Gone cloud-o
Mood:  cool

There's an Australian expression, "gone troppo", meaning someone who's gone mad or soft in the head, presumably from baking under the tropical sun too long.  It's probably one of those slang phrases that's only used in front of tourists and George Harrison, but I've always liked it.

Apparently, we need an equivalent expression for northern climates - gone freezo? gone tundro? - because here in the northeastern US, we're all about to go stark gibbering bonkers from the perpetual rain.  About six weeks ago, the sun disappeared behind a boiling bank of cement-colored clouds, and has barely been seen since.  Either it's drizzling, or misting, or pouring, or thundering, or all four at once.  The trees are sodden, the parking lots are flooded.  There's mushrooms in the basement, the lawn looks like a radioactive Chia pet, the Portland Head foghorn is hooting mournfully, and we shouldn't be wearing polar fleece and paying oil bills in July.

Some volcano in Alaska erupted in March and disrupted the North Atlantic oscillation, causing the jet stream to move way south and trap storms over the Great Lakes, and that's why we're stuck with this perma-blah weather pattern.  It reminds me of that Ray Bradbury short story where the sun only comes out once every 100 years for an hour, and the girl gets locked in the closet by her classmates when the magic hour arrives.  It's especially cruel to be robbed of summer after suffering through nearly six months of winter.  And senseless, when the rest of the country is currently broiling in a heat wave.  Hey, Florida, can you guys send us 20 or 30 degrees of that 110-degree high, if you're not using them?  We've got some extra fog and puddles we can swap you. 

To while away some of this interminable rainy-day silliness, the other day I was emailing my friend, whom regular Grove readers (is it too optimistic to use the plural here?) know as The Elrond Swooner.  I wanted to try out my new gmail account.  Google mail is slightly creepy because it scans your emails for keywords, and then places ad links next to your email page based on the content of your emails. (Similar to what Tripod does with the banner ads on the DC page.)  So, I sent Elrond Swooner an email recounting the previous night's shenanigans, when we had to take the cat to the emergency 24-hour clinic at 12:30 am.  That was the hour at which he suddenly decided to start throwing up gelatinous goo and doing Unspeakable Litterbox Things on the bed.  By the time we got home, it was 3:45 am.  It was a toss-up between going back to bed or saying "the heck with it, might as well just shower and go to work early."

So, I inaugurated my gmail account by sending this plaintive, uh...plaint of thwarted sleep off to Elrond Swooner.  When she replied, I noticed all the Google ad links had changed and were now offering remedies for insomnia, sleep deprivation, and sleep apnea.  Which gave me an idea.  In my reply to her reply, I said "Let's see if we can manipulate these Google links into saying something more interesting.  David Wenham blah blah David Wenham blah blah blah David Wenham."

In response, Google Ads offered up "Suffering from insomnia? Play the Didgeridoo!".

Elrond Swooner gamely gave it a try: "Rich single men dipped in chocolate!" she wrote back.  The links didn't budge.

"You'll have to try harder," I replied.  "Much demand but very little supply."

"I AM HAVING TROUBLE MAINTAINING AN E.RECTION," Elrond Swooner responded. "WHERE CAN I GET CHEAP V.IAGRA?"

"Thanks a LOT," I wrote back. "How's that 15-day a.cai berry w.eight loss program going? And your N.igerian husband, how is he?"

(Please excuse the periods.  I don't want the Tripod ad generator getting any funny ideas.)

The links, of course, went nuts....er, went troppo over those little keywords.  I suppose one could conclude that David is less popular than a.cai (but still more popular than spinach).  Or, more likely, that there is much, much more money to be made off of w.eight l.oss r.emedies than copies of "Answered by Fire".  But still....couldn't Google at least try to sell me some Lord of the Rings figurines or a 300 lunchbox?

By the way, the cat was fine.  Mild c.o.n.s.t.i.p.a.t.i.o.n.