phil jacobsen

Antarctica Version 4.0

Need I say more. This is my fourth time coming to Antarctica and I know it all. So, on my first day off from work, I suited up into what I call my “System” and took a hike.

            My system is a flawless layering system comprised of clothing so high tech, NASA hasn’t even invented it yet. I have socks for my socks and underwear that is more fun to wear than Underoos. Clark Kent was just a glasses wearing dweeb, but underneath his tweed his uniform transformed him into Superman. Well, he learned that from me.

            You might just see a guy in a jacket and Carharts, but beneath my clothing is some super wear for this super man. Nothing I’m wearing on my body is an accident and everything serves a purpose.

The first year I worked in Antarctica, I wore a knit cap and second degree frostbite on my ears. This being my fourth trip to The Ice (you can tell I’ve been here often by the use of my vernacular—‘The Ice’ = Antarctica) I don a cap called a “Wind Stopper.” The difference between a knit cap and a Wind Stopper is kind of like the difference between a Frat Party and an Intimate evening with your lover whereas Frat = Wind and Lover = Ears.

            The second time I landed in MacTown I learned to shed Big Red. Big Red is a jacket large enough to cover Paul Bunyan with pockets made to house Babe the Blue Ox. My “System” does not have room for a jacket of this size. The only people who wear Big Red are Newbie first year dishwashers (like I was) or people who want to keep warm.

            It’s been said the third time is the charm. It was my third trip to Antarctica after leaving Cheech (Cheech = CHCH which equals Christchurch, New Zealand) I learned I had perfected “My System.”

            This being the fourth trip, I barely even had to think when I stepped off the back porch of dorm 208 to walk down to Robert F. Scott’s Discovery Hut. Everything had been perfected in seasons one, two and three. So, when it all went to shit, it was all part of the system.

            When I my glasses froze and frosted over, I said, “I knew that would happen. I’m an O.A.E. (O.A.E. = Old Antarctic Explorer).”

            As the center of my forehead began to feel like I’d just sucked down three Slurpees, I said “Bring it on cold Gods. The first Slurpee tasted like Coke, the second hinted of Orange and the third tasted like Apsley Cherry-Garrard. Suck it Scott.”

            Then, when I got to Hut Point, I received a phone call. This seemed strange since Sprint does not have service in Antarctica, but clearly the cell phone in my pocket was vibrating.

            Now, I’m looking forward to the fifth time I return to Antarctica. On my fifth sojourn to this Southern Continent I will perfect my “System.” The fifth time down here I will not wear a giant metal belt buckle that says, “Phil.” Metal belt buckle = Kryptonite in the System = Vibrating Leg and frozen grapes.

SOMiC Boom

The cops have my street surrounded. I can hear the helicopters hovering above my home. I knew I was in trouble when I started, but I did not know this would be so addicting. The kids on the street call this “SOMC,” it’s pronounced like ‘sonic,’ but with an ‘m.’

            “The SOMiC boom,” that’s what they say. “Hey man, did you see it? Do you feel it? That’s the boom. That’s the SOMiC boom. Feel’s good, right? You feel like a Superstar, yeah? It’s like one minute you’re sitting in your home covered in cat hair a virtual nobody, and then BOOM, that’s the SOMiC kicking in. You wonder who else is seeing it. Refresh. Refresh. Refreshing.”

            They’re trying to contact me. I can hear the chatter of the coppers, but I don’t want to step away from the SOMiC. It’s too good. It’s way too feline-fricken’ amazing.

            “Put down the camera,” one pig snorts through his megaphone, “and step away from the cats.”

            “I can’t do it,” I yell as I precariously try to balance a banjo on my cat, Mr. Evans. Think about it….A banjo playing cat! It’s pure genius. This could be the iconic moment in history that does to banjo playing cats what velvet paintings and cards did for dogs.

            Pigs. They’re just a bunch of fucking pigs.

            It started by placing a tape measure on Mr. Evans. I was measuring my wall and when I set down the tape measurer, Mr. Evans was right there, he was asleep and didn’t seem to mind, so I grabbed my camera and took a picture. I remembered a website I’d heard about called “stuffonmycat.com.” It was simple enough, I sent in the photo with Mr. Evans and a few days later stuffonmycat.com posted the photo.

            Then the comments from other cat lovers started to appear beneath Mr. Evans. My cat was an Internet superstar. BEWnHeathensMom said, “Love the nose, the pose, the girth.” And koffeekat remarked, “Oh, Mr. Evans is a big boy!”

