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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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!
“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!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
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.
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.
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