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Commercial Break

We've all had the grim experience of waiting for the mechanic to call us with the verdict on our car, right? Having bought a new car last November (well, new to me), I was all set to have this experience be several decibals (or however you measure stress)less than when I would take in my dented '93 Subaru Imprezza to the mechanics, being sure that it would be diagnosed as terminally ill and ready for the junk yard. Back to the bus then. Now with my lovely Subaru Forester, I can hold my head high at the mechanics once again. The auto repair shop doesn't fill me with cold dread, and I can get out of my car and look those snooty drivers of 2011 Toyota Camry's in the eye (well, I always could since they're probably just making payments). So you can imagine my horror when, roaring down the 190 Southbound in my semi- new car, my check engine light went on! Since this had never happened to me before, I shakily got off the next exit, expecting at any moment for the complex network of pipes, brakes and nozzles that comprise my engine to undergo some kind of catastrophic failure. Well, needless to say I made it home, and immediately took my car to my more level headed mechanic, who fixed it for me. Thank you, Fortuna, for the invention of the automobile and its graceful twin, the auto repair shop.

Episode #9: The Journey

Gathering himself, Tom had taken advantage of his lucid state and known exactly what to do. A cold sheen of sweat coating his face, he had (with a stealth unknown to him) coolly retrieved the spare key that he'd secretly copied for his mother's prized possession, a 2000 Toyota Camry. This car was the only material object that Mrs. Ozanksi kept from her boys, and her meticulous care of it had made the local auto repair shop as standard an errand as the grocery store. Once, when the check engine light had gone on, the atmosphere at the Ozanski household had been so grim that one would have thought that a member of the family had been struck with a terminal illness. Tom had known that he would need a key for his mother's car one day with his peculiar foresight, and he was certain that his furtive trip to the local Home Depot's key copy center one afternoon when his mother had been sick with the flu had been intended for this very moment. Putting his large loafers on and fumbling for his 'lucky' football jacket, Tom walked purposefully towards his window and quietly opened it. Barely seeming to notice the seven foot drop in his elevated state of mind, he dropped to the ground with a resounding thud, rolled over several times and calmly climbed into the driver's seat of his mother's car.

Episode #8: A Revelation and a Scream

While Mrs. Ozanski had been attempting to pry Chris' day out of him (she often complained that trying to get a word out her boys was like pulling teeth), contrary to her fears, no intruder had 'assaulted' her son. In fact, Tom's window had remained tightly sealed. Had some sort of thief been possessed with the idea of intruding upon Tom's highly coveted space, it was unlikely that it would have resulted in something as highly emotive as a scream, anyhow. There most likely would have been the confident spray of Tom's can of mace which he, with his anthropological hyper- awareness of the extraordinary violence peculiar to American culture, kept safely clipped to his blue jeans' belt loop, followed by a slight scuffle and a calm telephone call to the police. No, it would take more than an intruder to squeeze a scream out of Tom; his brother had been correct. So what did cause the scream and thud that had sent Mrs. Ozanski into such a tizzy? Tom, upon narrowing and modifying his google search several more times, had been led to a link which was the website for his very own job site- Jefferson And Co. Online Lobbying Inc. After staring at the link with shock, everything had started to fall into place. This, combined with another of Tom's moments of lucidness, had forced a shrill victory scream out of his throat, a scream that had seemed to originate in some primal depth of his being, a trans- cultural center of his humanness which ensured his survival.

We Interrupt Our Program....

You may wonder all the mention of mail boxes, my faithful readers? How do mailboxes fit into the story of Thomas the Anthropologist? Believe it or not, but mail boxes are a staple unique to the developed world. Do you think that the African Bushmen have mail boxes? Think again! Further, these seemingly innocuous containers are in fact highly indicative of the increasingly stratified social structure of our American culture- the long, bleak rows of residential mail boxes peculiar to the rapidly diminishing middle class, the ornate mail boxes of those who reside in high society, the common mailboxes of those who reside in group homes... and the decorative mail boxes which are highly symbolic of those who choose to step outside of the cultural box and think for themselves, those who fight for an egalitarian, individualist society- like our own dear Christopher Charles. Embrace this cultural phenomenon and express your individuality. Initiate your rise above the unthinking masses with a unique mail box. If nothing else, impress your mail person with a personable mail box that expresses YOU. And next time you look at a mail box, thank your lucky stars that you are in a country which not only HAS mail boxes, but allows you the freedom to choose your own personal mailbox. Click on the links to explore the world of mailboxes!

