Ramblings of Flarf

I Ponder

2011-08-17T12:10:00.003-04:00

Currently wondering when the concept of a "good hair day" officially switched from "pleasant confidence boost" to "nostalgic reminder of my mortality."

Li'l Epiphanies

2011-08-16T15:25:00.003-04:00

Seeing the soul-crushing look on a cruise ship piano bar guy's face the moment after he's been asked to play "Piano Man" is truly heartbreaking.

Today's headlines #7

2008-11-03T15:48:00.006-05:00

Vatican brings back clocking in
God to remain in charge of clocking out

Girl finds $1,000 in Richard Simmons tape
Boy finds Richard Simmons incredibly annoying

Family river rafting makes great memories
and lousy baklava.

Scotch tape unleashes X-ray power
Um... guys... it's Scotch tape. It’s kinda clear to begin with.

Israel considers question: "Who is a Jew?"
Iran offers support... is willing to launch massive search effort

Court weighs amputee's case
Client hopes for quick decision… says attorney fees are costing him
an arm and a leg

(I can't believe I actually typed that last one)

Fun with language #1

2006-10-26T09:17:00.000-04:00

“I have a big cock” might be the only phrase in the English language that becomes less outlandish if spoken while holding a live rooster.

…also maybe “look at my pecker”.

Random haiku #4

2006-06-21T16:03:00.000-04:00

Neglecting my blog...
lately, I've done that a lot.
Yes, I feel guilty.

A life of embrassments #1

2006-05-30T13:34:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been put in the unenviable position of having to take credit for someone else’s smell?

It’s just not fair…

Now I’ll be the first to admit that when I emerge from a room of rest, I don’t always leave the aforementioned water closet smelling of a dozen petunias on a spring day, but still, you never should have to be saddled with the odor output of another.

But it happens.

You know the scenario. You walk into a facility of personal waste management to do your business. Maybe you had too many sodas. Maybe you drank your water a little too quickly on the ride in to work. Either way, you’re really just looking to get in and get out… to vacate a bit of H2O from your system before venturing out into the real world and starting your day.

But then, as you open the door, you’re immediately greeted by… the smell. That unmistakable sign that someone has been having… shall we say… a “rough morning”.

Well whatever you think… the bladder waits for no man, so you mentally plug your nose and do your best to complete your transaction in as little time as possible. You then do a quick scrub of the hands and start to make your way for the door…

And that’s when it happens…

Someone else comes in.

You try to avoid eye contact, but it’s too late. You know already that any and all of the horrors of humanity and culinary punishment that combined to produce “the smell” have now been attributed to you and your intestines.

After all, look at the facts. Person B is walking in… you’re walking out… basic logic dictates that whatever shape that room is in, it’s most like YOU who has left it that way. And once they catch “the whiff”well… then it’s just game over. There’s no doubt in the universe that Person B has just tagged you as being one seriously smelly dude…

And that’s just not fair.

Today's headlines #6

2006-05-16T14:53:00.000-04:00

Seniors rush to beat Medicare cutoff
Let’s be honest… do seniors really “rush” to do anything?

Rising Diabetes Threat Meets a Falling Budget
And an onslaught of “Ho Hos”

New England Deluged by Worst Flooding in Decades
Local leaders speak up for those hardest hit, saying “Yankees suck”

Supreme Court rules in favor of eBay
And against good taste

Bush Denies Eavesdropping on U.S. Phone Calls
Well sure… first you’d have to understand how to use a phone.

Hawaiian waters dangerous for whales
Sea-faring mammals warned to be on the lookout for “tiny bubbles”

Alligators kill two more in Florida over weekend
See? I told you seniors couldn’t “rush”

Things that TV and the movies get wrong...

2006-04-20T12:25:00.000-04:00

Ok, so this has been bugging me, and even though I’m as big a fan of escapist entertainment as the next guy, I feel obligated to point out a few of the more gaping holes in the television and movie industry’s basic tenants of story structure…

For example:

Outer Bully, Inner Child
Not all bullies are overwrought with such insecurity that their feelings of inadequacy force them to act out with aggression towards anyone weaker or more vulnerable than they - and thusly, when confronted with equal assertiveness, will back down, respecting the abilities of the “victim” to stand up for himself. That’s right, some just like to punch people in the face. It’s a sad fact of life, but it’s true. Don’t believe me? Ok… try it.

