Play One on TV

Through that miracle known as the “gift certificate,” my parents gave me a copy of Civilization IV for Christmas. I have owned all three iterations of this addictive and immersive game since it first hit the market in the early 90’s. I cannot count the number of hours of sleep forever lost to these games.

The game has now been in my possession for three full days. You are probably wondering how much of my productive life I have sacrificed at the altar of Civ.

One hour.

I kid you not. Why? I have had more important things to do.

This alarms me to a ridiculous degree. Perhaps I’m the victim of one of those science fiction body-switches, presumably with a responsible family-man type. It isn’t like me to completely ignore an incredible computer game just so I can shop for groceries, cook dinner, clean house, watch television with my family, or sleep.

I want the “old me” back!

I’m tempted to stay home this New Year’s weekend to find my inner self. Part of me thinks I should relax and watch Dick Clark rocking in the New Year. The rest of me is horrified that I would even consider such a thing.

My wife is taking a leadership development course. As part of tonight’s homework, she was to seek the advice of a trusted friend. She needed to identify areas of her life where she lacked consistency; in other words, where she “talks the talk but doesn’t walk the walk.”

For some twisted reason, she turned to me, her husband, for this advice. If you have ever been asked the question, “Honey, does this make me look fat?” you will understand my sudden urge to bolt for the horizon.

I’m not sure how I managed it, but I came up with advice that was honest and diplomatic at the same time (a first for me). Not only did she accept my answer, but she gave me a little kiss for my trouble. I’m not telling you what I said. It’s my death-defying experience — go find your own.

If my son ever asks me for advice on marriage, I will strongly suggest that he lobby for a Fifth Amendment clause.

Thanks to the advances of geriatrics in the 23rd century, senior citizens like Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise continue to enjoy active and productive lives. However, all good things must come to an end, and so eventually must Captain Picard pass into that long, lonely night.

To help his crewmates determine when it’s time to buy the Captain his gold chronometer, the home office on Memory Alpha has compiled this list — the Top Ten Signs that Captain Picard is Going Senile:

10. He begins chasing crewman around the lower decks with a sword.

9. When in Ten-Forward, he grabs Guinan by her hat and tries to throw her around the room like a frisbee.

8. The Enterprise makes it all the way to Aldebaran before he notices the starboard blinker has been on the entire time.

7. He orders LaForge to install Clappers ® on all turbolift doors.

6. During tense battle alerts, his Depends undergarments tend to leak.

5. He keeps leaping from his seat, gesticulating wildly with his hands at the main viewer, shouting “It’s the whale! A great, white whale!”

4. He cannot remember which number to call Commander Riker.

3. He starts to give orders for course changes, but stops before saying “engage” because he can’t make his fingers work correctly.

2. Every time he sees Lieutenant Worf, he leans over and quietly asks Riker, “What the devil is a Klingon doing on my bridge?”

1. He begins shaving his chest so he can be more like Captain Kirk.

“You know, that guy that always plays the weirdo in movies?”

I’m talking about those actors and actresses that make a living playing “bit parts” so well that everyone knows the face, but not the name.

One of the great “you know, that guy” actors, Vincent Schiavelli, died today at the age of 57. Of all of his many quirky and off-beat roles, my favorite will always be “Mr. Kerber the math teacher” from the 1985 comedy Better Off Dead.

Can’t place the name with the face? Check out this obituary from Cinematical. Unless you’ve been an entertainment hermit for the last 30 years, you’re bound to recognize him.

I can hear Saint Peter now… “Oh, hey, it’s you! You’re… you’re that guy! Loved you in that X-Files episode, man!”

The Black Knight scene from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” as recounted by my 12-year old son, Matt.

So, there’s this knight, and he’s really mad at the King and won’t let him pass. So they start fighting with their swords, and it’s like boom and swoosh. You remember what happened next, Dad? His arm goes flying off like whirrrrrr and blood starts squirting out like this (mimes a fountain of blood).