Episode #7: Fantasies, Mysteries and Mailboxes

Mrs. Ozanski hurriedly grabbed the ball of mac n' cheese off of the floor, tossed it in the trash and clumsily traipsed up the stairs.
'Thomas!' She cried, 'For God's sake, answer me! Is there an intruder? Have you been assaulted?'
Chris, who had remained seated, raised his eyebrows and blinked his eyes slowly and exasperatedly. This ridiculous situation was not even worthy of comment, and he, Chris, would not grace it with one. An intruder? For Benjamin's sake, the closest thing that they got to visitors, much less intruders, was the mailman, or mail woman. Even he, or she (the only aspect of the 21st century that Chris clung to with startling tenacity was gender sensitive pronouns) rarely had mail to put in the mail box, as Tom, with his partiality to things of the technological nature, had insisted on going paperless years ago. Further, Chris'creative energy extended to all walks of life, and in his spare time he spread his personal flair on everything from ceiling fans draped in tinsel to decorative mailboxes, which reflected the times and the seasons. Often, he failed to take into account the mail person, whose attempt to deliver the Ozanski's their rare piece of junk mail would many times involve peeling through tape, papier mache, glue, and one brisk Mayflower day, several layers of ribbon. The Ozanski's mail box posed either a refreshing challenge or a teeth grinding bother to the mail person (whose days often blended into a blur of bland residential mailboxes yawning in boredom to accept bills, documents, advertisements and the occasional anonymous threatening letter) depending upon their perspective.
Sighing, Chris stretched out his nylon breaches and pondered the situation. If, in fact, a highly unlikely scenario had indeed brought Tom face to face with a masked intruder, Chris doubted that Tom would invoke any interest for them- both in terms of finances and in terms of a victim. He, Chris, would be a better option- not only did he carry a pouch of coins about with him in case of an emergency, but he would give any sociopath in search of a fearful victim a far more satisfying experience than Tom's stodgy rationality. He, Chris, would scream a high pitched scream and attempt to flee, only to struggle and fall limp under a chloroform soaked stocking. Tom would simply try to reason with the villain.
Chris' grisly meanderings were interrupted by his mother walking slowly down the stairs, her hand clutching the railing and her face slack and white as a sheet. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she gathered herself and made a visible effort to be a source of strength for her son.
'Christopher Charles,' She whispered, 'Your brother, my son, Thomas, is missing.'

I GIVE UP

The kids have been getting a case of cabin fever, so we had a photo shoot! Check out the pix:

Fun times- oh, and I swear Piper said hi the other day!

Episode Six: 'A Peculiar Reverie'

In this episode, our antagonist Kim's highly disciplined mind allows itself to roam and settles on a source of extreme irritation- our own Tom. Is Kim's fury directed towards our budding anthropologist well founded, or is he suffering from a dangerous obsession? What grisly trap awaits poor Thomas, who may very well be guilty of nothing other than gross insensitivity?

