Play One on TV

One of my coworkers is a finalist in the Da Vinci Code Quest. He received a “cryptex” in the mail, which is a heavy metal tube with all kinds of knobbly bits, a faux brushed gold finish, and five letter wheels that spin like a numerically-challenged combination lock. He tells me he’s one of only 10,000 people to receive one. Given it’s heft and the prevalence of sharp edges, I’m glad to know that only a limited number of these deadly weapons have been made available to the general public.

From what he tells me, the idea is to twiddle the letter wheels around and around until you “unlock the secret of the Da Vinci code.” Personally, I though the secret was “write enough quasi-religious twaddle to tick off Jerry Falwell so you can sell millions of copies”, but there aren’t enough letters for that.

After a bit of mucking about, he finally figured out that the word GRAIL opens the box. After sliding out a lock-and-tumbler affair, he found inside a tiny slip of paper that told him he was “a finalist,” and it referred him to a website address for more information. I’m afraid I don’t have the website address to pass on to you — apparently, I’m not worthy.

I decided to mess around with the cryptex and see if any other words would do the unlocking trick (and yes, if you must know, I started out by spelling the most vile five-letter word I could think of). I hit on another combination in under one minute. I don’t remember for sure, but I think the word was WSTGL, which undoubtedly would prove something to me if only I were a little smarter.

After a bit more experimentation, we figured out that the cryptex will open for any word that ends with the letter “L”. Apparently all that complicated lockwork is dependent on a single tumbler setting. Kind of a bum cryptex, if you ask me. It’s about as secure as a combination lock that opens anytime you stop on the number 10.

However, given the religious controversy surround The Da Vinci Code, I find it highly appropriate that the secrets of the universe are available simply by raising a little “L”.

Dustbury celebrates the legalization of the Tattoo Parlor in Oklahoma:

Governor Henry has signed Senate Bill 806, which legalizes the fine art of tattoo, putting the Sooner State out in front of … well, nobody, actually, since every other state has already taken tattooing off the Forbidden List.

Since the provisions of the bill don’t take effect until the first of November, the only immediate effect is to reduce by one the number of gripes from those who believe that if there’s a bright center to the universe, they’re in the state that it’s farthest from.

So now I can get a tattoo, eh? Mark this on the chalk board under “things I may get around to doing if I suddenly find about to die from a complete and utter lack of anything better to do, like floss or clean the catbox.”

My, how times have changed. For years, Oklahoma shipped a healthy number of dollar bills to our neighboring cities in Texas for any number of vices you would care to name: tattoos, high-alcohol beer, lottery tickets, gambling, sharp stinging blows to the head, etc. However, thanks to recent doses of legislative liberalism, my home state has managed to divest itself of most of our backwoods charm and repressiveness. Aren’t we the cosmopolitan ones?

Makes me wonder if Gainsville, TX, our closest metropolitan neighbor south of the border, is having some trouble making the municipal budget in the wake of our newfangled debauchery. All we need to do is legalize hardcore pornography and we’ll totally destroy their economy.

Oh, wait. It’s still illegal to get a fish drunk in Oklahoma. At least we have that.

I spent the day at a sales seminar put on by a very large software vendor. They were very interested in selling my company any desired combination of up to 50 different integrated software solutions. I needed a hand truck to get my presentation binder out to my car. Please don’t ask me what they talked about — after the first two hours, my brain went into Subconscious Underdrive in an effort to save me from a stroke.

I do remember one thing distinctly: Buzzwords are still alive and well. Does anyone remember that old Dilbert comic strip about Buzzword Bingo? Let me tell you, this presentation had so many buzzwords flying that everyone could have come out a winner.

For example: Leverage. As in “our product will enable you to leverage your existing project load.” Why the heck can’t you just say, “Our product will help your projects?” Or even just plain and simple “you can use this”? Of course, use is also a dirty word. It’s much more hip to say that you expend or implement your expendables. Even utilize is preferred over plain old use, as in I need to utilize the bathroom. (And you’ll probably leverage your expendables while your in there.)

I agree wholeheartedly with David’s sentiment that Simpler is Better.

This article is dedicated to my brother, Mike, who followed me into more suicidal schemes than I can count, yet through it all retained enough common decency not to tattle on me about 70% of the time.

Summer, 1975. It was a summer like no other. Good friends, blue-sky days, endless nights, games of hide-and-go-seek, treacherous dirt bicycle paths, killer fishing at the local lake, and oodles and oodles of unstructured free time. It was the closest to Nirvana (the ethereal state, not the band) that an 11-year-old boy in suburban America could hope to come.

My family had just moved to the suburbs. Our subdivision was one of about a million identical “grand getaways” springing up across the outer edges of American cities everywhere. This particular housing development carried the charmingly bucolic name of “Woodlake”. The name had the ring of actual truth, if one were willing to stretch it a bit — the “wood” consisted of diseased elm tree patches scattered among the alternating rows of new homes and undeveloped lots. And there was an actual “lake” that was small, man-made, canal fed, and stocked with enough perch and channel catfish to keep the bearings hot on my genuine Ronco Pocket Fisherman.

Woodlake had many other qualities desirable to young boys — plenty of neighboring houses, each holding a potential chum and/or rival; miles of winding streets that went everywhere on the way to nowhere, begging for exploration and exploitation; half-built skeletons of future homes, standing like x-ray photos of nearly identical ranch houses a few yards in any direction, with their hidden treasures of leftover nailgun cartridges and drywall fragments (which made great chalk sticks); spots of undeveloped countryside containing every terrain known to the mind of an 11-year-old American boy, from marshland to heavy wood to verdant grassland to murky mudpit, each in its own easy-to-explore one-acre parcel.

The neighborhood even had its own elementary school, but needless to say that neither my friends, my brother, nor myself would go near it. It was the month of May, and school was a threat that murmured on the horizon of a future three months hence. While there was some illicit appeal in the idea of playing amongst the tetherball poles and monkey bars without having to vie with the entire fifth grade, we tacitly agreed that some adventures were better left for other, less libertine seasons.

Best of all, Woodlake was a new subdivision, with row upon row of freshly-painted housing, asphalt roads still soft from their initial pouring, and brown patches that would one day become lawns, freshly scraped out of the prairie of Oklahoma. With such a large amount of scraping and leveling came copious amounts of dirt.

Dirt. Dirt was pure gold dust to any boy worth his mother’s washing machine. And this particular variety was not just any old dirt; this was Oklahoma Red Earth, with an orange stain capable of permanently altering the chemical composition of any clothing, whites and bright colors alike. For that one glorious summer, you could have my socks in any color you wanted, so long as it was red.

