phil jacobsen

[philjacobsen-blog]

"Where's the Beef?" Fun Fact, my sister was the first person who took the slogan "Where's the Beef?" from the TV commercial about Wendy's and started using it in everday slang. Because of her, people say "Where's the beef?" It's no wonder she is in MENSA. She's very smart and sometimes funny. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Where's_the_beef%3F

[philjacobsen-blog]

Antarctica. How I learned to stop worrying and love the isolation.

I put on my gloves and face mask like I had done every day for the past six months. I wanted to protect myself, be safe and I wanted to be healthy. No, I wasn’t a prepper preparing for the end of the world and/or the coronavirus, I lived in Antarctica.

From 2002 to 2018, I spent over six years of my life working and living in Antarctica. Math might tell you that looks like “16 years,” but Antarctica works on a different schedule.

Scientists and contract laborers (like myself) have been limited to work a maximum of 14 months straight in Antarctica. Because, after 14 months of isolation, it has been said, “You might lose your mind.” Therefore, four weeks, six weeks, or eight weeks of coronavirus quarantine is like a walk on the frozen ocean.

Everyone loves Top 10 lists, but first, here is the background of life in Antarctica.

There are two different seasons in Antarctica: summer and Winter. For the laymen, that’s when it’s light 24 hours a day (summer) and then when it’s dark 24 hours a night (Winter). It’s not by accident that “Winter” is capitalized and “summer” is in lowercase. This is because you need to respect Winter.

I have spent four Winters in Antarctica. While there have been changes to the Winter schedule, when I Wintered in Antarctica at McMurdo Station, the largest of the three American bases on the 7th Continent, a plane with all of our friends, hopes, dreams and escape plans left in February. The next time we would see the lights of a plane in the sky would be in August.

In other words, shit got real when that last plane left. We had to trust we had enough food, talent and toilet paper to last us until the end of August. This is because, as the saying goes, “If we don’t have it, then you don’t need it. And, you don’t need it, because we don’t have it.”

If you run out of chicken, then you eat pork. When you run out of pork, you eat lamb, when you run out of lamb, you eat hamsters--hamsters are, what we called, microwavable breaded (or deep fried) ham and cheese Hot Pockets™®.

In other words, the grocery stores are open; quit panicking. When you’re outside, hoping your squirrel trap has been bountiful today, this is the time to panic. However, today, it’s not minus 45 degrees outside. Walmart will be restocked soon, put on your mask and gloves and purchase only what you need. Then go home.

And, if Walmart is out of toilet paper, hook a garden hose to your faucet and clean your ass, and be happy your water supply doesn’t give you frostbite.

It’s going to be fine.

In Antarctica, we were living like it was Gilligan’s Island, “No phone, no lights, no motorcar, not a single luxury.” The only difference was we had phones, lights and motorcars, but when we went outside it was minus 45 –degrees—not a luxury. Stay inside on your couch and be happy that when you do go outside to take out the trash, walk the dog or mow your lawn, you’re not getting third degree frostbite and having your toes cut off.

This little piggy went to the market. This little piggy watches Netflix. This little piggy stays home.

Speaking of movies and TV shows, my good God, we would have loved to have had Netflix, bootlegged versions of Game of Thrones, YouTube or Facebook in Antarctica. Instead, the entirety of McMurdo’s bandwidth is mostly for Science.

Rarely could I “LOL” with my friends on Facebook or “YOLO” with spring breakers at the beach. Nope, Science is the priority in Antarctica.

Science, I tell you. A bunch of people, who we called “Beakers,” is the entire reason McMurdo Station exists. These Scientist are in Antarctica to prove or disprove Global Warming and/or can penguins fly and/or are penguins cute. Generally, they proved it, but why listen to scientists?

Scientists went to school and studied stuff, but have they ever studied the “economy” or “Facebook?” Can you imagine an entire community who listens to scientists? Oh wait, you can? Possibly because we’re in a global pandemic? Yeah, listen to scientists?

During my Winters in Antarctica, I could go days and only see the one person who I worked with, and guess what? I hated him.

In the community, we called him “Skin Suit.” This was his nickname because, even though he passed his battery of psychological examinations, which are required in order to Winter-Over in Antarctica, he said to Suzy—a la “Silence of the Lambs.”

“I wish I could wear your skin, so I could touch you all day.”

So, there I was, working at the bottom of the world, with Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gume as my coworker for six months, in total darkness, and do you want to know how I got along with him (aside from the one time I threw hot coffee in his face)? I complimented his outfits. I tried to look for the positive in the people who surround me.

My first job in Antarctica, I was a dishwasher. I left my home, friends and a girlfriend to seek this adventure. I’m still happy with two out of three of those decisions.

The first year I spent in Antarctica there was a “Dishwasher Emergency” at the South Pole (850 miles from the sea level solitude of McMurdo). Just like we need grocery store employees, drive through food and universal health care, the South Pole needed a dishwasher—and they chose me.

The South Pole is located at 9,301 feet above sea level. That’s not very high. When I live my life in my hometown of Salt Lake City, I live at 4,327 feet above sea level. I have climbed high mountains in Utah, like Mt. Timpanogos that is 11,752 feet and Mt. Nebo that is 11,928 ft. I’m not healthy, but I’m also not fat.

When I was asked to work at the “high altitude” of 9,301 feet of the South Pole, I said, “Okay. I’ve done that.”

However, what I didn’t know, was that because the South Pole is at “The South Fucking Pole” it’s not just about the altitude. The South Pole has a variance of altitude because of the Earth’s centrifugal force which makes the South Pole seem much higher than the actual 9,301 feet. At times it can feel, because of lack of oxygen, as though you are over 12 or 13 thousand feet.

Before going to the South Pole, the doctors and scientists said I should take “prophylactic acetazolamide” to combat the feelings of high altitude sickness. However, my friend Donald said, “You’ll be ‘okay.’” He said that since he was from Colorado and I was from Utah, that I would be fine, because I was “use to the high altitude.”