Kim pushed aside his plate, letting Sing Chow lick the last splashes of soy sauce from the edge. He spun a half-circle in his chair and landed perfectly at his keyboard, typing before his chair had even settled from the shudder of the spin. No time for Tai Chi tonight, not with this masterful final email waiting to be sent. Wriggling his fingers, he giggled to himself and pushed the power button. He felt as if the computer’s rebooting was taking hours, and he let himself go into a reverie, unusual for his practical and efficient mind. That stupid, stupid Tom Ozanski. What a stupid man. His loud loud laughing and his insistence that ketchup slather everything (what a sacrilegious use of tomatoes, which had sustained his people during those difficult early years in the mountainous Wyoming- of all the states to pick, nearly impossible to pronounce!); his ill-fitting, polyester American football jacket, worn daily from early fall until late spring, regardless of whether or not he was indoors or out, and in ignorant defiance of the recently posted (and Tom-induced) sign in the office requesting that employees “Kindly wear an appropriate variety of clothes during the work week”; but worst of all was Tom’s incessant hinting and roundabout conversation: Just yesterday Kim had entered the lounge to find Tom mentioning to Gerald how terribly cold the walk home would be, especially because his mother had washed his only gloves in the warm cycle when he had “repeatedly reminded her to wash them in the cold cycle, inside out, lest they shrink.” The barbarism of Tom’s indirect request for a ride home had made Kim spin his pencil through his fingers with unusual fury, and with feigned naivety he cornered Tom by offering him a hand towel with which to protect his hands for the walk home; he had even offered to wrap Tom’s hands using a “traditional and ancient Asian technique”, but then reneged, citing the potential difficulty of removing the hand towel upon arriving home. Conveniently, Gerald was intrigued by the idea of a hand towel replacing gloves and Tom’s irritating hints were lost in the shuffle of the ensuing conversation.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

A short commercial break…“Thomas the Anthropologist” will return after the following public service announcement (well, if a certain Nikid counts as 'the public'):

The following message is a call to arms against an apocalyptic international cloning project.
Recent news reports from myriad respectable sources have revealed an effort by Japanese scientists to clone the “extinct” wooly mammoth. By harvesting the intact DNA of the prehistoric beast from glaciers and tar-pits, researchers are confident that they will be able to coax into existence this giant elephant-like arctic dweller. Such prospects have been met excitement and encouragement by the Asian scientific community; I, on the other hand, greet such irresponsibility with alarm. Consider the following:
- The adult wooly mammoth weighs over 18,000 lbs., can reach speeds of 55 mph, and is armed with tusks the length of a mid-sized school bus.
- Wooly mammoths have been found with the bodies of hunters frozen in their intestines; such discoveries suggest an insatiable thirst for human blood.
- We have no idea of how children wooly mammoths behave. Consider a two thousand pound puppy: playful and cute, yes; but deadly.
- During the golden age of the wooly mammoth (the first ice age), this nearly invincible killing machine stood alone and untouched at the top of its food chain. Among its victims were the Tyrannosaurus Rex (so-called “King of the Dinosaurs”), the pterodactyl, the brontosaurus, and other animals hundreds of times larger and stronger than the modern homo sapien. Why must this gigantic animal be cloned? Why not the Dodo bird, if something MUST be disturbed from its extinction? Have we not enough threats?
With this said, I would like to offer a compromise to the Japanese, our Eastern brothers. On their end, I would like a written statement (in English) that the wooly mammoth will not exit the borders of their historic island, and that the scientists in question will provide the population with information on methods of controlling/exterminating this animal. In a special way, I demand a clause be included that explicitly guarantees that the wooly mammoth will never enter the northeastern United States, which includes the state of New York. Finally, the wooly mammoth must never be used as a weapon of mass destruction. On my end, I will terminate the movement against the cloning of the wooly mammoth in Japan.
To support my cause, please contact me to purchase a “Keep the Wooly Mammoths in Japan” bumper sticker. Also, I expect the release of my new book, “What’s Wrong with the Do-Do Bird?”, in early 2012.

Episode Five 'The False Dichotomy: Chris, the Artiste'

Another minor character is introduced, this being Chris, Tom's brother. This tragic character has fallen prey to the myth of the Great Artist through pure default. Can you think of anyone that YOU know whose personality is composed of default characteristics?

