing Our Freaking Minds

As I look back through my blog entries, I can see plenty of evidence that I'm losing my freaking mind. Accidentally wearing two ties to church on Easter Sunday is just one of many fine examples.

Last week I took Little Smoot to Kennywood Park for her school's annual day of fun. As I rounded the curve by Point State Park in Pittsburgh it occurred to me that the tickets were sitting way back at home. I won't mention that when I called Mrs. Smoot to see if she'd meet me half way, she headed down our hill to meet up with us and then realized that she had forgotten the tickets at home, too, and also had to go back home for them.

There has got to be something in our water, making us insane.

The other day I pulled another of my favorite stunts. Perhaps those of you with contact lenses can relate. Perhaps not. Anyway, it was the end of a long day and I went into the bathroom to remove my contacts. It seemed that they were a little stubborn to come out for some reason. I kept at it, though, pinching away to try to get a good grip on my contacts, pulling at my eyeballs to get them free. But they just wouldn't come off.

It wasn't until 5 minutes or so later that I realized that I had already taken my contacts out earlier in the evening. So I was basically prying my cornea right out of my eyeball in an attempt to remove imaginary contacts. Just spend the rest of the day trying not to think about that one...

A Toe-Tappin' Time

There are few words or phrases in the English language that can strike fear and terror into the hearts of parents with as much power and tenacity as: "Elementary Band Concert." Actually, that phrase comes in just behind "Fluteaphone Concert," but it's still very, very high on the list.

I was in band for many of my school days, and I can remember our first concerts. If I'm not mistaken, we began playing instruments back in third grade, which meant that some of the instruments were much larger than the kids were. God help the 8-year-old tuba player, for example.

Many of us kids had trouble holding our instruments steadily, and heaven knows we couldn't play them worth a darn. Yet our parents would come, all dressed up, and pretend that we were doing a great job.

In reality, I'm sure that many of the parents were praying that a beer truck would crash into the auditorium and they could all dance around in Budweiser instead of listening to another single note, but they did a good job of pretending to enjoy themselves.

Well, here we are, 30 some years later, and now we are the parents. What comes around, goes around, I guess.

Little Smoot has been playing the trumpet since the beginning of this school year, and her teacher always tells me she's doing a great job. I have no idea, since she never, ever, ever practices at home, no matter how often I bug her about it, and regardless of whatever threats I make.

We had our first elementary band concert tonight, and it went pretty well, all things considered. Thankfully they taught the kids just a few relatively brief songs, like the toe-tapping favorite "This Old Man."

I'm pretty sure they did a better job with their first concert than we did with ours. At least Little Smoot's group more or less knew when their songs began or finished. Some members of our band would often play a song so far off pace that we'd continue playing one song while others of us would be playing the next song in the program.

Since we have all of this technology at our fingertips, I thought I'd share a clip of the concert that I expertly took with my cell phone. It honestly did sound better in person. If nothing else, this will prove that I was actually there to view it:

Economy Gone Bust

Well, of course it would seem that the economy has hit everyone pretty hard lately. And now Disney has announced that it is cutting one of the most prized job positions I've ever heard of. They have decided to eliminate "Breast Screeners" from their theme parks.

If you've ever been to Disney, or any number of other amusement parks, you have probably seen rides where they'll take your picture as you're enjoying the ride, and after the ride is over you can see yourself on a video screen. And then you can also pay a heavily inflated price to purchase a photo of yourself buzzing down the hill of a roller coaster, or whatever.

I have always enjoyed the opportunity to make a funny face on rides like that, purely so I could amuse myself and my fellow passengers at the end of the ride (see photo above, shot yesterday at Kennywood Park). But apparently some people have made a hobby out of flashing their breasts at the cameras, giving people an entirely different kind of experience at the viewing screens.

To combat this terrible, immoral, disgusting practice (yes, I'm obviously pretending to act like I think this is a bad thing, purely because I know that sooner or later Mrs. Smoot will get around to reading this), Disney has employed people who spend their entire days watching the video screens to be sure that the risque images don't make it to the public.

Several questions pop into my mind as I ponder this job. My first question, naturally, is: How does a person obtain such a job? I mean, what kind of things would they look for on your resume as you're applying?

INTERVIEWER: "What qualifications do you possess that will help you succeed in this position?"

INTERVIEWEE: "Well, I've been a pervert for my entire life, I have a vast collection of porn that I've downloaded off the Internet over the years, and from memory I can tell you at exactly what point to freeze frame several dozen movies with nude scenes."

INTERVIEWER: "Welcome aboard!"

Also, what kind of training is involved? Perhaps Disney sent these folks to European beaches to see if they could correctly identify topless sunbathers or something.