I was at the South Pole for eight days. I quit taking prophylactic acetazolamide on day four, because I was feeling great. I listened to Donald.

On day eight, I nearly died. This wasn’t Utah. Because I’d lived at sea level for four months at McMurdo Station, and Donald didn’t know shit, my pulse oximeter (the amount of oxygen which should be in my blood and close to 100) was 52. I was failing breathing.

Pulmonary edema cut the oxygen supply to my brain making me think 3 + 7 = Cat. The South Pole doctor said, “Phil, you are two to four hours from death.”

All flights to the South Pole were canceled on this day, due to weather, but, due to “2 to 4 hours of death,” a C130 National Guard Airplane risked their lives and flew from McMurdo Station to rescue me at the South Pole. If not for universal Antarctica Health Care, I could be dead.

On this day, I learned I needed to listen to the scientists, and not to Donald.

This story ended up being too long. I’m sorry. I’ve lived through isolation, listened to friends, instead of the medical community, and somehow I’m still alive. How did Antarctica prepare me for the isolation of the coronavirus?

1: Do something today better than you did yesterday. Did you go to bed sooner? Wake up earlier? Brush your cat?

2: Exercise. In Antarctica my exercise routine was called, “Brushing the Dust Off of David.” There is no reason to take a hammer and chisel to David. All you need to do is to take a wet cloth and brush off the dust. Do 10 sit ups, pushups, or jog in place. Be happy with who you are, and barely maintain. If you set higher expectations, you might fail. Simply, brush the dust off of your personal David.

3: Do something better today than you did yesterday. There were many times in Antarctica I got more drunk on Friday than I did on Thursday. I’m not advocating alcoholism, but lower your expectations. Don’t look for perfection when a glass of wine might do.

4: Did you make your bed after you woke up? Some days you will go to bed and your biggest accomplishment will be, “I made that bed today.” Congratulations.

5: Groundhog Day. Every day may seem like yesterday, but, how did you make it different? In Antarctica, after six months of Winter the trash shelves are lined with “Learn ‘This Language’ in 30 Days” DVDs. Nobody accomplishes a lot during the isolation of Winter. But, if we do little, then that is a lot.

6: Communication. Does your phone work? In Antarctica, no one can call us, so we have to call out. Instead of waiting for ‘that phone call.’ Make it.

7: Don’t go outside. It’s too cold. In the Covid-19 case, it’s too dangerous. My dad goes to dialysis three times a week; please don’t kill him. Don’t go outside.

8: Appreciate your pets. In Antarctica we are not allowed to have pets. I started the “Antarctica Cat Club.” All we did was share photos of our cats from home that we wished to be with. Now, we get to live a cat’s life. Nap. Eat. Shit. Nap. Clean. Nap. Eat. Repeat.

Love your pets you lucky sons of bitches.

9: Art. Be creative. Rather you’re by yourself or preferably, with only yourself. Do something artistic. For instance, today, I chose to write this Manifesto. In Antarctica a group of us recreated the (drunk) history of the race to South Pole by Roald Amundsen and Robert Scott (https://vimeo.com/35084075). What will you or your isolated group create?

10: Know that it ends. A plane will come and take you away or scientists will tell you it’s safe to go outside. And then, it’s over. You take off your mask and gloves. You shop at a grocery store, you go to a movie, you hug your parents or, you love being able to hold those who you love.

Stay warm. Stay isolated. And, stay indoors.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Pelican. Peli-Couldn’t Fly

Beach towels and a chair. A cooler full of beer and plenty of sunscreen. These are things I carry to the beach.

Two K-Mart beach chairs, a snorkel, fins and my underwater camera.  Just more accessories to put in my backpack when I go to the beach.

Filtered water for our bottles, a hammock I’ve never used (but want to), rope, a knife and trail mix in case we get hungry.

The things I carry to a beach vary each time I go to the beach. Some things are “standard” and other things get tossed in my backpack “just in case.”

Just in case I find two trees on a beach, I’ll hang up a hammock. Just in case I find two trees, I’ll bring 100 feet of rope. And, just in case all of this happens, I’ll need a knife to cut the rope to hang the hammock to enjoy swaying in the breeze on the beach.

In the six months of living in Puerto Rico, I’ve never hung a hammock, never brought a rope and never brought a knife to hang a hammock that I’ve never hung on the beach.

But.

Lisa is visiting from Utah this week, and I tried to bring it all to the beach. I didn’t care if my backpack looked like I packed everything and the kitchen sink because you never know, when you’re at the beach--maybe you need the kitchen sink.

Check your geography, Puerto Rico is an island. This means I can be to “a” beach in less than ten minutes. But, to get to “another” beach, which is possibly indiscernible from “a” beach, we hiked 25 minutes to “the” beach.

The real difference from “a” beach to “the” beach are people. While “a” beach might have 100 people in the water, “the” beach usually has zero to ten people.

I didn’t hang the hammock, but there was shade, a gentle breeze and the warm water of the ocean to wade into, drink our beers, chat, watch fish jump around us and see five pelicans try to eat the fish that circled around our legs.

Lisa loved the pelicans. They dove around us and often came up empty billed. But, when they caught a fish, we could tell because we could see the fish flipping and flapping around inside the pelican’s pouch before getting swallowed. It was like watching the Discovery Channel in super High Def-3D. Better, of course, because it was live. Reality TV—if you will—but better, because there was no TV.

At one point we saw all five pelicans surrounding and fighting for a red snapper.

I’m not a fishologist, but this seemed strange. I had never seen this fish this close to shore when I’ve been snorkeling. It was odd, but so is the number five, and that’s how many pelicans were trying to eat the red snapper, but none of them could swallow such a big fish.

Admittedly I have a lot to learn about birds, fish and the habitat of Puerto Rico, but something didn’t seem right.

And then we saw the problem. This snapper was attached to about 10 feet of fishing line. The pelicans couldn’t swallow their catch, because their catch had a string and a hook attached. A string that quickly proved deadly.