And the knight, he’s like, “Oh, that didn’t hurt. Come here, you loser, and take that” *wham* and then they start fighting again, and soon he’s got them all cut off. And the King goes away, except the knight is going, like, “Dude, come back here and fight like a man!” Remember that part, Dad? Yeah, that was cool.

And then later someone threw a cow at them. And there was a Trojan bunny. That was cool, too.

Now I know how I sound when I try to retell George Carlin jokes.

In the state of New York, you can now legally change your name to Jesus Christ. From the AP article:

Jose Luis Espinal, 42, of Washington Heights, said he was “happy” and “grateful” that the judge approved the change, effective immediately. Espinal said he was moved to seek the name change about a year ago when it dawned on him, “I am the person that is that name.”

Claims of messiah-hood aside, the timing is suspect. By my calculations, Mr. Christ is owed approximately 1,970 years worth of birthday presents.

And that begs the question — what do you get for the God that has everything? I’m not sure even the Sharper Image could solve that one.

Around this time of year, “Peace on Earth, good will toward men” becomes the clarion call of anyone celebrating the holiday season. Say it how you might — Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or even the much-maligned “Happy Holidays” — we’re all caught up in a worldwide love-fest of peace, joy, happiness, and universal brotherhood.

All except for me, that is. Please allow me to wish you calamity, strife, and tidings of woe. And that’s from the bottom of my heart.

Now, before you throw me to the conservative talk show hosts for dismemberment, please hear me out.

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We’ve been channel-flipping through the news networks this evening. I have seen several reports of “Santa Claus tracking” through a variety of techniques, including weather radar, Bluetooth telephones, Blackberry updates, and even NORAD itself.

Um, to whom exactly are these reports being aimed? Anyone young enough to believe in Santa Claus (i.e., the under-nine crowd) wouldn’t know the difference between NORAD and North Pole, and “Blackberry” is that beeping thing that takes up all of Daddy’s free time. If these little news snippets aren’t for the kids, then they must be aimed at us adults. Speaking as one of the non-believers in Santa Claus, may I be the first to say that the “tracking Santa” schtick is old and busted?

However, if you told me you were tracking old Saint Nick by hacking into the unsecured wireless network hub onboard his sleigh, you would have my undivided attention.

I never hesitate at an opportunity to poke some fun at my Japanese heritage. Hence this link to a mockumentary on sushi dining etiquette. Thanks to Dan and Anji for the pointer!

Note to those that might be tempted to treat my mother the way “traditional” Japanese men treat their women — she’s had a couple of decades to become “Americanized.” Try that samurai heritage crap on her and she’ll use your lungs for the next sushi plate.

Whirlpool is buying out Maytag. Housewives the world over will be wearing black mourning garb for the next several weeks. I could not be more serious about this — my mother-in-law is a die-hard Maytag lady from the old country, and she has the 20-year-old functioning washing machine to prove it.

Other ladies (like my wife) are just as fanatic about their Whirlpool-branded stuff. It’s like the good ol’ boy rivalry between Ford and Chevy pickup owners, Carol Brady-style. If household appliances came with back windows, someone would be making a killing by selling stickers of little boys peeing on Maytag “M” and Whirlpool “swirlee” symbols.

Via Samurai Appliance Repairman.

I suffer from a terrible disease known as WhOA. Now, before you go searching for a telethon or scrambling for WebMD, know that this stands for Whistle Obsessive Acquisition Disorder. This disease was first identified by Dale Wisely, proprietor of the definitive site for Internet tinwhistle journalism at Chiff and Fipple.

In other words, I play the Irish tinwhistle. In order to play a tinwhistle, one must actually own one, or at least have a friend who doesn’t mind you slathering over his instruments. I own several. As in lots and lots. At last count, I own twenty-four tinwhistles in various shapes, sizes, keys, and colors.

Why this obsession with the Irish tinwhistle? Blame it on Riverdance.

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Zookeepers at the Amazon Zoo on the Isle of Wight in Southern England say that Toga, the 3-month old penguin who was stolen from his enclosure last week, may not survive long if not returned to his parents.

From what I remember of penguin physiology, immature penguins get most of their nutrition through ingesting food regurgitated from their parents’ stomachs. Maybe the police should be investigating the local chapter of Bulimics Anonymous.