Meeting Cute
If you meet a beautiful woman… and immediately get into a heated argument with her such that it is apparent by the end of your encounter that she wholly detests you… she will NOT over time come to realize that you are in fact a swell guy, and her initial anger was simply born out of her frustration with the fact that someone challenged her on an intellectual level… most likely she will ALWAYS detest you, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.

The Welcome Matt
If you meet a beautiful woman… and you two strike up a winning friendship even though you harbor feelings for her… and if said woman has established a pattern of picking the “wrong” kind of man, leaving you to be the one she comes running to when they inevitably leave, cheat on, or otherwise upset her, she will NOT eventually realize that the right man has been standing next to her along and throw her arms around you at some wildly poetic moment (such as when you’re about to board a boat to leave for a 6-month basket-weaving sojourn in Namibia). She will continue to pick the wrong man time and time again, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.

[the previous two examples also apply if you reverse the sexes… the only difference is that if you’re a woman, you probably CAN get some of that if you want]

Office Space
If you’re able to secure yourself an executive position you’re completely under qualified for through a mountain of lies and deceit that would rival, um… well a REALLY big mountain of lies and deceit… and if you manage to maintain that high wire act for a sufficient amount of time such that when it finally all comes crashing down it does so with a flair and panache worthy of Cirque du Soleil, well chances are pretty good that the CEO of the company is NOT going to reward your “moxie” with a legitimate position at the company… no, chances are you’re going to prison, where some big guy name bruce will show you the secret of HIS success.

And of course…

Yippee Kayay
If you ever find yourself in an abandoned warehouse surrounded by 23 drug runners armed with automatic weapons (and bad tempers), and you jump out from behind your yugo to begin firing the rusty 9MM weapon that the fast-talking “plays by his own rules” detective (on suspension) gave you so you can rescue the beautiful damsel in distress that’s tied to the bumper of a Hummer that just happens to be parked next to roughly 17 barrels marked (inexplicably) “Flammable” – well, let’s just say that you probably wont get to fire more than a couple shots before your lifeless corps starts to slowly collapse to the warehouse floor (yes, like a flan in the cupboard)… oh, and if by some miracle you DO survive, and the damsel DOES get rescued… she’s going home with the detective… THAT one, they got right.

Politically incorrect perishables...

2006-04-11T15:51:00.000-04:00

Being a reticently rotund individual myself, I understand perfectly the longing for new forms of fatty foods and sweeter treats. But that being said, there is such a thing as common sense, so when I turned on the food network recently and witnessed a man deep-frying a hot dog (in the bun no less), it was not without some surprise that a single thought occurred to me…

“This is most ingenious thing I have ever seen!”

Common sense be damned…

Sure, by this point in my life I’ve heard of deep fried Oreo’s, deep fried Mars Bars, and even deep fried Nutter Butters… And they were impressive once, but now, as far as I’m concerned, the people who came up with those are nothing but amateurs.

No… this man… the guy I saw on the tee vee… he was a true genius.

And he didn’t just stop at the hot dog no siree bob… he also went so far as to deep fry cheesecake – creating an industrial-strength artery buster that I can only assume causes at least a 13% blockage simply upon being smelt.

(smelt? smelled? smellindid? whatever… I like smelt… so what if it sounds like a welder came in extracted iron ore from someone’s superior vena cava… that’s probably not all that far off anyway)

But the final stroke (and I do mean stroke) of genius this culinary pioneer came up with… the veritable piece of resistance that this guy tempted fate by creating was the battered and dipped, deep-fried macaroni and cheese.

That’s right… Macaroni and cheese!

I don’t even LIKE macaroni and cheese, and this brought a smile to my face. He grabbed a handful of the yellow gooey mess, cupped it in his hands like a 4-year-old making a snowball (kinda gives new meaning to the old adage “don’t eat the yellow snow”), and then proceeded to roll it in bread crumbs and dip it in batter, before finally dropping it into a vat of boiling oily goodness.