One of the pelcans, pel-a-couldn’t get un-tangled from the fishing line. The fishing line was wrapped around its wings.

Standing in chest deep water, drinking our beers, Lisa and I were 20 feet away from this bird’s death.

“I have a knife in my bag,” I said to Lisa. “Hold my beer and let’s see what happens.”

After swimming to shore, I rifled through my backpack, past the hammock and rope and found my knife. I also grabbed my mask, but did not put on my flippers, because Lisa shouted, “Hurry.”

When I got to the ocean’s edge, I could see why Lisa was concerned, the pelican was tangled so tightly, it was flipped upside down and appeared to be drowning. Plus, a second pelican, perhaps its mate, was three feet away, in distress, watching his partner die.

I unsheathed my knife and swam to the two pelicans.

Do pelicans bite? Do pelicans have rabies? Do pelicans attract sharks? Do pelicans like human flesh? Do pelicans know you really want to help them when they are in distress? Do you know one thousand other questions ran through my head as I swam towards these pelicans? I know, because they did.

Swimming towards these birds, I knew what the problem was: Fishing Line. I just didn’t know how bad the issue was. One pelican was drowning, because the other pelican was also wrapped up in the fishing line with a dead fish on a hook between them both.

With my mask on, I could tell the drowning pelican was tightly wrapped in red (or blue) fishing line. As I try to remember the color, I can’t. It was just intense and lots of monofilament that was a different color than clear—the normal color of fishing line.

Thinking the birds would attack and trying to be quick, I approached with my knife, and the pelicans did not flutter, flinch or try to fly away. Did they know I was there to help?

Looking at the drowning bird, I could see two wraps of line around its body, so I did two quick cuts (away from its body and my face) and then I brought the knife down across the line that joined the two birds.

In a flash and a dash and a splash, the floating pelican quickly flew away, but the drowning pelican, still covered in fishing line and a dead snapper wrapped in its wings, just paddled away. Upright and breathing, but still wrapped up.

I could not catch up to this pelican, so I swam back to Lisa, she handed me my beer and we just figured this bird would die. We thought this bird would die. We saved one bird, but there was no joy in toasting to a job half-done.

This pelican just floated out to the breakers. We watched it get tossed in the waves. It would disappear beneath the surf, and then rise to the surface. Soon we expected it would not come up again.

Until.

A wave crashed into it, and it not only floated to the surface, but it began to fly, and as it rose into the sky we saw a red snapper and five feet of fishing line fall off its body and into the ocean.

Now, we toasted our beers to “Did that really just happen?”

I’m not a hero but the things I carry to the beach will now always include a knife, a mask and a whole of lot of moxy.

[philjacobsen-blog]

The descent into the cave was like the descent back to childhood. Through the small womb of a crevasse, we crawled into the darkness. On our hands a knees we saw only what our flashlights could illuminate: Graffiti.

I don’t know why the graffiti surprised me, but it did. We had just hiked up the side of a slippery slope of a hill/mountain with mud, rocks and jungle for about 25 minutes to find this cave. We had flashlights, rope, lunch, climbing gear, water and cameras. At some point in the past, another group had to have made this same journey with the following conversation:

“Hey Bob,” John would have asked, “I have the flashlights, climbing gear, rope, lunch, water and cameras for our trip to the cave? Am I forgetting anything?”

And Bob would have replied, “What about the spray paint? What’s the point of going into a cave, if I can’t write my name on a wall?”

Fair enough, Bob. A picture is worth a thousand words, but thanks to Bob’s logic, the first photo in this cave is only worth three words, “Bob was here.”

Luckily, the spray painting only lasted about to the point where the noise of bats filled up the cavern. Apparently, the bats had their own way of marking their territory and this is where I figured out where that colloquialism came from.  With all of the bat shit, I felt crazy to continue this expedition.

In the beam of my headlamp, I could see bats flying in and out of view as their high-pitched sonar guided them around me and the stalactites with a noise that seemed to sound like they were saying, “I have rabies (stalactite—fly to the left). I have rabies (Stalagmite—fly to the right) I have rabies (Phil—fly closer than his comfort zone and then whisk his helmet with your wing).”

And, just as I was getting comfortable with the uncomfortableness of bats flying into my belfry, I saw out the corner of my light beam a crab that would have filled a platter at Red Lobster.

Trying to swear every known Lord’s name in vain, I said, “Vishnu, Shiva, Jesus, Ganesha, Mohamed and Flying Spaghetti Monster, too. What the fuck was that?” Figured it was best to cover all of the bases, because if, in that moment, a nine-armed-purple-octopus with a strainer on its head could be summoned to catch a crab—I didn’t want to play favorites.

“Oh yeah,” Dave said. “There are cave crabs, too”

No.

Dave.

That was not the proper response.

Let’s say I saw a kitten cuter than Gato at the bottom of the cave, then Dave could have said, “Oh yeah, there are Cave Kittens, too. They’re really cute, friendly and playful, but they’re also blind. You cannot take a Cave Kitten home. They’re like Vampires and will die in the Sun. But, Oh Yeah, there are Cave Kittens. And, instead of sonar, they use purring to navigate a cave.”

[philjacobsen-blog]

Cave Man

I put Ellen DeGeneres on speed dial.

I did this right after I said, “Yes” to Dave and Galen’s request to join them underground--in a cave. The only knowledge I have of going into a cave revolves around the 12 Thai boys and their coach who got stuck in a cave in July of 2018.  

So, that knowledge includes: 1. Get into a cave 2. Get stuck 3. Get Rescued 4. Get on Ellen

Therefore, if I’m going to go into a cave, I want to skip to the bottom of that list as quick as I can. Get on Ellen. No need to spend days trapped in a cave wondering, Will I live or will I die or will I be on Ellen?” No. Just get me out of the cave and get me on Ellen.