“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours. At least his brother Chris was going to an actual college, rather than this online mumbo jumbo.
As if on cue, Tom’s brother Chris emerged from the basement doorway and sat down in pointed silence. Chris’ similarities to Tom were limited to his physique- they shared their father’s large limbs, wide hips, and thin, brown hair. Other than that, the two were as different as night and day. Their roles in the family had been firmly established from day one: Tom was the intellectual, the staunch empiricist, leaving Chris, through default more so than any real inclination, with the role of the artist. Not that Chris didn’t take full advantage of his role. It was an unspoken rule in the Ozanski household that each boy was helpless under the force of their ‘nature‘- for this reason, Tom got away with his years of secretive and apparently fruitless research, under the guise of being an unrecognized genius, while Chris, being the family artist, was able to throw any sort of tantrum and pull off any kind of bizarre behavior. Further, where Tom was prone to ’beating around the bush’ and hinting at things rather than stating them, you knew where you stood with Chris. For instance, Chris was clearly upset about something at the moment.

‘And you, Chris? How was your day?’ Asked their mother carefully. Secretly, she was relieved that Chris had not followed in Tom’s reclusive and clumsy footsteps. Being the younger of the two, he’d even run several enthusiastic (while unsuccessful) campaigns for presidency of various art oriented clubs in high school. However, lacking the diplomacy of a politician (the startling behavior attributed to his ’artistic’ temperament by his family was, unfortunately, often viewed as just a plain lack of social grace by the student body), he’d graduated high school with his eyes on another prize. Last year, he’d entered the local community college majoring in nothing less than fashion design. While his mother had tried to be open minded about her son’s chosen career path (it was the 21st century, after all), Chris seemed to be spiraling farther and farther off of the beaten track in his attempts to revitalize the fashion world. As of late, he’d taken ‘retro’ to unprecedented lengths by emanating the fashion of 18th century Europe. Yes, Mrs. Ozanski admired her son’s thinking ‘outside the box’, but sometimes she wished that Chris would step back inside the box. She found it trying to have to explain over and over to friends and family alike why Chris wore a powdered wig.
Chris wrinkled his nose slightly as he eyed the macaroni and cheese. ‘
‘Haven‘t we any goose- or pudding?’, he griped, with a slight British accent.
Chris believed that, like an actor, a fashion designer must throw himself whole heartedly into his art. His lace collar and cuffs, variety of wigs, and skin tight pants were accompanied by an aristocratic air and a taste for the delicacies peculiar to the late 1700’s- snuff, goose, oranges and pudding, for example.
‘No, Chris, we don’t’, Mrs. Ozanski answered patiently, spooning a steaming lump of mac and cheese onto his plate. A loud thump resounded from upstairs, followed by a high pitched scream. She inhaled sharply, and the ball of pasta tumbled to Chris’ starched breeches.
‘Thomas?’ She cried in a strangled voice, ‘Are you OK?’
Chris squealed, jumped to his feet with little grace, and, delighted at his mother’s mistake, began to scold her, shaking his fork with a happy vehemence: “You piglet! You horrid, horrid piglet- my breeches!”
“Oh, Christopher, calm yourself: why, there isn’t even a mark.”
Chris looked down at his pants, and much to his disappointment, saw that the mac n’ cheese had tumbled harmlessly onto the kitchen floor.
“You’re still a piglet.” Chris mumbled as his mother began to collect the mustard colored noodles with a paper towel.
“Excuse me?”
“Nuthin’.”
Chris returned to his seat, but not before giving his mother a withering scowl and crossing his arms in protest.


What has caused this scuffle upstairs? Stay tuned!

Episode Four: 'The Anthropologist's Mother'

As you continue reading, consider these questions:
How does Tom's perception of himself differ from his mother's perception of him?
Does this episode change your own perception of Thomas, both as a human and as an anthropologist?

“How was your day, honey?” Asked his mother, a plump grey haired woman with kindly, albeit anxious eyes. She worried about her son sometimes, holed up in his room. She wished he’d go out dancing, or meet a nice girl, something other than just working and clicking away at that computer. At forty four, he was no spring chicken.
“Fine, Ma.” Tom said through a mouthful of mac and cheese. His mother sighed: she hadn’t gotten more than a one word answer out of him in thirty years.
“Good mac n cheese?”
“Yup”. Tom took a big gulp of milk and set his glass down with a bang.
“I wish you’d be more careful with the glasses, Thomas.”
“Sorry, Ma” Tom said. He heaped another plateful of pasta, refilled his milk and bounded back up stairs.
“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours.