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.
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.
Be careful what you blog for. You may get it.
Some of my readers will remember my recent appeal for an industrial-strength shower scrunchie that can stand up my shower practices. Today I was gifted with the froggie scrunchie shown at left, courtesy of my kid sister Jane. Note to self: never let family read your blog. They know too much about you already.
I figure this scrunchie has what it takes to surpass the 30-day half-life of my regular brand of scrunchie. This has nothing to do with its construction and everything to do with how silly I’d feel scrubbing my armpits with a frog. It’s kind of like asking Kermit to wash your back. eeeeeww….
Fortunately, the Fifth Amendment to the US Constitution says I don’t have to tell you whether or not I ever actually use it.
Dan deconstructs the Ameritrade commercials.
If this is what passes for shrewd investment practice in today’s financial world, I’m pulling out of my 401k plan. Anyone know where I can find about 22 coffee cans? Or maybe a large mattress?
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.
Caligynephobia is reputedly “a fear of beautiful women.”
You gotta be kidding me.
I can certainly understand being intimidated by beautiful women — ask my wife how long it took me to work up the nerve to ask for that first dance. But a full-blown, call-Doctor-Sidney-Freeman-from-M*A*S*H phobia? Unless you spent your childhood being pistol-whipped by Kathy Ireland and Heidi Klum in matching flower-print string bikinis, I’m not buying it.
I’m betting that this “condition” was invented by bored college frat brothers trying to kill time before rush week. I can just imagine them slouching into the psych clinic, barely supressing giggles and smirks, asking for several sessions of “deep immersion therapy” to counter the condition.
Now, cacophobia I can understand. Show me Sandra Bernhard in a flower-print anything and you’ll scare me into the next century.
Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, we lost three astronauts in a terrible accident on the ground. But we’ve never lost an astronaut in flight; we’ve never had a tragedy like this. And perhaps we’ve forgotten the courage it took for the crew of the shuttle; but they, the Challenger Seven, were aware of the dangers, but overcame them and did their jobs brilliantly. We mourn seven heroes: Michael Smith, Dick Scobee, Judith Resnik, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Gregory Jarvis, and Christa McAuliffe. We mourn their loss as a nation together.
We’ve grown used to wonders in this century. It’s hard to dazzle us. But for 25 years the United States space program has been doing just that. We’ve grown used to the idea of space, and perhaps we forget that we’ve only just begun. We’re still pioneers. They, the members of the Challenger crew, were pioneers.
I was 21 years old when the Challenger was destroyed in a ball of flame and superheated liquid oxygen, taking with the the lives of seven astronauts, the dreams of a nation, and the hopes of a people who desperately wanted to walk among the stars.
The 175th weekly edition of the Carnival of the Vanities is now up at Blueprint for Financial Prosperity.
Some of my personal favorites from this week’s selection:
Plus, I may have (ahem) submitted a teensy-weensy little post of my own. Modesty forbids.
Customized tote bag that says “Everything you do can and will be used as blog material.” Cost: $15.99
Gift wrap, birthday card, and bandwidth to blog about the gift. Cost: $8.95 + .05 per mb
Showing off the bag to friends, only to find out later that the URL at the bottom of the bag is an advertisement for a porn site. Cost: Priceless.
Independent networks UPN and WB will be putting themselves out of misery shutting down this fall to make way for a new merged network called The CW.
Ever the wit of sharpness, Charles presents the top ten network names rejected before they came up with “the CW”. I’m a sucker for a good top ten list.
According to the article, The CW plans to air “30 hours of programming seven days a week aimed in part at young audiences.” 30 hour days, eh? Let’s hope those young audiences can’t do math.
The United States is reportedly outsourcing torture to other countries.
I thought Dell already did that.
See Dan.
See Dan watch C-Span.
See Dan watch a political debate on C-Span.
See Dan watch a Canadian political debate on C-Span.
Watch, Dan, watch.
See Joe fall asleep for 102 years.
Saturday morning, January 21st, 6:30 am. We are encamped at Trapper’s Rendezvous just outside of Newton, Kansas. The temperature is just shy of 25 degrees. A rime of frost covers the walls of each tent, both inside and out; I remember brushing some of it off my sleeping bag when I first awoke. My breath laces the air in front of me with a mist so thick that I think I could write in it with my finger.
I turn to east, surveying the creek that runs alongside our campsite. The sun is just starting to peek above the treetops, casting its golden beams across a landscape that has yet to completely shed the gray of twilight.
My son walks by, head down against the cold, working on some random morning task like gathering firewood. I reach out and grab his shoulder, turning him to face the rising sun. “Will you look at that?” I say to him quietly.
A minute later, he breathes one word. “Wow.”
The perfect moment passes, and we turn away to begin the day.
10. …calls to his attorney have not been returned.
9. Any use of the adverb allegedly.
8. …former child star…
7. …reportedly had sex with…
6. The word estranged when coupled with spouse, child, or family dog.
5. …along with Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy…
4. Anything that references a bizarre murder-suicide.
3. Any combination of the words tornadic activity, Oklahoma, double-wide, and torrential.
2. The word indictment is always bad. When in conjunction with the word sealed, seriously consider a bizarre murder-suicide.