And, I had a plan for this. I pre-wrote an alert that my phone would automatically send out if I did not cancel the message before it got dark and/or I got hungry. I estimated this to be about three hours after entering the cave, the message said (sent by text to Ellen’s Phone):

“Ellen, remember how you had 12 Thai boys on your show who got trapped in a cave? You know what’s worse than that? Fifty one year olds are currently trapped in a cave in Puerto Rico. Starvation is a reality. I know it sounds hard to believe, but it’s true. Please rally all of your resources to help save these fifty one year olds.”

Granted, it might have been a bit embarrassing when Ellen and Elon Musk showed up to Puerto Rico with 50 baby submarines only to find me limping out of the cave with a sprained ankle, but, I would have just said, “Sorry, I’m learning Spanish and sometimes my Spanish to English doesn’t translate so well, that message should have said, “There’s a 51 year old hungry in a cave. Please bring a cheeseburger.”

With an airtight Safety Exit Plan ready to be executed, I got in the car with Galen and Dave and headed to this Puerto Rican Cave.

On the way there, Dave went over the list of problems we might incur.

“It’s dark,” he said, “so I hope you have a good headlamp. Rocks are slippery. Mud is dirty. You’re going to get wet. Don’t hit your head on the stalactite and you ‘might’ trip over a stalagmite.”

Thanks Dave, useful information because I always got stalactites and stalagmites confused when I’ve NEVER been in a cave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Dave said, as almost an afterthought, “there are lots of bats in this cave. If they fly towards you, which they will, put your hand in front of your face so they hit your arm and not your head. And, the tailless whipscorpion, while it looks like a creature from your nightmares and/or something that would kill Sigourney Weaver in ‘Aliens’ is actually harmless to humans.”

And, with the fear of rabies and scorpions on the submerged horizon, we went into the cave.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Buenos Gatos

My cat’s name is “Gato.” Check. When I order food or leave my name at a restaurant or spell my name to a guard at a gated community I say, “Mi nombre es ‘Phil.’” And then I spell my name, “efe e ele.” Check. And, at McDonald’s or Burger King (Casa del Whopper), I see my name written as “Fil.” Check. El Perfecto.

I am learning Spanish. 

Bit by bit. Poco a poco.

But, in learning Spanish, this means I am able to read Spanish, but I don’t do so well in speaking Spanish or understanding Spanish. So, this week, I’ve decided to join a club. I call it, “El Club de Lucha” or “Fight Club.”

Instead of starting fights, I start speaking Spanish to unsuspecting people who are enjoying a normal dia, and then, El Wham-o, I hit them with a “Buenos Dias.” 

Sometimes I even say, “¿Como esta?” And, Lord help me if they aren’t doing “Bien,” because that’s the only word I know. I’m always doing “Bien.” I could step on la cabeza de Gato este mañana and still be doing “bien.” 

The rules of El Club de Lucha are: 1. Always talk about El Club de Lucha 2. If you work behind a cash register, you’re a member of mi El Club de Lucha 3. Roll my “Rs.” 4. The letter “I” is pronounced like the letter “E.” 5. The letter “E” is pronounced like a sound you’d say if you stepped on a spider, “Eh.”

Now, let’s go out and speak Spanish.

Since I don’t know all the Spanish, I have to practice words that might be said to me in certain situations. For instance, this week I took Gato to the vet.

“Mi necesito una cita para me Gato.”

I understand that I don’t understand the different uses for “para” vs “por.” I hope these two things are related closely enough that I was, indeed, saying, “I need and appointment FOR my cat” and not “I need an appointment because I AM a cat.”

In this instance, the primero (first) fight was a success. The mujer (woman) behind the counter (I don’t know the word for counter) said, “¿Como se llama tu gato?” (What is the name of your cat?)

I had a feeling and studied that this would be one of the first, as they say, “¿questions?” asked at El Club de Lucha, and, like a quick upper jab, I responded, “El nombre para mi gato, es Gato.”

Knocked and dazed from my Spanish prowess, la muchacha dice tambien (the girl said again (keep up and/or welcome to El Club de Lucha), “¡No! Cuales un nombre para SUUUUU gato?”

“Mi nombre para Miiiii gato,” I said tambien, “es Gato.”

As though she knew I won this fight, dazed and confused, she had to bow out of El Club de Lucha, and she counter punched with, “Do you know English?”

Ha! ¿Do I know English? I raised both of my hands in the air (keep in mind one hand was holding Gato by his fat little kitten belly), triumphant. I out Spanish’d la mujer.

“Yo sé Ingles,” I said, “In fact, I know English quite well.”

And, the rest of Gato’s appointment went quite bien.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Miss My Shot

Jimmy Fallon is coming to Puerto Rico when Hamilton, with Lin-Manuel Miranda, is performing. It’s rumored, even though Jimmy is doing his show in San Juan—even he can’t get a ticket.

I know this is a rumor, because I just started it. But, that’s how hard it is to get a ticket to see this production of Hamilton in Puerto Rico. And, I have a ticket. I won the Puerto Rican version of the Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory Golden Ticket Award.

Hard to get. Nearly impossible, but there I was at a local restaurante eating a plate of mofongo when I popped open my can of Medalla Light and, instead of hearing the “puessssh” sound of an open beer can, I heard “You’re not going to miss your shot.” I did it. I won a ticket to Hamilton.

I grabbed my Medalla-soaked golden ticket and as I ran down the calle the caballeros pranced their horses beside me, colorful señoritas twirled in my path and the piñatas the el niños dragged behind them came to life. The whole street turned into a Disney-like musical celebrating my ticket to Hamilton.

Or, at least this is how I felt when I logged into the BuyHamiltonTickets.com, and 20 minutes after the tickets went on sale, my computer was selected to try to buy a seat for Hamilton. And, even though I tried to buy the maximum of four tickets, I was only allowed to purchase one. Quite possibly, the last seat available in Puerto Rico, because when I tried to buy one more, the site came back and said “Sold Out.”