That my friends, is the kind of “out-of-the-box” ingenuity that’s going to get us to the moon someday.

Today's headlines #5

2006-04-05T15:35:00.000-04:00

Massachusetts Sets Health Plan for Nearly All
Frank and George reportedly pissed.

Last Gasp of Winter Arrives With Supersized Snowflakes
Details of breakthrough McDonald’s/Mother Nature sponsorship deal revealed.

Apple Unveils Software to Let Macs Run Windows
Supersized snowflakes seen falling in Hades

Activist Nuns Return to Missile Silo
I just hope they don’t have the launch codes.

Saddam Dodges Shiite Questions
Well if they’re that bad, I probably wouldn’t answer them either…

Doctors Reattach Part of Sharon's Skull
Still offer no explanation for Basic instinct 2

Vain Wild Turkey Seeks Leftovers at Café
I’m not even going to ask.

Flarf rambling (literally)...

2006-03-10T10:38:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I know I haven’t blogged in a while… quite a while… but there’s a good excuse… really.

Um… you see, about a month or so ago, I started studying transcendental mediocrity. It’s a new trendy spiritual quest (all the rage in Hollywood) that hopes to help you focus the positive energies of the world so you can obtain a state of being decidedly average. Well contrary to what Paris Hilton might be saying, it really didn’t generate quite the return on investment I was hoping for, so I decided to try something else… full contact bocce. Don’t laugh, it has potential… but seeing as it’s still winter, it didn’t work out all that well… you can probably imagine what happened. Yup, at the first match, our team leader went to throw out the “pea” (he, he, he), and the little sucker took a skid on a patch of ice and just kept going and going and going… anyway, we decided to declare the match a draw, and I decided to give up the sport entirely… at least until the spring thaw (or until I can stop laughing at the notion of throwing out the first “pea” which I have since learned, is also called a “jack,” a “kitty,” a “cue ball,” a “pill,” and a “palinna,” all of which hold their own humoristic merit with the last one packing the extra bonus of repeatedly making me think of that guy who keeps popping up in all of Aaron Sorkin’s projects).

But I digress…

Anyway, sporting endeavors notwithstanding, I have been quite busy, as I recently decided to see how many boxes it would take to reduce my entire life down to corrugated squares…

The answer: I forgot to count.

I was going to, really, but then a big truck showed up, and seeing as it was empty and everything, we just decided to see if we could actually fit all of said boxes on said truck… turns out we could.

We also had room enough for various pieces of furniture, questionable bits of art, and a 3-year-old Pomeranian named “PhooPhoo.”

Just kidding… the art wasn’t all that questionable (and the dog’s name was Ralph).

Once the truck was good and packed, we figured we might as well ride around in it a little… and a few yips here and there aside it was a rather pleasant trip (so I hear… I decided to take my car, and was enagaged myself by playing a rousing game of “where’s the kitty now?” for three hours or so).

Well when all was said and done I found myself no longer residing in the Commonwealth… Instead, I’m back in the Empire State, sitting at a desk in an apartment filled with wall-to-wall carpet, a shower that’s not trying to kill me, and most importantly of all, a dishwasher. I am however, also surrounded by a gaggle of cardboard containers that seem clearly confused as to their current location (how’s that for alliteration?). I’m sure they will adjust in time… for now, I just hope they don’t try to overthrow the appliances.

Well that’s all for now… more to come, on a more regular basis (I hope), as the days progress…

-Flarf

Oh, by the way… if you happen to see a dusty Pomeranian stumbling around your neighborhood, it’s probably best to keep your distance… I’m guessing he’s pretty ticked off right about now.

Random haiku #3

2006-02-07T15:12:00.000-05:00

Blogging tough when sick.
Foggy head no good for words.
Will write more when well.

Under the influence (of Dayquil)...

2006-01-31T16:03:00.000-05:00

Being sick,
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.

Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.

Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.

Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.

In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

But I digress...

Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.

Then, he began to laugh.

Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.

And then, it was over.

He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.

He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.

So why did I bring all this up?

Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...

No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.

And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.

Singing the praises of the period...