1. The CEO of (name of company you just invested in) vigorously denied the fraud allegations. Calls to his attorney have not been returned.
When camping in cold weather, any comment about how cold it is will immediately be countered by one or two older Scout leaders saying, “Cold? This isn’t cold. Why, I remember the time when it was so cold…”
Corollary: When camping in hot weather, the same will apply to comments made about the heat. However, as I have actually slept in 100-degree temperatures, that comment will be coming from me.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I absolutely, positively, and without reservation, loath and detest “Reality Television.” I have never watched Big Brother, Trading Spouses, American Idol, Fear Factor, or any of the incarnations of Survivor. If I want to watch a bunch of people scheming and plotting against one another, all I need to do is poke my head around the cubicle wall at work.
However, I need to make one eentsy-weentsy confession: I love police chase shows.
The Center for Science in the Public Interest is suing the Kellogg Company and the Nickelodeon TV network to stop the senseless marketing of “junk food” to children.
Companies are developing automatic monitoring devices that will limit the amount of time their children spend playing video games.
Lawmakers in Colorado are seeking to amend divorce laws to eliminate the 90-day waiting period and mandatory parenting classes that inform parents about the impact of divorce on children.
In other news, parents are relieved of all responsibility in raising healthy, self-sufficient children; spend evening watching the four-hour premiere of 24 on FOX.
I have this little voice inside my head (one of many) who has a slightly more cynical take on the world than I do. It is because of his running commentary that I tend to walk around with a goofy grin on my face.
He is especially good at poking fun at consumer advisory labels. For those of you longing for a peek inside my head, now is your chance. Here are some important consumer disclaimers and warnings, translated for the cynically impaired.
Check out the 174th edition of the Carnival of the Vanities, hosted by Free Money Finance. I lost track of this post-collective for a couple of weeks due to a change in management (due more to my lack of organizational skills than any failing on the part of the carnival management.)
My son learns that some names are suitable for both boys and girls:
Matt: Shelby? A guy’s name? You gotta be kidding me!
Daddy: No joke. Haven’t you ever heard of the Shelby Mustang? It was one of the hottest custom sports cars of the 60’s.
Matt: What does that have to do with it?
Daddy: It was designed by a guy named Shelby. That’s why it’s named the Shelby Mustang.
Matt: His name was Shelby? Weird.
Daddy: Actually, that was his last name.
Matt: What was his first name?
Daddy: Um… Carroll.
Matt: Carroll? A guy’s name? You gotta be kidding me!
Daddy: Don’t you have some homework to do or something?
Next week: My son asks me about male menopause.
Did you ever bite into a Rice Krispie treat and thought it tasted like plastic? You have no idea.
I have noticed a recent trend towards science-based politicking in this country. A gander of any random newspaper will reveal more than a few articles concerning the enviroment, intelligent design, severe weather trends, and the mysterious attraction between Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. Thanks to all this reading, I have come to two conclusions concerning the two poles of our political process:
I was going to work up a third point about moderates being incredibly smug, but I think I’ve made that rather self-evident.
The other night, I was playing Civilization IV and my wife happened to walk by (this also being her house and all). The game is in the habit of throwing little historical quotes at the player every time a milestone is reached. The one she overheard was a quotation from the poem Ozymandius by Percy Bysshe Shelley:
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
At this utterance, my wife snorted and muttered “Ozymandius. Huh!” under her breath. I looked at her quizically and realized, to my incredible surprise, that my wife hates that poem!
My wife was an English major in college. She considers Shakespeare and the Brontë to be light reading. Finding out she hates something by Shelley is like discovering that the Pope hates red wine. This is quite a revelation, especially considering we’ve been married 20 years.
I need to haul her down to the university library and figure out what else she hates. Maybe we can find something we both hate and have a good old time making fun of it. I can see us now, getting thrown off campus for making catcalls at the Byron section.
So exactly how long is a shower scrunchie supposed to last? Seems I can only get about four good weeks out of one of these things before it starts to unravel.
I’m talking about those mesh poufs you find in the women’s section of the health and beauty departments. They’re sometimes called “beauty scrubbers” although you won’t catch me using the term without quotation marks. I asked a male friend about this problem, but I didn’t get any answer from him (he was too busy staring at me like I just declared my undying lust for the Pope).
Hey, I like to use shower scrunchies. Sue me. I like the clean feeling I get after using it. I believe the genteel term for this process is “exfoliating,” but I’m more inclined to call it “exhuming” where I’m concerned. I have tried going back to washcloths, and I can’t do it — I just don’t feel clean unless I’m free of the skin I was wearing yesterday.
My wife is not a good reference point for normal scrunchie wear-and-tear. She doesn’t use hers every day, and she hates it when I accidentally use hers. So, is four weeks a normal lifespan for one of these things? Will I forever be a slave to the plastic mesh cartel? Is there an industrial-strength scrunchie waiting for me at the local Dillards?
What to my wondering lunchtime eyes should appear? Why, this box from Amazon.com! I do believe my Jesus Action Figure has arrived. Even if I didn’t have the prophecy from DHL at my disposal, the golden glow is a dead giveaway.