Matters of nutrition aside, I can see why some misguided, dim individual might have thought this was a good time of year to steal a penguin. After all, it’s the holiday season, with Christmas and New Years formals on every street corner. Slap a bow-tie on Toga and he’ll blend in just fine. The finer parties will be serving caviar, which takes care of the food angle, provided the thief is discreet (well, as discreet as one can be when throwing up in someone else’s mouth).

Of course, this can’t last forever. Even if they manage to hop parties all the way through St. Patrick’s Day, I’m pretty sure the gig will be up once Memorial Day passes and everyone switches to white jackets. My money says that Miss Manners will make the collar.

The 170th edition of the Carnival of the Vanities is now playing at Ravenwood’s Universe. Plenty of good Christmas reading to be had. Give it a hit or two.

The US Mint will launch a new series of dollar coins in 2007. No doubt this is in response to the stellar reception given by the American public for the Susan B. Anthony and Sacagawea coins.

Taking a cue from the rather successful State Quarters series, these new dollar coins will feature a rotating progression of US Presidents, thereby assuring a decade-long supply of stupid email jokes. For example: will the Carter coin be worth only 50 cents to commemorate the runaway inflation of the 70’s? Will the Reagan coin only be given to the wealthy so they can “trickle down?”

Let’s not even consider the uses to which the Clinton coin would be put.

I have one suggestion for the mint - find another artist. That isn’t exactly the most flattering picture I have ever seen of the Father of My Country. Makes me wonder if Washington crossed the Potomac for a donut run.

I am 41 years old today. Happy Birthday to me.

I have learned much in this little journey through life. If I might be allowed the hubris, I would like to take this moment to impart the benefit of my experience to the younger generation.

Turn down the subwoofer.

Thank you.

My 12-year old son is channeling Steven King. I very much understand that Mr. King is alive and slapping his editor around because… well, because he can. This would make the supposed channeling pretty much impossible, the prerequisite being that the channelee be somewhat deceased. Still, it’s uncanny reading what this kid writes.

My son wrote this story earlier today “just for the heck of it.” Despite it’s simplicity and obvious grounding in the “MTV generation” school of exposition, I think it’s darned incredible work for a 12-year old. Lest you believe that I’m just a proud parent who thinks his kid’s pottery project could command six figures at auction, I’ll retype it here for you to read. Tell me you don’t think he has potential.

Editor’s note: I have corrected spelling and paragraphing only.

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David offers a sampling of Christmas carols for the mentally-afflicted. My favorite:

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder —Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells…

If Christmas is driving you crazy, be comforted by the fact that the carols will accompany you into the rubber room.

How to change your windshield wiper in twelve easy steps:

1. Start your car and drive out of your employer’s parking lot like you’ve had the worst day of your life (it really wasn’t, but I drive like that all the time).
2. Realize that it is snowing and it is extremely difficult to see out the windshield.
3. Casually flip on the windshield wiper.
4. Realize entirely one millisecond too late that you should have first freed the wipers from their frozen position on the windshield.
5. Listen to the *crack* of the blade-holder snapping off the wiper arm. Watch with dismay as it skitters up your windshield, over the top of the car, and into the street full of 40-mph traffic.
6. Park at the first convenient spot, which happens to be the visitor lot of a retirement home.
7. Jump out and run to your fallen wiper blade just in time to see it KO’d under the wheels of a passing Dodge minivan.
8. Scream profanities at the receding minivan while jumping up and down and waving random body parts in highly unacceptable gestures.
9. Pick up the scattered pieces of your wiper blade and return to vehicle. Grin sheepishly at the retirement villa residents who saw your little display and are watching you like you’re Charles Manson.
10. Drive off before someone bolts and calls the cops.
11. Go to Walmart. Spend 20 minutes trying to decipher the coffee-stained wiper refill cross-reference manual. Find out they’re “out of that size” in all but the most expensive, Teflon-coated varieties. Buy it anyway.
12. Change your wiper blade.