2006-01-13T15:10:00.000-05:00

When it comes to punctuation, most people don’t give much props to the period. Sure it’s symmetrical and dependable and all, but for the most part it lives in the shadow of its flashier cousins. And that’s too bad. Because I think, if you really think about it (and apparently I have), it’s much more versatile then you may be thinking.

Take for example, the following sentence:

I want pie.

It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.

Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:

I. Want. Pie.

Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!

And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.

I want pie...

Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.

It could be, but you don’t know, do you?

That my friend, is the power of the period.

Green means go...

2006-01-10T15:42:00.000-05:00

It’s funny... ask a person to rate his or her driving skills, and he or she will most likely assure you that they are without a doubt an above average example of vehicular fortitude. Yup, nine times out of ten you’re bound to come across someone who wholeheartedly believes that they are without equal among their respective peers in the driving community. But as anyone who has driven on the streets of Boston will attest, this is, in reality, utterly impossible. And truth be told, most people will probably agree with you on that point too... they’ll just follow it up by reiterating that they ARE in fact above average, and it is EVERYONE ELSE who is misrepresenting their versatility with an ignition key.

Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...

I am NOT an excellent driver.

Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.

...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.

Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...

I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”

...not anymore anyway.

But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.

Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.

No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.

Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.

But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...

...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.

Random thought #26

2006-01-05T12:49:00.000-05:00

When you pass someone in the hall going the opposite direction and they start talking to you... how far away do you have to get before it’s acceptable to stop responding?

...at what point does it just become yelling?

Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.

Making right with the world...

2005-12-13T16:30:00.000-05:00

It’s unfortunate, but real life is not an ABC after school special...

Cheaters are not always caught (thereby losing their prominent football scholarships)...

Most kids can’t get mom to quit drinking by joining “ala-teen” with Kristy McNichol...

A socially-crippling stutter is not likely to be overcome by learning how to figure skate...

And god help you if you ever decide to confront the mongoloid who keeps taking your lunch money by offering a well-reasoned plea to help resolve his insecurities about being abnormally proportioned by taking him to a baseball game.

...especially if it’s “bat day”

Childhood just doesn’t usually work that way. Often, the same boys that are spitting in other peoples’ food, keying the teachers’ cars, and “pants-ing” the retarded kid in the middle of assembly are the ones dating the cheerleaders and getting jaguars on their 16th birthday.

It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is...

Apparently, the karma-centric idea of being rewarded or punished in life based upon personal responsibility for your actions doesn’t hold jurisdiction over anyone below the age of 20.

But one time... for me... it did.

Doug was an obnoxious little twit who had developed an aptitude for two things: playing soccer, and making my life a living hell (at least in as much as a middle-class white kid’s life CAN be a living hell).

This led to many days of torment and anguish (both on the field and off), the gory details of which I’ll spare you for now. Let’s just say that while he never actually physically abused me, Doug was able to make me heartily resent the fact that my school didn’t have a tighter “anti-dick” policy.

For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing some sort of derisive soliloquy hurled in my direction. Monologues on everything from my clothing and my hair, to my actions, my music, my speech patterns, and even my parents’ car were commonplace. Anything was fair game... it was all but fuel and fodder for Doug’s ever-emotive onslaught of ridicule. Now I can’t say I was the sole recipient of these dishonorable discharges, but if Doug’s insults were Shakespeare, I was his crowning achievement... his Hamlet... only there was no question... the answer was always “To be.”

To put it mildly, I didn’t like the guy very much.

Then, as I made my way into high school, a funny thing happened... I started seeing Doug less and less. I’d like to say it was because he noticed the err of his ways and decided to leave me alone - becoming a reformed man, helping little old ladies cross the street and raising money for UNICEF... but that was hardly the case. The truth was simply that our schedules had drifted apart, and we weren’t crossing paths quite as much anymore. In fact, I probably went an entire year or so without ever running into him.

Then, it happened.

One afternoon in gym class they were short on staff, and they decided to combine a couple of sessions together. There were about 40 of us in the gym that day... 40 of us, including Doug. Now with that many guys in one room, you might think it would be easy enough to stay anonymous, but I’ll tell ya... it sure didn’t take Doug long to find me. And the joy and excitement on his face at that moment could only be likened to that of a cat who has discovered a mouse trapped in the open.