I have checked, double-checked, tres-checked and one-hundred times over revisited the email for the time and date of my Hamilton ticket. The email says, “January 9 at 7:30 p.m.”

I’m one step shy of going Memento-style and having “January 9 at 7:30 p.m.” tattooed on the back of my hand.

Now, imagine this:

I’m in Texas for Christmas and I see a New York Times story about Lin-Manuel’s arrival in Puerto Rico, and the lead sentence does not read, “Lin-Manuel Miranda arrives in Puerto Rico to perform Hamilton for Phil Jacobsen, 51.” My initial thought is, “Shoddy journalism.”

No, the first sentence says something like, “Lin-Manuel Miranda arrives in Puerto Rico to perform Hamilton January 12-27.”

Ha. Fake News. I have a ticket for January 9th. I can’t believe that I am copy editing the New York Times from Texas about a story they have written about Puerto Rico.

But. Just in case. Perhaps. Maybe? I’ve made a mistake? I log into my email to re-re-re-times-101-check my ticket.

My date to see the show is January 9th, but, buried in several layers of Google Spam filters there are several emails with the subject line: “Mensanje Importante: Hamilton.”

Yeah, my Spanish isn’t that good so I think, “Either I have an important case of meningitis called ‘Hamilton’” or “I might have missed a message regarding Hamilton.” I opened the email, crossed my fingers and hoped I had some form of tropical chicken meningitis.

The caballeros shot their horses. The señoritas turned into abuelas. The niños had piñatas full of broccoli. My ticket to Hamilton had been canceled.

Three days before I was supposed to be hanging out with Lin-Manuel and Jimmy Fallon, I’m working with the ticketing agency to get a new ticket.

Mensanje no importante: I might miss my shot.

(Note: Confirmed. My seats have been reassigned for January 13. Phew.)

[philjacobsen-blog]

Spanish 1 Oh 1

It just occurred to me that I don’t know if I’m trying to learn Spanish or trying to get arrested.

I’ve been approaching Spanish in multiple ways while in Puerto Rico.

I have a wonderful maestra (teacher) in Fajardo who I meet twice a week at the local La Casa Del Whopper (Burger King) and I read children’s books, like Patito Feo (the Ugly Duckling) and Buenas Noches, Luna (Good Night, Moon).

I carry these books with me, and whenever I have a free moment, I pull them out and study Spanish. But, since I get to the Home of the Whopper before my maestra, this means I’m reading children’s books in the children’s playground.

In case you’re wondering, I haven’t dramatically changed my appearance, in fact, since I don’t want a close-cropped Puerto Rican haircut (and I can’t speak Spanish well enough to explain how to cut my hair) I haven’t had a haircut in five months. I shave, on occasion, and, it may be blonde, but I do have a mustache. I look bedraggled. I look like the “Before Photo” on Queer Eye for a Straight Guy. I look like a walking mug shot.

Why is this just occurring to me now? I’m reading children’s books at a children’s playground and whenever I recognize a new word or concept I probably say, out loud, “Oh Yes!” or “I get it” or “Speak Spanish to me. It feels so good.”

Ay caramba. Estoy idota.

I’m not going to quit studying at Burger King, but at least now I know to be discreet when I whoop out my flash cards.

And, I’ve realized this after taking a one-week break from studying at BK and moving my studies to what was billed as “A Spanish Immersion Class” in San Juan.

When I got to the location of my class, I had to wait to park my car until a pig moved out of the only available parking spot on the street—this seemed “authentic.” Like perhaps, if there is a pig in the barrio then this would be a good place to study Spanish.

I don’t why I took this as a good sign. Pigs don’t speak Spanish, but I did learn Puerto Rican pigs say, “Oenc.”

It didn’t take long to figure out that this Spanish Immersion Class was more like Spanish Aversion, to me. There were only two people in the class. And when there are two people in class, you can only learn as fast as the dumbest person in class. With only two people in the class, it didn’t take long for me to figure out where I stood.

The first day of class, for three hours, we practiced our names.

“Me llamo Phil,” I would say to Dave

He would reply, “Mi nombre es Dave.”

I would say, “¿Esta bien, Dave?”

“Bien, Phil. ¿Y tu.”

For three hours, I asked Dave if he was bored, sad or angry. And Dave would say, “No aburrido, Phil. ¿Y tu?” “No triste, Phil. ¿Y tu?” “No Enojado, Phil. ¿Y Tu?”

At the beginning of the second day of class, we were asked to great each other:

“¿Como esta, Dave?”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said, “I don’t know what that means, and I forgot your name.”

I played hookie, went fishing and quit going to class.

Even if the niños run in fear and their padres call the police, I can’t wait to return to La Casa Del Whopper where I will have it my way one papas fritas at a time. This ugly duck will one day volar (I hope that means “to fly”).

[philjacobsen-blog]

No Buena Vista

If my life was a game of “Would You Rather?”, it might go a little like this:

Would you rather put on four layers of clothes and still be cold or take off all of your clothes, except for a swimming suit, and swing from a rope swing, beneath a waterfall into a refreshingly cool jungle pond?

Would you rather walk on top of the ocean or swim beneath the ocean?

Would you rather eat whenever you want and whatever you want or eat at a fixed mealtime, in a galley and you can only eat what someone else has decided that you will eat with the variety of taste from day to day being “No Salt or More Salt?”

Would you rather see a penguin or float in a bioluminescent bay on a New Moon night and watch algae light up the water like a thousands stars in the Milky Way?

For me, right now, only that last one is kind of a toss up, I did love seeing penguins in Antarctica. Always will. They’re cute. They’re funny. They’re goddamned penguins.

I didn’t hate the cold of Antarctica, but I also didn’t embrace the cold of Antarctica. I didn’t mind walking from building to building bundled up like Ralphie’s brother in “A Christmas Story,” but, on my days off, I did not seek adventures out in the cold.