Most of that summer saw me outfitted in the role of explorer, complete with walkie-talkie, binoculars, metal canteen, and a goofy hat suitable for discouraging the most ardent of female suitors (girls were still nominally the enemy, although a certain redhead at school had come close to upsetting this delicate understanding). The mystical land of Woodlake was an environment never before encountered by my young eyes — miles upon miles of enclosed neighborhood, safe from the depredations of 18-wheel trucks and Dodge Darts. My bicycle, an orange JC Penney Swinger II (with sparkle-embedded banana seat and chrome sissy bar) practically leapt out of my hands every time I brought it forth from the garage. Atop this steed, I could ride as fast as the wind and with three times the kinetic energy, even with the added drag of playing cards in the spokes.

For the first time in my life, I comprehended that which drove the great explorers of the history books. I was driven onward and outward. Unlike those great explorers, I had an additional incentive to wander — my father was embarking on that great American experiment knownas “seeding a lawn.” This being a brand-new neighborhood, everywhere house sat on a plot of red earth festooned with a variety of flowering weeds. Our house was a corner lot, giving us a double-dose of nature’s preferred decorating scheme. My father was determined to make it a Bermuda-grass paradise, crafted in images that would have given a LawnBoy salesman… well, green with envy.

On those occasions when I woke up late, too dim-witted to see the pile of freshly-deposited topsoil on the front lawn and recognize it for the evil it was, I was drafted by my father for “yard work.” Tilling, weed-pulling, watering, gypsum-mixing — work that was pure anathema to my inner explorer. I soon mastered the art of slipping away undetected (or perhaps I had worked hard enough that Dad graciously decided to look the other way). I would then be off on the grand Quest for Adventure.

For a boy with imagination and a few hours to kill, there was no end to the possibilities. I fished the great deep of the man-made lake and slew the mighty Catfish of Doom; I scaled the cliffs of the Great Divide (a division down the center of the neighborhood where one street had been cut into a hillside); I built a tree-house in a dying elm, and then lost a valiant fight to keep it from the carpenter ants that moved in exactly one day later. I even braved the wilds of the swimming pool maintained by the neighborhood association, complete with Melissa, the sixteen year old lifeguard armed with the darkly mysterious weapon known as “bikini.”

My brother and I even dared to ride “Mean Mountain”, the one hill in the neighborhood where a determined kid on a speedometer-equipped bicycle could breach the heretofore unattainable speed of 25 miles per hour. My brother became the first one to shatter that barrier, at the cost of a broken wrist and two months of life in a cast. Chump change to a boy on the move.

But no adventure, no jaunt, no exploration could rival the great Drain Pipe Expedition of 1975.

My brother and I had found the Drain Pipe early on in our neighborhood survey. It was situated at the far end of the lake, ostensibly serving as the outlet from whatever spring was used to feed it. But we never actually saw it being used for the actual conveyance of water; it never appeared in less than a “bone dry” condition. For all we could see, the lake had been filled as a one-shot job long before white man had come to the land.

The entrance of the drainpipe was about four foot in diameter (a cavern to an 11-year old), fronting a tunnel that led off into the distance, a series of concentric cement circles fading into inky blackness, with a small white pinprick of light at the end that teased us, as if saying, “Come on over, boys! Have I got some secrets to show you!”

But the cavern remained unexplored for several weeks. There were so many other things to find and places to go, none of which involved the potential hazard of getting spiders caught in your hair.

All this changed with the coming of Forrest to the land of Woodlake.

Forrest was my best buddy from school. Forrest and I hit it off early in the year, misspending most of our fourth-grade career in each others company. We were both bright and imaginative, which is to say that our potential for getting into trouble increased exponentially with our proximity to each other. Forrest and I were both rabid Star Trek fans (he was usually Kirk and I was Spock, although at times he would try, and fail, to imitate Scotty). Our school recesses and free periods were spent exploring the surface of Gamma Hydra IV or reversing the polarity on recalcitrant warp engines. We quietly sneered at the merely normal boys who, lacking the imagination to trade phaser fire with Orion slavers, were forced to pursue the more mundane pasttimes like flag football or “chase the girls.”

Forrest was a school buddy, which meant that we had almost zero contact outside the confines of Overholser Elementary. At the end of the school year, Forrest and I bowed to the inevitable. We shook hands, wished each other a fine summer, and vowed to restart our friendship when the fall came again, both of us knowing that all school chums make those kinds of plans but seldom keep them.

When Forrest’s mom contacted my mom and suggested a July sleepover, I saw it as an act of divine providence. I felt a conviction not seen on this Earth since Cortez first heard the name “El Dorado”. I knew that Woodlake was to be mine by Divine Right, and that the coming of Forrest would serve only to solidify my hold on this wild frontier.

The only problem was that Forrest was singularly unimpressed with Woodlake.

Forrest lived in the country; specifically, in Piedmont, Oklahoma. At that time, Piedmont was a community for which running water was considered one of those new French customs. Forrest didn’t have to use his imagination to turn a stand of trees into Mirkwood, or to jump a drainage ditch and mentally will it to become the Grand Canyon. Forrest lived in an area with real jungles and real canyons, all within walking distance of his front door. He took one look at my little microcosm of Terra Incognita and began hunting around for the TV Guide.

Desperate to engage his imagination at any level, I took him down to the lake, thinking that I would throw him at Melissa the lifeguard, who I was fairly certain was indigenous only to the Woodlake area. On the way, we passed the Drain Pipe. He took one look at it and whistled a low, deep whistle, the kind I had learned he reserved only for chrome-plated spaceship models. “We don’t have one of those,” he breathed, not taking his eyes off the darkness of the tunnel.

At that point, I knew the day of reckoning had come. The Drain Pipe had stood all summer, unconquered and unexplored. I vowed that, by the end of this day, the secrets of the Drain Pipe would be mine, ripped out with my own bare hands.

We ran home and geared up, adding a flashlight, three Oreo cookies, and a ball of string to our regular exploratory arsenal. For headgear, I chose my Action Jackson walkie-talkie helmet, only without the walkie-talkie attachment (it made the helmet look less dorky. Yes, to a boy, there are levels of dorkness). I felt the helmet would more than protect me from any unexpected stalactites or man-eating insect life.

Helmeted, girded, and flashlighted, we sauntered into the tunnel, ready to explore the secrets of the deep. Hail the conquering heroes!

Ten seconds later, we were back outside again, frantically clawing at our chests in an effort to breathe. Neither of us had ever considered the possibility that we were in the least bit claustrophobic. That concept had crossed the line from probability to reality, as we had both just suffered our first-ever case of the “heebee-jeebees.”