In any event, I would have to bet that the people who held these jobs were probably among the most punctual, dedicated employees who have ever been employed anywhere, in any position. I picture them showing up dramatically early for work every day, never bothering to take vacations or even lunch breaks.

I'm not sure what could be next for the folks who have been performing these duties all these years. Maybe they can go on to work at airports where they have those new see-through X-Ray machines.

Beans, Beans...

Admit it. Before you even started reading these words, you looked at the title of this posting and finished the rest of the words, right? When a person of any age hears the words "beans, beans," we all instinctively finish the rest of the line, usually out loud for everyone to hear: "...the musical fruit! The more you eat, the more you toot."

Somehow my daughter and one of her friends were not aware of the rest of this classic song, so another adult (and a valued member of the Hank Smoot Files readership) felt it was necessary to educate them by teaching them the rest of the lyrics: "The more you toot, the better you feel. Let's have beans for every meal!"

Well, the girls seemed to think that was just the most incredible song they had ever learned, and they spent a pretty large percentage of their Memorial Day singing it and improvising the words to somehow make it even more obnoxious.

They enjoyed singing it very loudly while I took them for an excursion in the car. By the end of the day, they were even sort of harmonizing it. At least it took their minds off of their other annoying song they had made up a few years ago. They used to sing "Row, row, row your boat, gently down your throat!" And then they'd giggle for 15 minutes at a time about it.

If the weather cooperates, I'll be taking Little Smoot to Kennywood later today, where she'll undoubtedly meet up with friends who will make me wish that "Beans, Beans" was the most annoying thing I'd be experiencing.

For the Birds

I'm starting to get concerned about the bird situation.

Under normal circumstances I can easily go months at a time without birds decorating my car with excrement. But these last few days, it seems that I can't even go a couple hours without finding big honkin' blotches of bird treats all over my windshield. What's up with that?

The other day I found a blob that was so large that I'd almost be afraid to see what sort of bird was responsible for such a thing. I'm guessing, judging on the size and texture, that it had to be the work of at least a pterodactyl.

I was bothered by it enough that I decided to give the car a nice, thorough washing, which was a stupid thing to do. First of all, even though it was perfectly sunny while I was washing it, an enormous storm cloud moved in literally half an hour after I finished washing the car, and it hailed all over the place. Only I could cause balls of ice to fall from the sky on an 80-degree day. The next time we are in a drought, I'll just wash my car and guarantee it'll rain.

Anyway, not more than an hour later, I found yet another large blob of bird crap on my windshield.

I have come to the conclusion that birds are obviously doing this intentionally. They know darned well I had just washed the car. And they always manage to let 'er rip right on my side of the windshield where I can't possibly just ignore it. It would not surprise me to learn that there are birds that have altered their regular migratory patterns just so they could detour here and crap on my car.

I got to thinking about this last night as yet another blob splattered on my windshield as I was driving. Why are birds honked off at me? Then I realized that Mrs. Smoot had just told me about the fact that she had accidentally run over a bird while driving just a few days ago. She said she felt really sad about the whole thing, but I don't believe she went so far as to go back and try to give the bird mouth-to-beak resuscitation or anything.

So my new theory is that the birds have obviously gotten our address, but they're taking out their revenge on my car instead of her's. I'm going to put a big sign out in our driveway to let the birds know that it was Mrs. Smoot, not me, who ran over one of their pals. I'll include a big arrow that will point to her car. We'll see how that works out.

Woooo... My Pants are Vibrating!

I'm obviously running out of ideas for things to blog about, so today I thought I'd ponder an age-old question: How, exactly, do they make our cell phones vibrate?

I have a couple theories on this oft-debated subject. I like to think that there's simply a tiny little man inside my phone, and he is hooked up to a couple electrical wires that are connected to the battery. Every time the phone rings, an electrical charge is sent into this man, and he freaks out and causes the phone to vibrate. Poor little guy. That would help explain why my batteries run out so quickly.

Or instead of a little man, maybe there's a teeny little yappy dog. When the phone detects an incoming call, the dog is doused with water, and the dog instinctively shakes it off, thereby causing the vibrating effect.

I got desperate and actually Googled the answer, and I have learned that in reality the phone has a little motor in it with an off-center weight. When activated, the motor spins and the spinning of the weight causes the vibration.

In nearly every Google result on this subject, they compare the mechanism of the phone to a similar, larger one that is implanted into the ever popular and annoying Tickle-Me-Elmo dolls.

This, naturally, begs the question: What if Tickle-Me-Elmo had a cell phone, and it was set to vibrate? The ramifications of such a thing would probably cause a disruption in the time-space continuum.

As you can probably tell, I am obviously ready for a nice, long weekend. The Smoots don't have a whole lot of stuff planned for the holiday weekend, but let us hope that I use this time to come up with something better to blog about by Tuesday.