Be sure to tune in next time on “I’m Not a Real Mechanic” and watch as Joe learns how to refill his gas tank. Here’s a preview of the show:

1. Run out of gas in the middle of nowhere.

The concept: a website called “Who Represents?” serving as a professional cross-reference of actor, actresses, and the agents who represent them.

The execution: www.whorepresents.com. (If you’re not laughing, read it out loud. But not too loud.)

As the proprieter of a website with the unlikely monicker of “pootv.com”, I can certainly relate.

Link via Dave Barry.

The “Play One on TV” schtick serves as the title and inspiration for my web site. Imagine my glee at finding not one, not two, but three scholarly investigations into the origins of the phrase, “I’m not a real doctor, but I play one on TV.” Guiltless obsession is a wondrous thing to behold.

These articles were found at Language Log, a gathering point for professional linguists. Personally, I would normally go nowhere near a gang of linguists for fear of suffering a degrading public conjugation and etymologization (which may not even be a real word). However, these people seem to be an approachable lot, even if they do use words like “bilateral trill” as casually as I would use the word “wedgie.”

Something I learned from their work — the concept behind the “fake doctor hawking real medicine” gimmick came not from Peter Bergman, a.k.a. Dr. Cliff Warner, but from Robert Young, a.k.a. Dr. Marcus Welby, featured in a commercial for aspirin in the mid-1970’s. What made this commercial campaign different was that he wasn’t going on as “Robert Young, who plays Dr. Marcus Welby on TV.” He was portrayed in the commercial as Dr. Welby himself.

The federal government, worried that most people would be deluded into thinking that Dr. Welby had somehow crossed the fourth wall and become real, cracked down on this sort of advertising. Good thing, otherwise we might have been subjected to the Real Captain Kirk selling libido enhancers. Hence the later gig with Peter Bergman saying, “I’m not a real doctor, but I play one on TV.” It turns out he wasn’t trying to insult our intelligence; he was just trying to satisfy federal regulations (but then we’re back to insulting our intelligence again).

This is too cool. Up until now, Peter Bergman gave me the whole “fake expert” authority to this web site. Now I get to use the “fake father knows best” stamp of authenticity from Robert Young. I’m getting more artificial legitimacy with every passing week!

Yes, you’ve probably noticed it. We passed in the hall, or perhaps you saw me as I left the cafeteria, and you couldn’t help but frown in puzzlement at my retreating back. Something is different, all right. I’m walking with an extra spring in my step; a twinkle in my eye; a blaze in my gaze. Crowds part as I pass. Doors are opened for me by my betters. Cats want to come to me when called, and dogs scamper away in fear. Men size me up as if a prelude to honorable combat, and women blink hard and drag their eyes away as if reluctant to end the engagement. All of my traffic lights are green, and my lawnmower starts on the first pull. My hair is standing on end and loving it.

Why? Because I’m wearing my Underwear of Love.

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Spartacus Act III, Scene 6: Prisoner Sequence

Scene: A large hillside overlooking the detrius of battle. A group of dejected SPAMMERS are sitting despondently, staring at the thousands of bodies of their former comrades-in-arms. Keeping careful watch over them are ROMAN GUARDS with gladius held at the ready.

Enter GENERAL CRASSUS. He surveys the beaten army with a stern gaze. Unbeknownst to him, two of the spammers, SPARTACUS261 and ANTONINUS@AOL.COM, are among the prisoners, studying him intently.

CRASSUS: You are all under a sentence of death. However, your lives will be spared. Spammers you once were, and spammers you will be again. However, as the price for your lives, you must deliver unto me the spammer known as SPARTACUS261.

The spammers stir uneasily, but nobody speaks. Finally, SPARTACUS261 makes as if to stand and identify himself, but ANTONINUS@AOL.COM jumps in front of him to speak.

ANTONINUS: I am Spartacus261! I can get you cheap, generic Viagra!

SPAMMER #2: No, I’m Spartacus261! I am the deposed king of Nigeria and need a business partner within the United States!

SPAMMER #3: I am Spartacus261! You want to see Hidden Camera Pix of my hot sister?