Yet we dared not give up. Did Cortez turn back at the first sign of intestinal distress? No! He just cut back on the fibre and went on! Forrest and I looked at each other grimly, and we knew we had to continue. Plus, my kid brother was with us. I wasn’t about to go all sphinctery as long as he was there to witness it.

We decided on a systematic approach using staged acclimatization (a phrase picked up from a bad science fiction book at the library). We planned to enter the tunnel and go in only a few feet, marking our progress with windings from the ball of twine. Once we had gone as far as comfort allowed, we would drop the ball to mark our place and head back outside for a breather or five. We decided to number our progress by counting the number of concrete seams passed. Forrest labeled each section a “quadrant”, using our old standby Star Trek jargon. The fact that there were considerably more than four of these “quadrants” showed that Forrest was marginally worse at fractions than I, but such concerns paled when compared to how cool it sounded. “Quadrant” it was.

The tunnel was just wide enough for us to traverse while slightly hunched over. We adopted an unusual loping gait that had our legs out at 30 degree angles (to better grab the curved walls with the soles of our Keds sneakers). The resultant sound of our passage was an echoing “clomp clomp clomp” that sounded uncomfortably like those coded knocks you always see Alcatraz prisoners using in the movies.

Clomp, clomp, clomp. After about four quadrants, the heebee-jeebees grabbed firmly onto our stomachs and yanked hard. Back out we went, hyperventilating so much that local fires died from lack of oxygen. Back in again, clomp clomp clomp, and this time we made six quadrants before fear drove us back.

Forrest actually used that phrase: “Fear drove us back.” It’s like we were playing for an audience, except this was about 25 years too early for reality television. He uttered the line during one of our “rest stops” where we had gotten used to the idea of being underground for more than ten seconds. We were sitting at quadrant twelve, dealing with a new idea — we were afraid of the dark. This came as a mild shock to boys who stopped believing in closet monsters long ago. The entrance was a small circle of light behind us; our destination an even smaller circle of - light? flame? fusion reactors? Only one way to find out. We hunched our shoulders, gritted our teeth, and wimpered a battle cry as we pressed on through the dark.

Clomp clomp clomp. In we went, out we went. Slowly, minute by minute, quadrant by quadrant, Forrest and I worked our way down the tunnel. My brother, Mike, had dropped off the search party long before we breached quadrant twenty and had gone off to play with one of his own friends. In all, Forrest and I spend about an hour and a half running back and forth through the first half of that blasted tunnel, spending most of that time at dangerously increased heart rates.

It was during our most daring push to quadrant twenty-four that something inside me snapped and I decided that this was going to be the push. No more mincing about back and forth for me, I thought to myself. I looked behind me, past Forrest’s eyes wild with the fog of claustrophobia, at the receding pinprick of light at the tunnel entrance. I then looked forward, and discovered to my shock that the light at the end of the tunnel was larger. The end of the tunnel was at hand! With a blood-curdling yell of determination (unfortunately magnified by the echoing properties of the tunnel) I surged forward, dragging a gibbering Forrest behind me.

Thirty. Clomp clomp clomp. Thirty-five. Forty. Clomp clomp clomp.

And then there was light! We were out the other side of the tunnel! We found ourselves standing in a concrete bunker of some sort, the floor thick with red mud (and thus passed yet another pair of white socks). The light came from a concrete slit at the top of the far wall, and through it I could see the weeds and grasses from some unknown hillside. I realized that the slit was just wide enough for someone my size to squeeze through.

My heart quickened at the prospect. Forrest and I had done it — we had conquered the Drain Pipe — and the reward for our valor was to be the exploration of a new world! There could be anything out there — a new neighborhood, new hills and valleys, an enchanted forest, a land of dinosaurs and cavemen. Anything!

The last thing I expected was to see the faces of my brother, Mike, and his pal Brent, peeking through the slit at us. “Hey, Joe! What are doing down there?”

To my brother, he had simply crossed the street to investigate an interesting-looking concrete slab in the ground. He had crossed the street.To me, my brother was the destroyer of all my hopes and dreams for the grandest of adventures. After almost two hours of madness in the dark, Forrest and I had succeeded in finding not a new world, not an unexplored jungle, but simply a darker alternative to a perfectly good crosswalk. It was almost as if Magellan had come home after three years circumnavigating the globe only to find that, in his absence, someone had invented transatlantic jet travel.

I’m sure I learned something important that day, but I’ll be damned if I know what it was. If anything, I was annoyed that my Action Jackson helmet had suffered a dent where I had whacked it on the wall during my final plunge for the goal.

However, for one brief moment, the spirit within my small and immature body had struck loose its earthly bonds and had surged outward with the strength of all the Spanish conquistadors and Italian circumnavigators combined. I had dared to go where no kid had gone before. It was a rush that stayed with me long after my dissatisfaction with the conclusion had faded away.

Forrest and I didn’t keep up our friendship for much longer after that incident. The effort to keep up a long-distance relationship was beyond our young faculties, and my loyalty and friendship went to more immediately-available kids in the neighborhood. I had a few more adventures, including the incredible exploration of the tree stand known as Reese’s Point (an incident refreshingly devoid of claustrophobic elements). But none approached the grandeur of that adventure down the Woodlake Drain Pipe.

Thirty years later, I still have some of that wanderlust left. I love a good exploratory hike, only now I have replaced my Action Jackson helmet with much more sophisticated headgear (and all of my walkie talkies work). I’ve even been known to ride a bike or two in my day. But as I blaze a new trail through a mountain forest, I can still hear and see the ghosts from the past — the “clomp clomp clomp” of sneakers as they echo off a curved concrete wall; the bright circle of light of my destination, shining with possibility; with potential; with the promise of discovery.

And if I ever run the danger of taking all of this entirely too seriously, I can always count on my kid brother to peek at me from the edges.

What have I been up to lately? Sleeping, that’s what.

I got my CPAP mask on Friday. As you can tell by the lovely photo, it is a truly frightening apparatus (yes, they really called it an “apparatus.” Makes it sound like I’m wearing something that should be on the arm of the Space Shuttle.) It fits on me like a glove; that is, if gloves were made of hard plastic, had a half-dozen fitting adjustments, and smelled like a freshly-cleaned hospital bed.

The idea is that this mask, along with its accompanying (and might I say, very expensive) CPAP machine, will help me get a good night’s sleep. Of course, I have to get used to sleeping with “the apparatus” strapped to my face and around my head. It’s kind of like sleeping with an alien facehugger on you, only without all the nasty chest-bursting that tends to happen with Aliens in general.