After some early verbal sparring (I was at least starting to get a little indignant by this age if nothing else), we were corralled into groups and instructed that we would be playing handball. Skip ahead 20 minutes, and there’s 4 sets of teams engaging in what some might call a loosely-organized sport, but what more would probably say closely approximates the sight of someone with “terrets” trying to ice skate in a shooting gallery... balls were flying... BALLS were flying... and general unrest was the order of the day.

Then, the gym teacher told us he had to step out for a minute, and my beautiful moment of retribution came...

At the time the teacher walked out, Doug was playing goalie for one of the teams. Then, not 30 seconds after he left the gym, a strange event started to occur. Without direction, without forethought, and without planning, the 38 other kids in the gym spontaneously began to gather around the area where Doug was playing. These 38 kids (including the members of his own team) assembled into a loose semicircle around the goal Doug was defending. And once in place, these 38 kids proceeded to pelt Doug repeatedly, using every one of the 12 or so handballs that were in the gym. It started with the jocks, but eventually almost everyone was taking part. Nerds. Preppies. Heads. Geeks. One by one they threw... harder and harder... until Doug’s arms and legs were red, his voice was hoarse, and a tear was running down his cheek.

And while it was all going on, the 39th kid in the gym was perfectly content to just sat back and quietly watch the whole thing... an enormous smile spreading across his face.

I still have no clue why the planets aligned on that particular day to make that wonderful moment happen. Much to my astonishment Doug had always managed to be a pretty popular guy, so I don’t know if he had pissed off the wrong person that morning, or if the jocks had just thought he might make a fun target (never try too hard to figure out “jock logic”)...

Either way, it was a moment that I knew instantly I would always remember.

One thing did surprise me though... while watching Doug get up close and personal with 8-inch spheres of educationally institutionalized vulcanized rubber, a strange emotion rose up in me... pity.

There he was... receiving exactly what he deserved... and for a moment, I actually felt bad for him.

But only for a moment.

And I never stopped smiling.

Now... a few more words from Hamlet and Uncle Willie:

“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”

Random thought #25

2005-12-07T14:52:00.000-05:00

72 16-oz. bottles of Poland Springs water... 3 additional one-gallon jugs of H2O... a stick of deodorant (right guard)

...and a six-pack of pudding snacks.

That’s what the guy in line behind me at the supermarket last night was buying.

20 hours or so have passed since then... and I'm still puzzled by it.

InSensitives #1

2005-12-07T13:55:00.000-05:00

I don’t understand why they put all those "handicapped only" parking spaces so close to everything. I mean, c'mon... don't most of those people already have chairs?

Justifying the eggnog...

2005-12-02T15:29:00.000-05:00

Since we’re heading into December now, I figured I should probably just address this one out in the open...

I have an opinion to share...

And some of you may not like it...

Ok, here goes...

As far as I am concerned, Christmas is not a religious holiday.

There, I said it...

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas... the whole she bang... swadling, reindeer, angels... chimneys, frankincense, wise men... sugar plums, stockings, fashion-challenged midgets with yellow hair who aspire to be dentists... heck, I’d fully endorse a wider acceptance of the Wassail if you could actually tell me what one was...

Yes sirree, I loves me some Christmas... hands down, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.

But as far as I'm concerned, it aint about the Jesus.

It’s not like I think he was a bad guy or anything... I don’t.

Actually, from what I’ve seen in Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, it seems like he had a pretty good handle on the whole “how to treat your fellow man” thing, and hey, I’ll be the first to admit he rocked a sandal like it was nobody’s business... but I’m just too analytical a guy to wholly (pun intended) accept the idea of anybody as my personal savior without first seeing at least some shred of empirical evidence.

Maybe that’s just my lack of faith... maybe it’s flawed judgment... maybe it’s not... either way, for now, I’m going to cast my vote for evolution... and if I pray for anything, it will be for evolution to hurry up and... well, evolve... cuz there’s nothing I’d like more this year than to gets me some mad gills or wings or something... oh, and it’d be totally kick ass if I could have both.

