Mark Bossingham

Invisible *

I CAN only echo Zentsuji's previous comment. At this point all we can hope for is for Bonds to get it over with quickly. Like a bad dream. And no, no asterisk this time. A terrible idea when we tried it (unfairly) with Maris. But this one is fair and it will always be there in our hearts, passed down like a folktale to our kids: This record doesn't really count. He cheated. He cheated us. He cheated baseball.

Bonds for president!

HERE WE are . . . Fraud perpetrated upon baseball fans . . . The most-hallowed record in baseball (at least by today's standards) is on the threshold of being broken . . . There is no national countdown, no anticipation, no drama . . . It is an inevitable mark to be broken by someone who is far, far below reproach — and yet is lauded. . . At what price comes infamy? Let the debate begin . . . And cringe for the future generation . . .

I am embarrassed

I REALLY have nothing to say about the British navy with regards to its humiliation at the hands of that well-known world naval power Iran. Anything I might say would just be piling on. On commentator said he'd been treated worse by old girlfriends than the Brits by the Iranians. And I had much tougher days just trying to do my job on various U.S. Navy ships than did the hostages while in "captivity"--I actually missed quite a few meals. After living packed in a berthing compartment, solitary confinement would have been a blessing. You have no idea how much I envied the officers and their tiny cubbyholes. One of my favorite fictional characters, Adm. Horatio Hornblower, is turning over in his literary grave. Best the entire group of misfits go back and live with their parents. They are a stain on the Royal Navy.

Massage chair

YOU SAW the dog in the chair in the previous post. In this week's column, the chair takes on a starring role.

The lap of luxury: Massage chair doesn't know when to let go
We recently bought a massage chair. Our last chair died a quiet death. A message flashed on the control panel asking us to turn off the main power switch. I pulled the plug with a heavy heart. The chair had kneaded us faithfully for six years.

    My period of mourning lasted two minutes, right until my wife said, "We have to buy a new chair immediately!" We raced to the computer to compare prices.
    Ahhh, there it was, the Family Medical Chair Robostic FMC 6500, the Ferrari of massage chairs.
    Two hours later, we ordered the chair at a local Nojima outlet. We got a good deal.
    The next Sunday, two guys showed up. The chair was in a couple of large boxes. One man shook his head; the other said he didn't think the chair would fit through the door. My wife said it would fit or else. I grunted menacingly; the dog growled.
    She was right. An hour later, the men departed, taking the old chair away for suitable disposal.
    I looked at my wife out of the corner of my eye. She seemed absorbed in the direction booklet. I took a tentative step toward the chair. Too tentative. She dropped the directions, leaped and shouted, "You snooze, you lose!"
    On Monday evening, I came home from work and eyed the beauty sitting in the living room. It looked gorgeous in the dim light. "You're all mine, baby," I whispered. With the TV remote in one hand, I stroked the chair's high-quality fake red leather with the other.
    I climbed in and pushed the power button. The chair spoke. Roughly translated, it said, "Lean your head back so I can adjust myself to your pressure points." I was happy to take orders from a machine. Next, I flipped open a hatch on the right arm rest, and the joystick slowly emerged with a thrilling, sci-fi whirr.
    A cool-looking blue light winked on as I fiddled with the device. I pushed it forward, and the chair whacked me hard; I pulled back and it eased off. I considered opening the balcony door. Maybe I could fly this thing into space.
    I groaned with pleasure as air bags inflated, squeezed my calves and "rubbed" my feet--a feature our old chair lacked. With a smile and a sigh I turned on the TV.
    "Arrrgh!" High-definition,
giant-screen European soccer. Fabulous floppers! Diving dandies! As I frantically fumbled with the remote, the "action" came to a halt. A swarm of the ad-clad whiners surrounded the referee and began chirping like baby birds.
    The remote slipped from my fingers and skittered across the floor. I tried to jump out of the chair. Ouch! Only half of me made it. The air bags gripped my ankles and wouldn't let go. I was trapped! A soccer twit whipped off his shirt and offered the crowd a Euro-pout.
    Crud. I moaned, closed my eyes, plugged my ears and
waited in the darkness for the chair to release me.
    (IHT/Asahi: April 7,2007)

   

Happy 13th Birthday

IN A terrible oversight I failed to post Jiji's birthday announcement in a timely fashion. She was 13 March 24, a major achievement for a little dog that hasn't always had the best of luck healthwise. Luckily, the vet who said she wouldn't live see see her second birthday didn't know how tough she was. She's put on a little weight in her senior years, tipping the scales at 1.5 kilos now. Congratulations! Here she is taking a break in our new massage chair.