In Puerto Rico, on my days off, I want to be outside. And, these last couple of weeks, I have been able to enjoy and explore parts of Puerto Rico that were, heretofore, off limits to me.

You see, after arriving in Puerto Rico, it only took me three days to get a hernia. And, not a cute hernia, but an acute hernia. The kind of hernia that required immediate hospitalization, surgery and three days spent in a hospital where the only words I knew how to say were, “No bueno.” And, the only word I came to learn was “Culo,” as in “Roll over, you’re about to get another shot in your Culo.”

On December 8, I crossed the six week mark from surgery, and according to internet searches and the all clear from Dr. Google (because I didn’t understand Dr. Garcia’s post-op Español instruciones), this means I am now 97% healed, so I ventured to the ocean, snorkeled with stingrays and barracudas, swung from trees and floated in a kayak on a bioluminescent bay with a Thousand Points of Light (and then George H.W. Bush died).

While I did not learn a lot of Spanish in the hospital, I did learn that I need to learn a lot of Spanish. Mañana I begin a Spanish immersion class. The class is four hours every morning for a week. This will be the first time in nearly 30 years that I have gone back to school.

Have I missed the boat on being able to learn a whole new language? I might be too cool, but am I too old for school? Am I nervous? You bet your Culo.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Something Smells Fishy

With a Puerto Rican pier that extends several hundred yards into the ocean less than five minutes from my work site, I figured I could either be a guy who walked four hundred yards off a three hundred yard pier—or, be the guy who fished.

I’ve decided to be a fisherman. And, when I have my line in the ocean, I am definitely with my peers.

There are “The Hectors.” Two guys, both named “Hector,” who also frequent this pier and they have been very helpful to my friend Galen and I when we have showed up to essentially drown our bait.

The first time out to the pier, we caught a total of zero fish between us. I caught zero and Galen caught zero, in case you’re bad at math.

The Hectors pointed out that we were using the wrong bait and they strongly recommended we find some squid at the local grocery store and give it another try.

Honestly, I was quite happy sitting in the sun, watching the birds fly over, seeing a couple of turtles swim under and watching a spotted stingray fly out of the water. The part about fishing I’ve never been too fond of is the part where I catch a fish.

Fish have a particularly fishy smell to them, and when I get the smell on my hands the first and only thing I want to do is immediately jump in the shower. So, sitting on a dock by the bay—Ottis Reddin-ly speaking—drinking beer, and not catching fish, well hell, that’s my favorite kind of fishing.

Since The Hectors didn’t agree with me--and Galen agreed with the Hectors--we headed back to the pier a few days later with a box of squid and a pile of ambition to land one of the 40 lb tarpons we’d seen other fishermen bring to the dock. Or possibly a stingray or maybe even a shark.

The only thing bigger than our talk and hopes were the future fish we hoped to catch. Think real big; Reel real big.

As I cut up the squid and baited my hook, I decided to go all-in. I’m not an ichthyologist, so I don’t know if squid have brains, vertebrae, hearts, lung or poop shoots, but if they do then I was covered in enough cephalopodic slime on my shorts, hair and face that I was able to chum the water simply from my smell.

And, it worked. We didn’t catch a lot of fish and we certainly only caught fish slightly larger than our bait, but—we caught 11 fish. Trust me, since fishing is a team sport, it sounds much better saying, “We caught 11 fish” versus saying, “I caught four fish.”

After dropping Galen off at his apartment, I broke eight speed limits to get home so the fish smell on my body would not permanently permeate the upholstery in my car.

Give me one good long shower and I’ll have a story to tell about the 11 fish we caught while wasting time and watching the tide roll away.

Now, a word about Puerto Rico.

When I moved into my apartment, it didn’t seem too strange the past tenants left 20 gallons of water hidden around the house. It has only been one year since Hurricane Maria struck and knocked out all resources to this island. Twenty gallons of water, why that’s 160 pounds of prevention.

Three days after su casa became mi casa, I found out the 20 gallons of water wasn’t just for a future hurricane, it also served to get me through current infrastructure snafus. For three days, while water pipes got fixed in my neighborhood, I flushed and cooked with water jugs squirreled away in the closets.

I just pretended I was camping, but with lights, TV and Internet. I guess I glamped—in my apartment.

For weeks afterwards, I had water.

Honestly, I never even gave it a second thought—until…until…I stripped out of clothes that splat on the bathroom floor with the subtle thud of squid innards, stood in the shower, took a moment to admire my farmer’s tan of fish guts and then turned on the water which, once again, was turned off.

Three days later there were seven jugs of water in my closet. Glamping was not fun.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Fajardo Famous

I arrived about 20 minutes earlier than my friends. I didn’t know what I was going to see, let alone understand, but if I were going to the World Series to watch the Red Sox and Dodgers play, I would show up early. Since I was going to the World Series of Puerto Rico to watch the Fajardo Cariduros play against the Cayey Toritos, I figured: show up early.

It just so happens the barrio I’ve moved to, Fajardo, has made its way into the Puerto Rico version of the World Series. I didn’t know if they called it “World” or “Island” or “Grande Beisbol”, but this tournament is giving me some newfound nuevo hometown pride. At the game, I learned it is called “Nacional Final.”

Sitting in the stands by myself, holding a sweating Coors Light and trying to pay attention to every word yelled over the loud speaker, I would try to recognize words I understood. Numbers were said often, “bueno” was said a lot.

Then everyone stood, so I stood, too. A man walked onto the field and then quickly dropped to his knees. He held the microphone in one hand and lifted his other to the sky. A few more Buenos and Hesus Christus were said, so I knew it was a prayer. While watching the man repeatedly slap the infield and then raise his hand to the sky, I thought this was the best prayer I’d ever witnessed, but then I heard “Nombre.”

I had recently learned that “Nombre” does not mean “Number” but it actually means “Name”, and before the ground-pounding preacher could say, “Amen”, I knew it was coming, “Nombre Jesucristo” and I anticipated, “Amen.” I understood a Spanish word. I understood this is a start to understanding my Espanol journey.