Either that or it’s Cherenkov radiation and my next update will see me typing from the burn ward at the hospital.
However, whether or not it’s Lord of the Action Figures, I must be off to work. More later!
UPDATE: Okay, I cracked the box and made sure it’s in there. It there, all right! I haven’t had much time to investigate further. Truth be told, I was tempted to wait three days before opening it, but maybe that’s a tad bit too irreverent, even for me.
Of course, it’s just an action figure, so it’s not like I’m risking the fires of Hell if I’m disrespectful to it. Lego Hell, maybe.
My son will be celebrating the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday by staying home from school today and playing X-Box. I suppose it was inevitable. For kids his age, the legacy of Dr. King has been relegated to another semi-anonymous holiday along with President’s Day and Memorial Day.
Despite the cultural disconnect, my son’s attitude gives me hope for the future of our country. To my parent’s generation, Martin Luther King Jr. was either an impassioned visionary or a pain-in-the-butt rabble rouser, depending on what side of the civil rights issue you stood. To my generation, he was a man before his time, without whom the civil rights movement would barely have registered on the political scales of the South.
To my son’s generation, he’s “that guy who made the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.” Kind of like how Lincoln is “that guy who wrote the Gettysburg Address” and Washington is “that guy on the one dollar bill.” While my son’s historical knowledge needs some shoring up, I’m encouraged by the fact that he doesn’t see Dr. King as anything unusual — he’s just another famous guy who did what needed to be done. In the same manner, his friends aren’t black, or white, or Asian, or Hispanic, or anything else; they’re just “the guys.”
My parents grew up with racism. I grew up dreaming of the death of racism. Perhaps his is the first generation that will grow up wondering what all the fuss was about.
According to the prophecies gleaned from DHL, Jesus should arrive on my doorstep sometime today. I wish I’d repainted the awnings.
Actually, it’s not the Jesus, just a plastic replica. More specifically, it’s a Jesus action figure that I wrote about a couple weeks ago. My wife thinks I’m nuts for ordering one. I responded by asserting my rights as an mature adult to use my discretionary income for any safe and prudent purpose. And I blamed Lynn for giving me the original link.
Of course, most American companies are more interested in profits than prophets, so I’m not banking on this arrival. I’ll keep you posted!
A subtle shift in the balance of power has taken place in my household. My son has crossed over to the dark side. Like his mother before him, my own son now like crunchy peanut butter.
For the first time in my life, I find myself in a minority of “one” on the eternal debate on smooth versus crunchy. To make matters worse, we’re all out of smooth. I’m going to have to go to the store — me, lord and master of the mansion, go to the frickin’ store — for a small jar of smooth peanut butter. Never have I been forced so low.
The ultimate capper? The reason we’re out of smooth is because they fed it to the dog. Help me, George Washington Carver — you’re my only hope.
If you’re looking for a reason to feel inferior, try standing next to Leyan Lo, who broke the world’s record for solving a scrambled Rubik’s Cube at the Caltech Winter Competition 2006. His history-making attempt clocked in at 11.13 seconds, which beats my best attempt by several orders of magnitude. My last attempt took five hours, and that includes the hour it took to drive back to the store and buy the cheat book.
Makes me wonder what the life of a Speedcuber is like. Is there fame and fortune? Huge contracts from MIT or Hasbro? VH-1 “Behind the Cubing” specials? Do you get your own groupies? I’m not sure if “Speedcubing” has any groupies, but if they do, I’m betting they probably don’t shriek and throw their panties at you. Slide rules, maybe.
Note to denizens of Oklahoma City: If you’re a fan of the “all you can eat” style of restauranteering, I can heartily recommend Gaucho’s Grill on NW Expressway between Rockwell and MacArthur. Gaucho’s is a “Brazilian Grill and Steakhouse,” which didn’t mean a whole lot to me until my office took me there for my birthday lunch.
Unlike most buffet-style establishments, where “quantity is job one,” Gaucho’s somehow manages to maintain a high amount of quality amidst all the quantity. Lunch consisted of five meats, four side dishes, two dessert dishes, and a bevy of waitstaff ready to serve you more at the drop of an antacid, all for a reasonable price of $9.95. The review in the Oklahoma Gazette says it much better than I could (probably because they have professional writers, whereas I am only a professional eater.)
If I didn’t know any better, I would think that their unofficial slogan was “everything tastes better with a little meat on it.” I did not take accurate measurements, but it is highly probable that I ate enough protein to sustain a third-world family for a month. I didn’t walk out of the restaurant — I rolled, leaving behind many a grieving family of cattle, chickens, and swine.
Run, don’t walk to Gaucho’s. And after you’re finished, walk, don’t run. The pavement will thank you.
Joe Goodwin is not a real IT project supervisor, Scoutmaster, husband, father, Christian, or Oklahoman, but he plays one on TV.
You are currently browsing the Play One on TV weblog archives for January, 2006.
I am not a vegetarian because I love animals. I am a vegetarian because I hate plants. —A Whitney Brown
Content is ©2006 by Joseph Goodwin. So there.
Direct inquiries to jgoodwin@swbell.net