In addition to the general discomfort brought on by this contraption, I have to get used to the sensation of air pressure. To be specific, I feel like my entire body is being inflated through my nose and mouth. If this is what dogs enjoy about sticking their head out the car window, then I say they’re nuts.

Before CPAP: I wake up five or six times per night due to snoring and general discomfort and wake up with a headache.

After CPAP: I wake up five or six times per night to disentangle myself from the hose, which seems to have a mind of its own. I don’t wake up with a headache, but my nose is dry enough to rival the Sahara desert.

However (and this is a big “however”) I do seem to be getting a better night’s sleep. The last two mornings have seen me waking up much more refreshed. I’m much less sleepy during the day. In fact, I managed to watch a movie (the new King Kong) without falling asleep once, and that’s a challenge even for those that don’t suffer from sleep apnea.

Time will tell if this CPAP therapy will do the trick. I remain hopefully optimistic, although if they ever make a CPAP mask that doesn’t make you look like an ER guest star, I’ll marry it.

It’s official. After a sleep study, the opinions of no less that three physicians, a bevy of lab tests, and the financial support of my insurance company, I have been identified as a sufferer of sleep apnea.

My wife could have told them that based on my snoring alone.

A “respiratory therapist” is going to call me tomorrow to set up my consultation for the CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) equipment, also known as “Joe finds another use for his home equity line of credit.” Supposedly, I’ll get to pick out the equipment and stiff-arm the inevitable sales pitch for optional equipment (humidifiers, rack-and-pinion steering, Star Trek blinkie lights). Hopefully, this respiratory therapist won’t ask my lungs to lie on the couch and talk about my mother.

Oh, I also get to pick out a mask. I’m hoping for something like this.

It’s been a while since my last major medical procedure, so I have forgotten just how slowly the wheels of modern medicine can turn when an insurance company is in the driver’s seat. I’m just glad this wasn’t for something more serious. For example, if I had been suffering from Alien Chest-Buster syndrome, I’m certain that the Earth would have been overrun long before I received approval for my second opinion.

I should have my CPAP sometime before the next millenium, whereupon I will glady post a picture of me wearing it. You have been warned.

UPDATE: I suppose it could have been worse. I might have had a heart attack. I just hate friends that are always trying to one-up you.

Clothing ettiquette, 2006:

My son presents his church clothes for ironing. My wife says, “Slacks? You don’t want to wear jeans? Remember, we’re going to church, not school!”

If our mothers were dead, they’d be rolling over in their graves.

You know what’s great about being a guy? Every once in a while, I like to indulge in a meal that is completely bereft of any significant nutritional value.

Last night’s offering? Five of the nastiest, gristliest, most tongue-wrenching hot links ever made, soaked in a generous amount of Vietnamese chili sauce, and topped with A-1 Steak Sauce for flavor. I think some buns may have been involved — I don’t quite remember.

Kid’s, don’t try this at home. I’m a professional.

This is why I like being a guy. Guys get to do the most disgusting and senseless things on the planet, and then they get to tell people about it!

This article was inspired by something I wrote last month about The A-Team. You ever notice that a commando squad is always referred to as a crack team of commandoes? It’s never just team of commandoes - they have to be a crack team, or they’re nothing.

If I were to describe them as simply a team of commandoes, nobody would be impressed. People would be thinking to themselves, “Why didn’t he say crack team? Are these guys any good? Are they just average? Maybe they’re only a mediocre team of commandoes. I’ll bet they couldn’t hit the side of the barn if you painted a picture of Osama bin Laden on the long side. In a hostage standoff, would I be better off taking my chances with the gunman?”

Just try to say a set of pants instead of a pair of pants, or try referring to Michael Jordan without appending is a god. It doesn’t scan, does it? Language is such a funny thing - something starts out as a descriptive phrase and, over time, becomes a proper noun.

I’m beginning to see many of these “pop phrases” that no longer “pop”; that is to say, they no longer accurately represent what they purport to describe. Yet these phrases have become so associated with the object in question that you risk social isolation if you fail to use the phrase as expected.

Read the rest of this entry »

Jan has tagged me for a meme. Get this: I’m supposed to reveal six (6) weird things about myself.

This is a level of introspection I rarely entertain. I go through life assuming that I’m the normal one and everyone else is off their nut. However, I’ll take a look in the mirror and attempt to see myself the way the world does.

…a few minutes later…

Yeearrgh! That wasn’t any fun. Okay, here’s what I came up with. You could save yourself some time by skipping this and calling in the men with the white coats.

1. I can’t stand for food to mix on my plate. Observant dining companions will notice that my meat, potatoes, and veggies are all separated by little half-inch channels. I’m especially militant about corn juice. If corn juice contaminates my mashed potatoes, dinner is over. If they ever make fine china with those little compartment trays like on the fancy Chinet paper plates, I am there, baby.

2. I can never leave a public library without at least 15 books under my arm. I’m very, very bad about returning them on time. It’s not uncommon for me to rack up $50-75 a year in library fines (although I prefer to call them my “contributions to the Village Library Building Fund”).

3. Nails on the chalkboard? Not a problem. Balloons rubbing together? A cinch to deal with. Grinding teeth? Don’t even notice them! But if you ever rub two pieces of styrofoam together in my presence, I will immediately hit the floor writhing and will give you my name, rank, serial number, and the location of the lost tomb of Ramses II.

4. I always wake up five minutes before the alarm clock goes off, even if I haven’t had a full eight hours of sleep. I have some sort of weird internal clock that always, always wakes me up on time. The downside is that I can’t ever bring myself to sleep in on the weekend. As far as I can tell, this talent has absolutely no practical or commercial application.

5. I sleep with my eyes at least one-quarter of the way open. Freaks everybody out, especially if they’ve watched a lot of bad b-movie special effects where the bad guys have eyes without pupils. If you’ve ever seen Big Trouble in Little China, you’ll get the idea.

6. My favorite breakfast: Cold pizza and warm Coca-Cola. Funny, there always seems to be enough to go around…

I’m now supposed to pass this to six other blogs. Here’s a few that might play along. Tag, yer it: Shannon, Winston, Lynn (if she can tear herself away from the new Dell), Amka, David, and Paul (so we can get a British perspective). You guys can thank me later.

Found on the inside wrapper of my daily ration of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: Eat Sweets Responsibly.

Of course I eat my sweets responsibly! I would never eat sweets and drive. The chocolate might get all over my cell phone.

I have a popcorn button! I have a popcorn button!

I’ll back up. Our Sharp microwave oven has the distinction of being the only appliance to survive the 20 years of my marriage. That is, it was the sole survivor until last week, at which point the oven emitted its last rad and died a quiet death. This happened right in the middle of reheating my hot ‘n sour soup, much to my annoyance. Nothing is more annoying than cold hot ‘n sour soup.