The night before Fajardo played, I had a World Series gathering at my house. It was the game that went to 18 innings, and all friends left after the 11th inning. To their credit, it was 1 a.m. There were 10 people in my apartment, which was 9 more people than who have been here for the last week. And, even though at the start of the “real” World Series, all 9 had said they’d go see Fajardo play in their World Series, only Serena and Galen showed up. For some people, there is a limit to Baseball, and 11 innings the night before had overly satiated that baseball desire.

Even after 18 innings of baseball, I still wanted live beisbol.

Through 9 innings our team was always down by one run. The Toritos scored first and the Cariduros got their first run, when they were down by two. In the bottom of the 9th our best player, Ortiz, stepped up to the plate. There were two outs and a man on first. We were still down by one run.

I knew Ortiz was the Cariduros best player, because if someone in the stands was wearing a jersey, it was Jersey #17 with Ortiz emblazoned across the back.

And, with a crack of the bat, Ortiz hit a triple and sent the game to extra innings.

This wasn’t just like the World Series we’d watched the night before. This was the World Series. This was their World Series. Nacional Final. This was my Island World Series.

It took until the 12th inning. The Cariduros had two men on base and Ortiz stepped up to the plate. Pots and pans and horns and drums and whistles and all matter of homemade noisemakers were blowing, cracking, whistling and screaming. The pitcher pointed to Ortiz, and the Toritos intentionally walked him.

Boooooo. Pots and Pans. Boooooo. Air horns. Boooo. Grabbing your elbow and giving your fist to the pitcher.

With bases now loaded all it took was a wild pitch by the Toritos, and the Cariduros won the second game. The series is tied: 1 to 1.

I’ve only lived in Fajardo for one week, but this is how Serena, Galen and myself became: Fajardo Famous.

(Double Check Photo Above: Top Center)

[philjacobsen-blog]

Antarctic Sun Dispatch for April

Station pulls together for winter-time medical evacuation

By Phil Jacobsen, McMurdo correspondent

Posted May 20, 2013

On Tuesday, April 16,the rumors around the dinner table started humming. The people in Fleet Operations knew they had a meeting first thing in the morning to discuss the white ice runway at Pegasus Airfield .

The ice runway? What was there to discuss? The ice runway is supposed to remain buried until August when we normally get our next flight.

The next day it all made sense. One of our community members needed to leave due to a medical emergency, and he needed to leave quickly.

Photo Courtesy: Joint Task Force-Support Forces Antarctica

A C-17 Globemaster III crew from Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Wash., alongside aeromedical evacuation and critical care air transport team members, safely evacuate a patient from McMurdo Station, on April 22.

The ice runway was covered in up to 10 inches of compacted snow. The electricians would need to hook up power; the fuelies would need to build a fuel pit. Other tasks included setting up lights for the runway, heat for the buildings and many other things to ensure the runway was safe for a plane to land at the start of our winter.

For many, their normal 10-hour shift became around-the-clock 12-hour shifts. The galley, once a buzz with rumors of a medevac, was now staying open later to feed those who were working atypical winter hours.

The weather was the only entity in McMurdo Station  that did not cooperate with our need to get this runway running. The temperatures were consistently below minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit.

It was projected to take more than a week before the Air Force  could land a C-17 Globemaster III . Instead, thanks to the hard work of everyone in McMurdo, the plane arrived on Monday, April 22.

Taking only six days to turn a snowfield into an Air Force-ready runway speaks for itself. We are a community dependent only on each other right now, and when our mettle was tested, we came together for one of our own.

And we had to do it all over again in May when a second medical evacuation occurred.

[philjacobsen-blog]

Antarctic Sun

I've written a couple of things for the Antarctic Sun. Here's the latest posting. The whole paper can be found here:

http://antarcticsun.usap.gov/

Cold weather can't disguise winter at McMurdo Station

By Phil Jacobsen, McMurdo correspondent

Posted April 19, 2013

McMurdo Station  didn’t have to wait long to feel the chill of Mother Nature as winter got under way last month.

Wind gusts blowing more than 60 knots and temperatures dropping to degrees that would be warm if they were on the plus side, we learned quickly what can be in store for us this winter: Cold, cold and cold, with a seven-month extended weather forecast of cold and blowing winds.

Photo Credit: Ben Adkison

The setting sun casts a glow on Discovery Hut and McMurdo Station.

Even if we hadn’t read Antarctica for Dummiesbefore coming down here, most of us probably had a faint recollection or inkling that winter at McMurdo would include cold temperatures. No one complained about the cold; the biggest problem with March coming in like a lion was that we haven’t had enough time to meet our 143 co-inhabitants of McMurdo.

With the cold weather came face masks, goggles, scarves and our standard issue Big Red parkas. Even if my mother was stationed down here, I would not have been able to distinguish her from Jeremy the Plumber, as they would both be clad in the same attire.

Most people dealt with this inability to recognize people by simply keeping their head down as they ducked in and out of buildings. I just started calling everyone “Mike.” There are seven “Mikes” in McMurdo this year. With 5 percent of the population named “Mike,” I was only wrong 95 percent of the time. In some aspects of my life, this is a huge improvement.

And, when I was met by a cold stare (likely), then I’d run through the other popular names. There are five guys named “Rob” and four named “David” or “Ray.” Throw in a few named “John,” “Dan,” “Brian,” “Jason,” “Richard,” or “Bill,” and now you’re saying, “hello,” to almost 30 percent of our population.

The women have proven to be a bit more difficult. Only two share the same name: Cynthia. And one insists on being called “Cindy,” because that’s her name.

The Lion of March quit roaring just in time for us to celebrate Easter. With limited supplies, eggs and costuming, we did the best we could. We decorated beverage cans and it was eggcellent. Though it’s a good thing there aren’t any kids down here; our bunny lacked cute and cuddly.