Don’t worry... I’d only use them for good.

But anyway, where were we? ...oh right, Christmas!

So yeah... me... not so much about the religion... but that doesn’t mean I think any less of those who do embrace this as a time to celebrate the birth of our... or rather, their, lord... after all, they did name the holiday and pick the date and stuff (historians can’t reach any kind of consensus as to when Jesus was actually born... estimates vary in month, date, and even year), and at the end of the day, who am I to judge?

(judge not lest ye be judged and all that)

You see, in my life, Christmas has always been more about family and friends than finding a cake and party hat for the big guy in the sky. For me, Christmas is a time to celebrate the people in your life, not the life of the king of a certain people...

You may think that’s strange, or that I’m missing the point of the holiday entirely, and that’s ok... to me, it’s just normal... it’s Christmas... and I embrace it all...

I get the tree, I do the decorations, I fight with the tinsel, and generally, I make my apartment look like it’s the beachhead for a massive elf invasion (albeit a friendly one filled with knickknacks and scented votives).

And yes, I sing along with the carols too... it doesn’t matter if it’s “Let it Snow” or “O Holy Night”, I’m gonna belt it out with the best of them, and I’m going to do it with a smile on my face... and not the least bit of irony in my heart.

Now, before you start asking how someone who doesn’t appreciate the religious overtones of Christmas can derive such pleasure out of singing songs that reinforce the ideology its based on, I think it’s important to point out that I’m not really a “lyrics” kind of guy...

I don’t mean for that to sound flip, or dismissive, or anything really... it’s just the way I am...

I think of it like this... to this day, I derive great pleasure from songs that feature drug-induced stupors, tales of dragons and wizards, and the romantic entanglements of two men, but that doesn’t exactly make me Timothy Leary, Gandalf the Grey, or that guy on the corner wearing assless chaps who’s fond of asking if you know what a “Lithuanian Trumpfart” is...

It just means I dig the tunes...

And as my somewhat obsessive 900-some-odd song deep Holiday iPod playlist will attest, I certainly do dig them Holiday melodies...

Add in the nostalgia factor of having years and years of memories based around all those songs, and forget about it...

Yup, I’m just as happy to sing about snowmen, reindeer and the jolly guy who doles out the toys as I am to harmonize on the plight of Joseph and Mary. But the way I see it, all I'm doing is refusing to discriminate.

What's more Christian than that?!?!

(heck, ask me nicely, and I'll happily participate in a round or two of "The Dreidel Song")

I know that come this time of year you often see signs and billboards calling for everyone to “put the ‘Christ’ back in Christmas” and hey, if that’s what works for you, go for it.

But as far as I’m concerned, to really make it “Christmas” all you need is some good tunes, a glass of eggnog, and a few friends with which to deck the halls.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

And now that we’ve got that out of the way... BRING ON THE PRESENTS!

(just kidding)

Today's headlines #4

2005-11-30T17:24:00.000-05:00

Doctors in France Perform First Partial Face Transplant
Woman desperately wanted 2nd nose to snub at the rest of the world.

Bush Again Rejects Calls for a Withdrawal Timetable in Iraq
Names “abstinence” as the only choice a Christian should make.

Bongo Stays in Power in Gabon
Citizens reelect small piece of stretched cowide running on platform of “thump” and “thwack”.

Mexico's Leader Says He'll Persevere on Migration
Vows to have entire population across US border by 2012.

TSA to allow sharp objects on planes
Institutes mandatory “mitten-wearing” policy for all passengers while in-flight.

New Orleans launches free wireless Internet network
Said a spokesperson: “now all we need is power, running water and sewage service and we’ll be good as new!”

Gregory Peck's star stolen from Walk of Fame
Inexplicably, Patrick Swayze’s remains.

The number of the least...

2005-11-28T13:10:00.000-05:00

I have decided that “one thousand six hundred and eight” is now officially my LEAST favorite number...

That’s right, I’m making a bold proclamation. And I have a strong feeling I’ll be sticking to it. “One thousand six hundred and eight” just holds no joy for me any longer... It’s not a fair decision to make I’m sure, but all the same, from this day forth, simply mentioning “one thousand six hundred and eight” will encourage me to do nothing but mutter and shudder... as i'm doing right now...