However, annoyance soon turned to anticipation. One of the disadvantages of having a 20-year old appliance is that it has 20-year old engineering. The “cutting edge” of technology never looks so dull as when viewed from the distance of a decade or two. Oh, sure, the Sharp was an amazing piece of work in it’s day — it had six power levels, a digital readout, and even a turntable. But by today’s standards it was a dog waiting for a quick death.

The most annoying thing was its power to weight ratio. Even though it was approximately the size of a Sherman tank, the emitter gave forth a measley 600 watts. Even Easy-Bake ovens can do more than that (if you’re willing to disregard certain parts of the instruction manual). Popping a bag of popcorn took over four minutes, an eternity when measured in doggie years.

Need soon turned to greed. Yes, I needed to get a new microwave. But I wanted a popcorn button. My ancient Sharp was built in the days before push-button convenience came to the popcorn world. Back then, you had to stick the bag in, push the “start” button and hang out until the popping noises stopped, or the smoke started, whichever came first. (Uphill in the snow. In bare feet. Both ways.)

I had some experience with “popcorn buttons” at work, and I was totally for the concept (as if someone would be against it). I knew that someday, somehow, fate would see fit to bestow a popcorn button upon my household.

At last, that day is nigh. Sitting in my kitchen is a brand-new Sharp 1.6 cubic foot box o’ microwaving goodness. It has 1200 watts of power, which ought to be enough to vaporize anything on the planet inside of five minutes. It has programmable reheat, defrost, melt, cook, and “keep warm” modes. It has a gajillion power settings It even has a night-light.

But most importantly, it has (drum roll) a popcorn button!

The moment is at hand. Knowing that this event cannot be commemorated with just any old bag of popcorn, I bring forth the finest of the fine — Orville Redenbacher’s Kettle Korn. (A quick aside about this popcorn: I won’t say that it’s better than sex, but if they ever outlaw sex, this particular popcorn could become very, very, very popular.)

I open the door. I rip the cellophane off the bag. I unfold and flatten the bag, ever so delicately, being careful not to bruise the kernals within. I savor the moment, preparing myself for the joy of a single button press and 1 minute, 40 seconds of waiting (according to the owner’s manual).

And then I read the packaging on the bag: FOR BEST RESULTS, DO NOT USE THE POPCORN BUTTON.

Thank you, Orville Redenbacher, for stealing my joy.

(grumble)

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” - Inigo Montoya, from the book/movie “The Princess Bride”

Think you know what the word scumbag means? Well, guess again. According to the revered and hernia-inducing Oxford English Dictionary, the word scumbag has only recently assumed its current usage of “despicable person.” It was originally a slang term for “used condom.”

Ick.

I normally pride myself on the sophistication of my vocabulary, which I earned the hard way through two decades of losing arguments with my wife, the English major. I cringe at some of the misused words tossed about by the younger generation. For example: dork is commonly used to describe an idiot or foolish person. Nobody seems to remember it used to have quite a different meaning that had little to do with the brain. If you have to ask, you’re too young and I can’t tell you.

Guess I’ll have to lay off the dork users, because I’m certainly guilty of using “scumbag” in genteel company. In fact, I used it just the other day in this very blog. So much for my status as an elitist Englisher. Of course, I fully expect that my wife will read this and say, “Oh, I knew that!” And my score falls further behind…

With English being so complex, it’s no wonder that illegal immigrants don’t want to bother learning to speak it.

Via David.

Okay, time out. I perfectly understand that criminals are not the brightest bulbs in the box. If these guys were smart enough to make a regular living or to entertain themselves in a legal manner, we wouldn’t need a police force.

Judging from recent headlines, Internet child predators are the standout dummies of the entire class. As Wizbang puts it in their Public Service Announcement for Perverts, chances are extremely high that the under-17 kid on the other end of that chat line is a police investigator.

I don’t have any sympathy for these scumbags, but you simply have to pity anyone suffering from that much sheer gullibility. These sick weasels have the common sense of Homer Simpson, but I suppose I should be grateful that these people are so easy to catch.

This is not a real internet chat transcript of a sting in progress, but it easily could be:

G-MAN B: So, do you have any hobbies?

TRIXIE87: I like to play with my Barbies. My Mom won’t let me have a Ken doll. She says I’m not old enough yet — he’s too sophisticated for me.

GMAN B: I don’t think that’s true at all. I think your a very sophisticated young lady. I’ll buy you a Ken doll, okay?

TRIXIE87: That would be great! You’re really sweet. And even though my mom told me hundreds of times not to accept gifts from strangers, I won’t tell her about this one.

GMAN B: Trixie, this may sound a little forward, but I feel oddly attracted to you in a sexual way. Does that bother you?

TRIXIE87: Not at all. Despite the fact that I am only a 12-year old girl in Hoboken, I’m not offended or shocked at all. In fact, I feel oddly attracted to you, too. You must drive here across state lines and meet me in person.

GMAN B: That sounds like a perfectly good idea to me. You seem very mature for your age, but I guess I’m just lucky to find such a grown-up young lady!

TRIXIE87: Yes, very lucky. Be sure to bring full identification, okay?

GMAN B: Okay. Why?

TRIXIE87: No reason. So, what were we talking about? It was about your favorite things to do with mashed potatoes, right?

GMAN B: Oh, that’s right. Anyway, my favorite thing to do with mashed potatoes is to….

END OF TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT

“So, I was bra-shopping with my wife the other day…”

Nothing good can come from a post that starts with that sentence.

But it’s true, kind of. I really was bra-shopping with my wife, but it wasn’t exactly my idea. You married guys will get my drift. There we were, traipsing through the local Target on the way to the produce section, when suddenly my life (and my wife) took an unexpected right turn into the lingerie section. “Oh,” she says, “I need a new bra.”

Words to chill any man’s heart.

Guys generally have two choices here: (a) wander over to the sporting goods section, the hardware aisle, or some other male-affirming area of the store, or (b) stand in the aisle just outside the section, nervously shuffling your feet and trying not to stare too long at the daintiness all around you. Some guys may choose option (c), which is to wade in with the wife and gleefully compare the purple demibras with the ivory underwires, but those kinds of fellows don’t tend to be married much, if you get my drift.

Since I wasn’t in the mood to make the Target trip an all-afternoon excursion, I chose option (b) in the interests of time management. I spent the next few minutes trying not to make eye contact with the other female lingerie shoppers (nothing interests me less than knowing what kinds of underthingies appeal to a perfect stranger). Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of studying the workmanship of my shopping cart, my wife emerged from between the peekaboos and teddies with the object of her quest. She tosses it in the kiddie seat and I spent the rest of the expedition trying to ignore the rumpled bit of tricot goodness staring me in the face.