At this moment, virtually all the SPAMMERS leap to their feet, each proclaiming loudly to be Spartacus261, offering XXX Passwordz, cheap inkjet refills, low-rate no-qualify mortgages, and message delivery failures. The view zooms in on a frustrated CRASSUS, who sees his final victory over the leader of the Spammer Army fading away into dust.

…with apologies to Stanley Kubrick…

Note: I found this in an comment I made to an old post on the Dustbury site. Not sure if this means I’m plagarizing him or myself. However, I am amazed (and dismayed) that three years has done nothing to discount its relevance.

Charles is a basketball fan, and nobody is more surprised than he, as described in his latest Vent.

I share Charles’ lack of interest in most things related to organized sports, but he’s one up on me with his newfound love of the New Orleans Oklahoma City Hornets. Not only have I never watched one of their games (live, televised, or otherwise), I would be hard-pressed to identify their logo on a t-Shirt. If it has the word “Hornets” somewhere in it, I might stand a chance.

This isn’t a matter of a lack of interest in the sporting disciplines. On the contrary: I love to watch a good, competitive game in any arena: football, basketball, hockey, soccer, jai-lai. It’s just that I have trouble mustering up any kind of interest in a specific team or player. I like watching the skill and strategy, not the drama and pathos.

Many of my friends get all frothy at the mouth over a Bedlam game (for the non-Okies, that’s what we call a matchup between the University of Oklahoma and Oklahoma State University). My idea of a great football game is an absolute tie right down to the two-minute warning, followed by a game-winning touchdown in double-overtime. The identity of the winning team is irrelevant.

This viewpoint is considered high treason by most of my friends and family, living as I do in the middle of College Football country (which is quickly becoming NBA country). In short, they think I am a loon. By way of compensation, I can go shopping on game days and not wait in line (unless I’m in the television section).

Disclaimer: Everything I just said is immediately reversed where professional cycling is concerned. I can quote names, statistics, placings, standings, and drug test results with the most fannish of the fans. I scream at the television during the entire 21-day span of the Tour de France. This does nothing to improve my loon status.

Young men who might get excited at the prospect of a “back rank mate” with one of these ladies should be advised that any potential dream date would be capped with… er, a rousing game of chess. These are the Top Ten finalists in the World Chess Beauty Contest, an event sure to enrage feminists and misogynists alike.

I am not intimidated by intelligent women (exhibit one: my lovely wife); however, I am reasonably sure that any date between myself and one of these ladies would never work out. Judging from their high ratings (the chess ratings, you drooling idiot), even the lowest-ranked contestant could wipe me out in ten consecutive speed chess sessions without so much as marring her manicure. To make things worse, the conversation would be a bit stilted, centered as it would be on pawn forks, bishop skewers, and the Ruy Lopez opening. I’d be running for a Bruce Pandolfini book inside of five minutes. A fine evening, indeed.

Still, it’s nice to know that these ladies have a fan base that appreciates them for reasons unrelated to their cleavage. Unfortunately, most of that fan base looks like Bobby Fischer.

On the other end of the scale: the less said about the Miss Klingon Empire Beauty Pageant, the better.

Most parents live for the day that they can embarrass their children in front of a boyfriend or girlfriend. The usual weapon of choice is the dreaded Naked Baby Picture.

Imagine poor Junior, decked out in his first tuxedo and nervously trying to pin the corsage on his date without drawing blood or touching a Forbidden Body Part. Suddenly and without provocation, Dad pulls out the Naked Baby Picture. Junior surreptitiously tries to dig a hole to China with his big toe.

We don’t have any Naked Baby Pictures of my son. No, I have something even better. Behold the Geek Baby Picture.

If my son ever grows up and hijacks a schoolbus full of nuns, psychologists will cite this picture as a proximate cause.

Several years ago, I was working on the end-user side of the business world. Like many American businesses, we used a high-tech, high-volume, high-dollar computer system to Get Things Done. Every once in a while, that shining gem of technology would roll over and take a little nappy-time, leaving me and my coworkers scrambling for the stone tablets and chisels.