[shudder]

Yes, even as I write this, it is painful to THINK about the number “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...much less type “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...or, god forbid, dare to speak “one thousand six hundred and eight”

Which of course means that I should probably stop repeating it over and over and over.

“One thousand six hundred and eight”

[shudder]

“One thousand six hundred and eight”

[shudder]

...

Ooooo... Do it again

“One thousand six hundred and eight”

[shudder]

“But why Flarf” you may ask, “why does this number hold itself in such ill-favor with you?”

Ok, so you probably wouldn't ask that using such a convoluted and mismatched set of words and phrases, but cut me some slack... i'm angry.

And it is a fair question, so to begin to answer it, I offer the following evidence...

In computerspeak, 1608 is the error number assigned to an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance... an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance?!?!?! That’s some pretty pure hatred right there...

It also marks the birth year of poet John Milton... the man who wrote Paradise Lost... the work that, among other things, goes into great detail about the origins of a real bad dude... THE bad dude in fact... the baddest dude of them all... no, I don't mean Darth Vader (though he's pretty fickin' badass)... I’m talking about Satan here... Lucifer... Beelzebub... The Dark Lord of all that is Oogilly Boogilly.

And I might add, it’s also the number of bed spaces for on-campus students at the University of North Florida...

Ok, so that in and of itself isn't actually a BAD thing...

But... but... how bout this one? ...in the year of the Greeks one thousand six hundred and eight (A.D. 1296--97), the victorious king came down to pass the winter in the city of BAGHDAD, and Mar Catholicus remained in MARAGHAH. And it fell out that a certain man, who was called by the name of SHENAKH EL-TAMUR (or SHAING EL-TAIMUR, or SHAKH EL-TAIMUR) came into MARAGHAH, and he cast about a report that he had with him an Edict ordering that every one who not abandon Christianity and deny his Faith should be killed.

Killed?!?!?

Hey, not that I’m the world’s leading proponent of organized religion or anything, but promoting closin’ up shop on some dude just cuz of how he gets his groove on, well that seems wrong man...

So you see what I mean?

“One thousand six hundred and eight”

[shudder]

It’s just a bad, bad number.

Oh, and it also just so happens to be the appraised cost of repairs to my six-month-old car...

Repairs that I have a $1,000 deductible on...

Repairs that are necessary due to an accident that a policeman thought was too minor (and involving so little damage) that it wasn’t even worth writing up...

Repairs that I don’t really have the funds to pay for or the inclination to undertake.

...not that I’m bitter or anything.

“One thousand six hundred and eight”

...the joy is gone.

[shudder]

Hey, I wrote a joke #1

2005-11-22T12:42:00.000-05:00

[It helps if you imagine this being told by Mitch Hedberg... if the name doesn't ring a bell, then go google him right now... trust me, it will be funnier if you know who he is]

I do not understand people who wear puffy vests...

It’s like:

“Hey, I want a jacket that will make my torso warm... and my arms jealous.”

Random thought #24

2005-11-17T15:29:00.000-05:00

Have you ever stared intently at something... and I mean REALLY stared... just to see if you could get it to move... or lift up... or burst into flames?

...ok, maybe it's just me.

I'd swear I almost did it the other morning... I could tell... the toaster was scared.

Varifying Newton's research...

2005-11-16T13:23:00.000-05:00

So... I learned something new today.

There’s a reason why the Nissan Sentra only costs around $13,000... and it’s not because their accountants lack the ability to count properly.

No... I'm wagering it's because they’ve created a vehicle made solely out of balsa wood and Styrofoam.

Or at least that's what comprises the front sections, as I unfortunately discovered this morning.

Yup that’s right, at approximately 8:30am, whilst making the journey to my current place of employment, my front bumper decided to engage in a rather intimate and somewhat humiliating “bonding” experience with the back of a Honda Civic.

Ya know, I really didn’t need a blog topic this badly...