Normally, I try not to pay much attention to brassiere tags, mainly because looking at pictures of scantily-clad women tends to be hazardous to my well-being as a married man. But something stuck out at me from this particular tag (no, something else). This particular variant of the “Just My Size” line came with a new feature: Ultrasonic No-Stitch Lift and Support.

Utrasonics? Aren’t those outlawed by the Geneva Convention? After a quick look to make sure the coast was clear, I quickly felt along the edge of the cup, but I couldn’t locate anything that felt like an ultrasonic emitter (although I did earn an odd look from my wife). Hmm… not only was it “ultrasonic”, but the components had been miniaturized to the point of undetectability. I was willing to bet it would fool a metal detector.

So, women are now carrying around ultrasonic weaponry in their brassieres, eh? I always knew that the female bust was one of the most potent weapons known to man, but this is a bit over the top, even in these terror-ridden times. Although I can see some limited uses (dads giving teenage girls the ultimate in date-rape deterrents), I can see nothing but trouble coming of this. I mean, if a certain lady doesn’t want me staring at her stuff, all she has to do is slap me. There’s no need to cook my internal organs from the inside, or whatever it is that ultrasonics do.

I’m wondering if the male segment of the population will soon have their own offensive underwear. I probably wouldn’t wear them — I’m not so certain I would want anything sharp, explosive, or electronic that close to my important bits. Besides, some would say that male underwear is already offensive enough as it is.

Remember, fellas. Next time you admire that beauty on the beach, just keep this in mind — that pair of cannons you’re ogling may be loaded, and they’re pointed right at you.

Just back away from the boobs, and we’ll all be fine.

Anyone here remember The A-Team ? You know — crack team of commandoes, military tribunal sends them to prison for a crime they didn’t commit, mercenaries searching for a cause, shooting guns, flying jeeps, explosions, crazy pilots, zany schemes, Mr. T, and so on.

For the unitiated, The A-Team was one in a string of hit television shows from the 1980’s that sprung from the mind of producer Stephen J. Cannell. The show chronicles the activities of a group of renegade soldiers who made a living by renting themselves out to hopeless causes. The show was violent, capricious, irreverent, maniacal, and had enough testosterone to fill the shoes of every teenage male in America. In short, it was fun! If you have not seen it, get thee to a retro television station and be enlightened.

The A-Team gave new life to the career of veteran actor George Peppard, extended the career of pretty-boy Dirk Benedict, introduced the world to the comedic stylings of Dwight Schultz, and single-handedly both began and ended the career of veteran fool-pitier Mr. T. The show also taught legions of viewers the possibilities inherent in a roll of duct tape, a pile of copper pipe, and two packs of chewing gum (all of this long before MacGyver came along and made a religion of it).

The show also taught me a thing or two about life. Such as:

• Gray hair is cool and sexy when accompanied by a weathered face. My hair is gray, but I’m missing the other half of the formula (but not for long, I fear).
• Watch out for the fellow wearing the baseball cap - if anyone in the crowd is absolutely nuts, it will be the one in the cap.
• It is possible to empty an entire magazine of 9mm or .223 rounds point blank at a group of opponents without actually hitting any of them. Despite this, they will usually surrender.
• Behind every road obstacle is a ramp or other object suitable for catapulting an oncoming vehicle into the air. A direct hit from a bazooka will also accomplish the same feat.
• You must always describe a group of commandoes as “a crack team of commandoes.” Whenever you see the commando want ads, they always want a “crack” team. If you advertise yourself as a “mediocre but usually effective team of commandoes” nobody will hire you.
• Gravity works.
• One can easily subdue a large, muscular, mohawked and gold-chained black man using a variety of sneaky and surreptitious ways in order to drag him aboard an aircraft. When he wakes up, he will inexplicably decline to beat the crap out of you.
• It is ridiculously easy to break out of a mental hospital.
• In the 1980’s, nobody wore seat belts, especially when engaged in high-speed chases across rough terrain. This in no way endangered the occupants of said vehicles.
• If I ever become a bad guy, I need to make sure that all of the vehicles in my motor pool possess roll bars.
• If you want to imprison a crack team of commandoes, do not lock them in the tool shed.
• If you carry around a pungent cigars with you at all times, you can easily blend into almost any situation.
• A successful mercenary squad must change out the token girl member once per year.
• If you are a military fugitive, the best way to avoid capture is to drive the same distinctive van from city to city in broad daylight and on well-traveled streets. To maximize this effect, one should always exceed the speed limit and squeal the tires at intersections and turns.
• If you need to hire a crack team of commandoes but are short on funds, sway them with a suitable group of helpless, pitiable people (starving children, Latvian immigrants, small business owners, nuns, etc.)
• Anything worth doing is worth doing twice, mainly because you will always screw up the first time.
• When faced with the difficulties of life, always have a plan. And lots of illegal firearms.

BERKELEY (AP) —The casual use of marijuana can cause memory loss and other cognitive problems related to memory, said researchers on Tuesday.

“People who smoke marijuana as little as one or two times per week can show marked signs of memory loss, attention span, and memory loss when used as little as one or two times space of one week,” said Dr. Justin Grindley, head fellow of the Benevolent Marijuana Institute in Berkeley, California.

“In addition, attention span can suffer to the point that the user often forgets what he or she was…uh….” added Grindley.

This startling evidence flies in the face of previous studies that found only regular and sustained use over time can impact brain functions in a measurable way, he said.

Researchers arrived at their conclusions following several months of exhaustive study that began in July 2004, December 2004, March 2005, and again in October 2005. It was only after the results of the first two studies were found again during a “doobage search” that researchers remembered their previous experiments and managed to correlate their findings across all four research attempts.

“Once we found the earlier documents and read what we had written with our own two hands, we were amazed,” said Grindley. “The results were obvious once we cross-referenced the data. Fortunately, whoever did this research used the same handwriting style as my own, so it was easy for me to comprehend the details.”

Dr. Gina Munson, assistant researcher at the BMI, added, “Dude, don’t bogart that.” This was in reference to the joint that Dr. Grindley was smoking during the interview.

“Man, I think I remember reading something about these things causing memory loss,” said Grindley as he examined the joint.

“We should look into that,” agreed Munson.

Grindley stated that the BMI would soon be launching an expanded study of marijuana use to determine “whether or not there’s any truth to the idea that marijuana use can lead to memory loss.”