I was convinced that these little outages were arranged and implemented on purpose by the IT folks (aka, the computer gurus). I could think of any number of reasons: they wanted to take a coffee break; they needed the overtime to make a boat payment; they just wanted to make my life a living hell.

Six years ago, I crossed the fence and moved to the technical side of the world. Although I’m not an actual programmer, I know enough SQL to bring any decent, law-abiding database to its knees. In the last six years, I have learned a thing or two about how these godawfully big computers Get Things Done.

Having seen these outages and snafus from the technical side, what have I learned? I have learned that computers go down because we technical people are a bunch of freaking IDIOTS!

So you see, it’s still the IT person’s fault, only now that person is me. And my life still ends up being a living hell.

I should have been a fireman.

Caught myself listening to the radio today. I have the attention span of a two-year old after an hour at Starbucks, so my mind tends to wander. To whit:

• “Get up, come on, get down with the sickness?” With all that up-and-down, maybe they just had a bad case of motion sickness.
• Kelly Clarkson is a really good singer and all, but if she hadn’t stumbled onto that “American Idol” gig, don’t you think that voice would have sounded great on a McDonald’s drive-thru speaker?
• Every move you make, bake, take, stake, lake, fake, rake… did Sting spend the better part of a week finding all those “-ake” words, or did he just have a really good thesaurus?
• Someone had to tell me that the “Doobie Brothers” were not really brothers, and that the word “doobie” was not an homage to Frank Sinatra. I am unsure if this was more personally embarassing than the time someone had to tell me that the Village People were gay.
• I did, however, know about Queen. Everyone knew about Queen.
• What the heck happened to Foreigner, anyway? Just how does one descend from the heights of “Hot Blooded” to the depths of “I Want to Know What Love Is” — did the entire band wake up one day and forget to put on their testosterone patches?
• So, did he think that song was about him? Did he? Did he? Did he?
• So what do you think is going on in this Eddie Van Halen / Valerie Bertinelli split? Did Eddie lose his mind, or did Valerie find hers?
• Okay, I lied about Queen. Someone had to tell me about them, too. I have a totally non-functional gaydar.
• First it was John Cougar. Then it was John Cougar Mellencamp. Now it’s just “John Mellencamp.” He’s changed names more often than most bands change lead singers.
• I would bet that whichever member of ZZ Top volunteers to do the cooking, they always end up with a hair in the soup.
• Okay, okay, I have one. I knew about Boy George. Well, sort of. Someone had to tell me he wasn’t a woman, but once I had that straight (so to speak), I figured out the rest.
• Most of the older boys in my Boy Scout unit like Pink Floyd, REO Speedwagon, Styx, Alice Cooper, and Kansas. This leaves me absolutely zero room to complain about what kids listen to these days. How the hell am I supposed to enjoy getting older when I’m denied such simple pleasures?
• I was certain that Nick Rhodes from “Duran Duran” was gay. Turned out he wasn’t. Gaydar still offline.
• I can sing from memory the complete lyrics to several “Supertramp” tunes. However, I couldn’t tell you a smidgen of what they’re actually about.
• I will turn up the radio when the Carpenters or Barry Manilow come on. But only if the windows are rolled up and nobody else is in the car.
• I love to listen to female Irish singers. I could spend hours listening to Andrea Corr read the back of a cereal box.
• I calculate that Phil Collins releases a hit single every 3.8 days. When does he sleep?

Jesus once admonished his followers, “You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” (Matthew 16:3)

Apparently this congregation cannot interpret the sign on their lawn.

This top ten list is dedicated to the making of mountains out of molehills.

10. Kilimanjaro

9. C

8. Mount St. Helens

7. Mons Olympus

6. A

5. K2

4. Col du Galibier

3. DD

2. B

1. Grand Teton

A real conversation with my sister, the non-geek:

Nancy: When waiting in line for hours to see the latest “Lord of the Rings” movie, do people really play games like Stratego?

Joe: Actually, Stratego wouldn’t be complex enough to keep me occupied that long.

Nancy: …

Of all the answers she was expecting, this was clearly not one of them.