[philjacobsen-blog]

How To Do Everything

Location. Location. Location. Or, in my case, the setting, I suppose.

The things that I do in Antarctica are pretty similar to what any one else is doing wherever they're living, the only difference is my location.

Last night there was live music in McMurdo, karaoke, dancing and I went to the bathroom.

I can guarantee that somewhere in Virginia, Utah or Nebraska somebody danced, sang Karaoke and then went to the bathroom. The only difference was I did these things in Antarctica and, because of location, location, location one of these topics was interesting enough for me to get interviewed for the podcast "How to do Everything."

I can tell you this much: "How to do Everything" doesn't care how we dance down here nor did they want to hear my version of "Pour Some Sugar on Me." They wanted to know about that toilet that I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.

My interview is at the end of their podcast. Click on this episode to listen:

http://howtodoeverything.org/post/47800926331/how-to-keep-that-guy-behind-you-from-talking-all

[philjacobsen-blog]

What Do We Do for Fun?

(photo by Sandwich)

There is a group of 8th graders in Albuquerque, New Mexico who have written letters to me since 2006 asking questions about life in McMurdo. Obviously (I hope) it’s not the same group of kids, and that some of them have gone on to bigger and better things like 11th grade.

Over the years, though, their questions seem to have a few things in common: How cold is it? Do I play with penguins? And what do I do for fun.

Then again, there was one student a couple of years ago who wanted to know if I’d seen a Sperm whale. He also asked if I was a Sperm whale. How do you answer a question like that? I answered his question with a riddle: “To your questions re: Sperm. Fifty percent of your questions are true and 50 percent are false. If you’re also not flunking math (this assumes from your question you are flunking Biology and Human Anatomy) you may or may not be able answer this problem.”

Yeah, there was some fear this young man would be caught in the school library typing “Phil Jacobsen” and “sperm” into Google. Wow, worse fear is that he actually found something. I just typed those three words into Google and found, “Born from sperm on a finger. ..... Phil Jacobsen.” Maybe this whale of a tale has more to it than I thought. I’ll end this tangent:

Now.

Aside from answering questions from New Mexico, there is always a fine resource of creative people down here, and that leads me to tell you about the Great Beerster Bunny who visited us for Easter.

With eggs in short supply to decorate, we decorated beer cans and the Beerster Bunny hid these around the dorms for us to find. I was not the Beerster Bunny, but I took her head for a quick photo shoot.

Thanks Beerster Bunny. Quack. Quack.

[philjacobsen-blog]

You're In for a Wake Up

Here is a photo of my least favorite bathroom at McMurdo Station. This frozen outhouse is located next to the Waste Barn and the Waste Barn is just about geographically the farthest building from the building where I work.

Hold on—let me set the record straight. For those who know the layout of McMurdo, either because you have gone to Google McMurdo Street View or because you work in the Haz Waste building, I do know that the Haz Waste building is farther away from my building than the Waste Barn. I’m only setting this record straight, because it just so happens the only person who, as the lead Pig of the McMurdo Semantic Cops, would comment “No, Phil, actually the Haz Waste building is your geographic polar opposite at this Southerly Polar Outpost” works in the Haz Waste building (Happy Birthday Ben Morin).

Laying out the GPS coordinates of McMurdo is not the point of this post. The point of this post is I do not have a pot to piss in today. Our toilets are broken. This is why, however unappealing it looks to expose my body parts to an ambient temperature of minus 25 (note: a body part that is quite comfortable in its 98.6 package), I had to make the trip to the Waste Barn to dispose of some bodily waste.

I was already at work this morning when my coworker, Zach, arrived and said, “Something smells funny in here.”

To me, the office smelled like coffee. Between the hours of 7:30 a.m. and 9:30 a.m., I’m doing my job with a hot cup of coffee near at hand or beneath my nose. What I didn’t know was that as I was brewing coffee, percolating up through our frozen pipes and coming out of our sink was all matters of backed up fresh poo and pee.

Turns out, when Zach said, “Smells funny,” that was actually a euphemism for “Our office smells like shit.”

Indeed it does.

As I mentioned, or as Ben would have pointed out, there are other bathrooms (closer and warmer) than the one at the Waste Barn, but sometimes, just sometimes, you’re running from one end of town to the other, and your body says, “It’s time to go” even though your mind should say, “You need to wait.”

On the plus side, I did learn something from using the Waste Barn bathroom: Forget drinking four cups of coffee, say “goodbye” to the Caffeine IV, the next time I want a true morning ‘pick-me-up’ here’s all I’ll have to do (again):

First, (once in the bathroom) take off my gloves, so my hands are good, cold and numb. Second, unzip, unbutton and pull down my three layers of clothing (I unwittingly took off my gloves to latch the metal lock on the bathroom door. By the time I got to the point to reach into my pants my hands were so numb, unzipping my trousers was nearly as complicated as assembling a Rubik’s Cube). Third, I tried to find the smartest part of my body—the only body part that actually retreats like a descending thermometer when faced with such harsh temperatures. And, fourthly, do you have any idea how much steam rises when your urine hits a tin funnel? At minus 25 degrees, I was sure surprised. It was like being in a Turkish Steam bath, except in this case, the steam was urine.

Here’s to hoping the plumbers fix the frozen pipes in our building soon. Next step: How do I fix my frozen pipe?

[philjacobsen-blog]

Me and My Shadow

Do you judge a man by the company he keeps? Do you judge a man by the shoes he wears? His clothes or how he treats his server in a restaurant. You can judge a man by his good deeds or how he treats his enemies. You shouldn't judge a man until you know his motives.

If you’re going to judge this man, please do it by the size of my shadow. Today my shadow was 87 feet long. Do you know what else is exactly 87 feet long—besides the obvious answer of the Essex—the whaling ship that the book Moby Dick was based on?

Yeah, me neither, and that makes me and my shadow greater than Moby Dick. You can call me Ishmael, but you know what isn't small? My shadow—did I mention it was 87 feet long today.