IN TOMORROW’S COLUMN: Scientists discover that marijuana use can lead to memory loss and a decreased attenti… um… have to remember to finish this before turning it in to the editor…

Editor’s note: This idea stolen from a running gag at Okiedoke. I think.

Ottoman Empire. Don’t ask me why, but that phrase always triggers the image of a large army of swordsmen riding incredibly comfortable stools by Broyhill, Lane, and Henredon.

According to the Wikipedia article, ottomans are also called poufs. This does nothing helpful for my mental image.

Don’t even get me started on Turkish Delight.

I really shouldn’t be letting my brain out this early in the morning.

My sister, Jane, and her children recently took exception to my comment that the Wiggles contained “homosexual overtones.” Okay, perhaps I went a little overboard. I really meant to say “Star Trek overtones.” I dare you to look at those primary colors and tell me you don’t see a bunch of guys pretending to be Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and the security officer of the week.

Not merely satisfied with simple chastisement, my sister went and dug up a little blackmail material. She didn’t say much except to hand me a photograph and give me her infamous “raised eyebrow” look. What did she want from me? Money? Power? Free tickets to “Wiggles on Ice”?

Whatever it was, I wasn’t about to let her keep the upper hand. I cannot tolerate it when someone is holding dirt over me, especially family. I am therefore taking the initiative away from her by coming clean with my public.

Read the rest of this entry »

Of all the myriad news stories gracing the Fark.com site, the last thing I expected to find was a story starring my Uncle Rick.

Between this and the whole robin/mouse thingie, I’m ready to label this day “mondo bizarre” and go to bed.

I just saw the first robin of spring in my front yard. Three of them, in fact.

They were pecking at a dead mouse.

After the day I’ve had, silly omens and auguries from nature are not what I need.

See Dick.

See Dick. RUN!!!

(As stolen from The Smoking Gun.)

This is not a picture of a DVD, a bronzed bagel, an Australian aboriginal weapon, or a Japanese yen on an inflation drive. It is, believe it or not, an Olympic gold medal from the 2006 Winter Games.

It’s as ugly as sin, if you ask me.

My wife saw one of these during a televised medal ceremony Sunday night. Her first reaction? “Why are they giving CDs to the winners? Oh, those are the medals.” Personally, I’m wary of getting one of these things near my PC — I might pick up one of those rootkit viruses from the Sony copy protection (although rumor has it you can disable this by running a black magic marker around the edge).

Look, I’m no jewelry designer — I will freely admit that I couldn’t pick out a necklace that Mister T would like. But I do know bling bling when I see it. I look at the medal and wonder who stole the gold chain that came with it.

Stacey’s observation of the medal’s CD-like quality is partly due to its size. This thing is huge. It looks like something you’d use to work your lats in the gym. Thank goodness Michelle Kwan pulled out of the Games before she won one of these — she’d be sporting a neck sprain to go with her groin pull. I just hope they have some burly assistants on hand at the medal ceremony for women’s figure skating. It would be mighty embarassing to throw that puppy around Sasha Cohen only to have her do a face plant in the middle of the rink.

If you want irrefutable evidence of poor design, look no further than this picture of USA medalists Shaun White and Daniel Kass. That’s right, folks — they are eating their medals. This is certainly an understandable reaction. These athletes have been on a strict dietary regimen for months. They took one look at their medals and immediately thought they’d been handed donuts.

Happy “Watch the Greeting Card and Candy Industry Fullfil Their Quarterly Earnings Goals through Intensive Marketing Designed to Guilt American Males into Spending Exhorbitant Amounts of Money on Objects That Have No Practical Value and May Make Her Fat and/or the Object of a Mugging” Day.

Bah humbug.

P.S.: Of course I got her something.

I expect very little from my fortune cookies, least of all a sense of irony. On the front of today’s cookie: “Work hard and you will become more wealthy.” This is a sensible phrase that anyone can identify with (well, anyone with an actual work ethic).

On the reverse side: your daily lottery numbers.

It seems front side knows not what the back side is doing.

A tribute to the queens of the Saturday morning cartoon hour who took shameless advantage of my young and tender heart.

Wilma Flintstone from “The Flintstones”
(voiced by Jean Vander Pyle)
I know, I know, what’s to love about Wilma Flintstone? No chin, smarmy voice, and that horrid bun hairdo! However, Wilma was my first exposure to the mysterious, sexy world of off-the-shoulder dresses. Thanks to her early influence, to this day I harbor a secret fascination for feminine shoulders. Wilma also gave me a penchant for red hair that afflicted me for many years, turning fourth grade into a living hell when I fell madly in love with a red-headed girl who (naturally) hated my guts.

Betty Rubble - “The Flintstones”
(voiced by Gaye Hartwig Autterson)
Betty was my “safety girlfriend.” I fell for Betty when I realized that my main squeeze, Wilma, was married to big, burly Fred Flintstone. Fred could eat me alive and then use my shinbone to pick his teeth. On the other hand, Betty was married to Barney Rubble, an über-wimp if one ever lived. Even at the age of six, I knew I could take him as long as I got first strike. I was too young for Crosby, Stills, and Nash, but I certainly understood the sentiment “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”

Maria Figeuroa Rodriguez - “Sesame Street”
(played by Sonia Manzano)
I shouldn’t have to explain this one. Name one male from my generation that didn’t have a deep longing for Maria, the ultimate singing Kindergarten teacher, and I’ll show you someone who grew up without a television in the house. Maria was my cross-border hot momma, but she broke my heart when she married Luis. A few years ago, I learned that it was all just a television marriage. My reaction? YES!!

Joy - “The Bugaloos”
(played by Caroline Ellis)
If you don’t remember the Bugaloos, don’t feel left out. Just think “The Wiggles” with fairy wings, antenna, disco, and a lot fewer homosexual overtones. Joy was a miniskirted and gogo-booted pixie who met all of my dream girl requirements — she was cute, perky, possessed the power of unassisted flight, had huge insect wings and was able to play a mean tambourine. However, her British accent threw me a bit. I just assumed she had a speech impediment. No problem — it wasn’t like I wanted to sit and have a long talk or anything.

Mary Ann Summers - “Gilligan’s Island
(played by Dawn Wells)
Technically, including Mary Ann in my tribute is not in keeping with the “Saturday morning cartoon” theme. However, Gilligan’s Island was certainly silly enough for Saturday morning fare. I can only assume that the producers sacrificed virgins to Satan to keep this turkey in prime time all those years. Anyway, this entry will serve as my answer to all those pop-psychology quizzes that ask, “Ginger or Mary Ann?”