            Refresh. Refresh. Refreshing. Each new comment left at SOMC filled the heart of my nine-lives-crazy-cat-loving self. And then, the comments ended. Koffeekat moved on to comment on other cats with stuff on their bodies.

            Deflated and depressed, I started chasing my cats around the house putting car keys on their bodies and tube socks around their heads. Each photo was declined by SOMC, apparently they have kitty criteria, and I no longer had what it took to place objects on my cat.

            The first one is free; The next one is costly.

            Then, what a great day! The Supreme Court just ruled, by an 8 to 1 margin, that it is constitutionally permissible to post videos of cats getting crushed. This ruling more than doubled the amount of items I could put on my cat: a car? a fridge? a Chinese school girl wearing stilettos?

            At the moment when I was trying to balance a Sotomayor-Supreme-Court approved loaded shotgun with a hair trigger on top of Mr. Evans’ head, I received notice from SOMC—they accepted a photo with my other cat Pistol.

            Pistol will be as famous as Mr. Evans!

            As soon as I received notice from SOMC, I Twittered and tweeted and posted stories on Facebook. I resurrected my MySpace account and returned to AOL after years of being AWOL. Most likely it was the blog that did me in. This alerted my friends who then alerted the authorities who are now flying over my home.

            My cats, my cats, my kingdom for my cats. Please, just one more photo. I know I can balance an HP Printer and a 50lb dumbbell on Mr. Evans. By law and by god at least let me set this banjo on fire.

Beware of the Cats of March

Note: I recently wrote a letter to the editor that appears and can be viewed by clicking here:  Salt Lake Tribune. The version that appears in print was heavily edited, so I’m presenting the unedited letter here:

Dear Editor:

Grandmas have them and so do secretaries. St. Patrick has one and Mother-in-Laws do too.

I’m talking days.

Lovers get Valentine’s Day and even my BFF gets a Friendship Day on the first Sunday of August. There is Bosses Day and even a National Day of Prayer (personally, Bosses Day and Prayer Day are redundant because God is the ultimate Boss). But, it’s giving February 2 to Groundhogs that makes me say, “When will cats get their day?”

Since cats are frisky and cute, give ultimate love and are this man’s best friend, I will speak for kittens everywhere and say, “Give us our day; Right Meow!”

I propose that March 12th of each and every year be dedicated to cats. Because March is the third month of the year and the letter “C” is the third letter in the alphabet. The letter “A” comes first and that gives us the “one” in twelve. Admittedly, the letter “T” is the 20th letter in the alphabet, but there is no such date as March 120th. I suppose if you were a practitioner of the Julian Day Calendar it would make sense to add “CAT” as “3 + 1 + 20” as in “C + A + T” and that would be “24” and according to the Julian Calendar this would be January 24th. But this, of course, is absurd.

January 24th is too close to New Year’s Day and Martin Luther King Day, it is also absurd to think anyone uses the Julian Calendar except for recluses using the Julian as a derivative-fractional-entity of the Mayan Calendar in order to calculate the end of the world (For those curious (like a cat) this will be June 19, 2012).

Much like the United States of America is not abbreviated “USOA,” because the innocuous “O” of “of” is as useless as the “0” in “20.” Ipso facto, I’m pleased to see we all agree that March 12 spells “CAT” and, therefore this will be their day.

To celebrate the day of CATs, the legislature first needs to get rid of rule #4.15.07.K9 that specifically prevents any resident of this state from housing more than five cats within the incorporated city limits. Anyone who owns one cat knows that the amount of love from one cat is only increased by a factorial of Meow! with each and every cat in addition to one. In fact, the Federation Uniting Cats and Kittens (horrible acronym; Great cause) is currently in a copyright infringement lawsuit with Lays Potato Chips over the slogan, “Bet you just can’t have one.”

March 12 is fast approaching, but we still have time to plan on booking Ted Nugent to headline the “Cat Scratch Fever” kick-off event. It should also be noted that during the Feline Fun Run that dog owners, pregnant ladies, organ transplant patients, children under 5, people with HIV/AIDs and people susceptible to Toxoplasmosis should not attend. While cats are superior with their ability to have 9 lives, people only get one. We’d hate for March 12 to turn into a Meow Day Massacre.

So, gather the healthy and get ready for Cat Day on March 12. Let’s all make a solemn meow to frolic with our felines.

Phil (Whiskers) Jacobsen