Wendy - “The Superfriends”
(voiced by Sherri Alberoni)
I loved the Superfriends, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel all warm and cuddly about Wonder Woman. Let’s face it - Wonder Woman is simply way too intimidating for any man, much less a boy of eight. Fortunately, along came sidekick Wendy, a much more down-to-earth and accessible woman. Instead of star-spangled leotards and bullet-proof bracers, Wendy sported more sensible accoutrements like wide collars and sweater-vests. It’s really too bad disco died and took her entire closet with it.

Holly Marshall - “The Land of the Lost”
(played by Kathy Coleman)
True, Holly was a little whiney at times, but this didn’t stop me from carrying a serious torch for her, pig-tails and buck teeth included. Her father had truly cool hair. I always knew that if Holly and me got married, everyone at the wedding would be talking about my new father-in-law’s righteous ‘doo. In third grade, I made the mistake of telling my best friend that I had a crush on Miss Holly. He thought I was referring to another girl named Holly who sat three rows back and gave new meaning to the term “big-boned.” Word got out that I was in love with “Holly the Huge” and I ended up living under a paper bag for the rest of the semester. Ah, Holly Marshall, if only you knew the suffering I went through for your sake.

Isis - “The Shazam/Isis Hour”
(played by Joanna Cameron)
I don’t like to admit this, but my attraction wasn’t to the Isis persona. I was in love with her alter-ego Andrea Thomas, mild-mannered high school teacher (complete with disguise-quality eyeglasses). I couldn’t wait to get out of elementary school and get me a teacher like Ms. Thomas. Unfortunately, none of my high school teachers ever lived up to her example, especially the part about turning in circles and transforming into a flying daughter of Pharaoh.

Laura Gentry - “Space Academy”
(played by Pamelyn Ferdin)
Pamelyn Ferdin was all over the Saturday morning landscape of the 1970’s. She did Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, Lassie, Peanuts, and even guested on an episode of “Star Trek”. But when she hit Space Academy, she was “all growed up” and sent my heart into warp drive. It also didn’t hurt that she had the keys to her own space shuttle. However, her voice just had to go. It had a pinched, nasal quality that set my teeth on edge and had me wishing for a roll of duct tape. They say that in space, nobody can hear you scream. I just hoped this also meant nobody could hear Pamelyn Ferdin talk.

Smurfette - “The Smurfs”
(voiced by Lucille Bliss)
I have no idea why I felt compelled to include Smurfette in this little roundup, so please don’t ask. If I ever go into therapy, I’m sure this topic will be explored quite thoroughly. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?

Kimberly Hart - “Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers”
(played by Amy Jo Johnson)
By the time the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers had invaded my home, I was a married adult and a father, so I wasn’t so much “in love with” as “mildly appreciative of” the young Miss Kimberly. My reaction was tempered by the fact that I recognized she was there to “give the Daddies in the audience someone to watch”. Kimberly was but the first of many cheerleader-esque Power Rangers. However, none of the subsequent Pink Rangers ever held a candle to Kimberly, the original Valley Girl of Martial Arts.

Debbie Thornberry - “The Wild Thornberries”
(voiced by Danielle Harris)
I don’t see Debbie as a love interest; rather, as a sort of kindred spirit. I feel like I really understand her. We could be great friends, sharing the angst of the living in a Combi in Darkest Africa, missing out on a social life because the nearest teenager is 400 miles away, suffering the indignity of not being able to find any grunge fashions in Nairobi, and living with a geeky sister that talks to animals. Like, I can totally identify with that.

I’m tired. I’m pooped. I’m worn out, folks. If I were any more tired I’d have treads.

Item: I worked 11 hours today. It was supposed to be eight, but an emergency program test, an urgent request from information from two company executives, and some wrestling with the arcane language of SQL managed to keep me in the office until after dark. I’m a salaried employee, which means I had better be satisfied with a job well done, and nothing else.

Item: The electric company trimmed the trees in my backyard, and they did a really nice job. They also did a not-so-nice job of leaving my back gate ajar. Fortunately, I noticed it before my dog (the Eater of Nissans) escaped to make short work of my city’s vicious animals ordinance. I wrote a nasty email to the electric company, who will most likely retaliate by misreading my meter next month. At least I can be satisfied that my letter will probably send them to the dictionary at least once, if not twice.

Item: My son is having serious problems with his math schoolwork. I spent two hours tutoring him on solving equations. Most of the conversations went like this:

“I don’t know this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. See this?”
“Oh. Yes, I guess I do. But I don’t know this next thing.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
Rinse and repeat.

Item: I just finished the recharter paperwork for my Boy Scout troop. Our local council has spent a good amount of money and time to create a beautiful online chartering process. It eliminates most of the paperwork and virtually all of the hassle. My only suggestion for improvement: remove about five hundred thousand of the “Are You Sure?” dialog boxes! I’m sure, okay? I’m very, very, very sure. I’m so freakin’ sure that I could be mistaken for an underarm deodorant. Get the picture?

Item: My computer monitor is dying. Contrast and brightness are pegged at the top, and I’m still squinting to see anything that isn’t colored bright yellow. Fortunately, this means I don’t have to look at all the Cindy Sheehan photos that are popping all over the internet like mushrooms. Really loud anti-war mushrooms.

Item: Despite the fact that I’m dead tired at 10:40 pm, I can’t bring myself to shuffle off to bed until I’ve written something for you, my dear readers. All seven of you. If that’s not a cry for a Richard Simmons intervention, I don’t know what is.

Okay, I just evoked Richard Simmons. Definitely time to go to bed.

It is written somewhere that men are natural repairmen. We are born knowing how to change sparkplugs, replace silcock valves, and rewire small office buildings. We are the kings of fix-it-yourself; titans of the tool shed; sultans of self-help.

The writer obviously didn’t have me in mind. I have the mechanical smarts of goat cheese.

Read the rest of this entry »

Headline seen on the front page of today’s USA Today: Fewer Terror Assets Frozen.

That’s the problem with mild winters. Nobody feels the need to bundle up to protect their… er, assets.

Oh, and you get more bugs, too.

Hey, gang! You know what today is? Why, it’s National Kazoo Day!

Okay, you probably didn’t know about it. Fortunately, my family has me around to remind them of these important little events. To celebrate, I serenaded them with the chorale prelude of J.S. Bach’s “Wachet Auf” Cantata. Germany and Austria undoubtedly felt the tremors caused by generations of Bachs rolling over in their graves.

What, you didn’t know that classical music could be played on a kazoo? (or should that say “dare to be played”) Look no further than this rendition of Richard Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra by the Temple City Kazoo Orchestra.

No, your ears are not bleeding, but you ought to check in the mirror just in case.