Ok, so there’s a particular on-ramp to Storrow Drive down by the BU campus here in Boston that has been the source of much acrimony for me since my commute found its way to include said on-ramp in its path. Technically, it’s a yield... but the cars already ON the main road are traditionally traveling between 55-105 mph, so really the only thing you can do is accelerate slowly and try to merge when someone looks the other way...

Or at least I THOUGHT that was the only thing you could do.

Apparently, you can also start to accelerate into the merge and then change your mind at the last minute and slam on the brakes.

Who knew?

The guy traveling in front of me sure didn’t... taken completely by surprise at the lead car's, um... "spontaniety," he was forced to slam on his brakes... luckily, he stopped just short of making contact with the offending vehicle (who then, blissfully ignorant of the carnage he was causing, took off into traffic).

I however, wasn’t so lucky.

The first car stopped... the second car stopped... the third car (yours truly), tried to stop, but instead slid forward until it’s front bumper was conducting a rather impromptu proctology screening on a surprised piece of Japanese machinery.

Did I mention it was raining this morning?

I hit the brakes... the brakes hit wet wheels... the wheels hit wet pavement, and the car hit the wet Honda.

Thankfully I resisted the urge to wet myself.

The minivan behind me had come to the conclusion that aggresive braking might be its best course of action as well, and with luck, goodwill and a little bit of physics on it's side was able to stop a few feet short of hitting my vehicle... the car behind HIM however must have been operating with a high quotient of negative karma (no pun intended), because it decided to join me in my endeavor of attempting an amateur automotive colonoscopy, and thus was busy bumping bumpers with the minivan.

[no, I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with anally-fixated automobile metaphors today]

So there we were, four cars stuck on the side of the ramp, exchanging information, and waiting for a policeman to come and tell us if we had misbehaved.

I looked around at the other cars and noticed that they didn’t seem to be all that damaged... a few scratches here and there, but all in all it didn’t look that bad... we were on an onramp after all... we really hadn’t been traveling all that fast... then of course, I saw my poor pathetic little vehicle.

Imagine if you will, what it might look like if you punched a muffin in the face...

Now, I realize muffins don’t have faces per se... and, even if you could assume that they might, you may not be able to conjure up any reason why you would be inclined to punch one in that face, but work with me here, i'm painting a metaphor...

Basically, the front of my car currently looks like someone hooked a vacuum cleaner up to the tailpipe and set it on übersuck.

The grill is all mushed in, the emblem is hanging by a (cheap) thread, and the bumper has been split in the middle, revealing the all-too-disconcerting fact that a very thin plastic coating has been giving me a false sense of security in the safety of my vehicle, when in fact, all that lies between me and certain death is a piece a generic, run of the mill, “good for packing the teevee on a long trip to Rhode Island”, Styrofoam.

Joy.

So the policeman shows up and decides that quote:

“since there’s no real damage, I’m not going to bother writing this one up,”

and tells us that we should just work it out with our respective insurance companies.

I look back at the parts of my car that appear to have just suffered a severe nervous breakdown and contemplate alerting the policeman to his subtle inaccuracies, but in light of the fact that technically I was the one doing the rear-ending (and because I have a New York Jets cap prominently displayed in my back window) I decide against it.

With a heavy sigh, and a rolling of the eyes, I climb back in my bruised vehicle and head off to work...

Now the fun begins...

The calling of the insurance company.

The filing of the paperwork.

The raising of the rates.

And of course, the open weeping at the fact that I own a 6-month-old car that probably couldn't stand up to a Vespa.

...and I have a $1,000 deductible.

Random observation #5

2005-11-11T09:24:00.000-05:00

It seems very odd, that this, a classic symbol of anti-consumerist Holiday sentiment, is now being sold at Urban Outfitters... for $24 no less.

Of course, that that being said, it’s also kinda neat....

Random paragraph #24

2005-11-10T16:48:00.000-05:00

After 217 days of ingesting nothing but fish sticks and warm orange juice, Frank thought he might need to shake things up... it just didn’t feel right anymore... sure, the fish sticks made him smile every time he snapped one in half with his front teeth while pretending he was a bear foraging for food in the great northwest... and let’s face it, you just couldn’t beat a tall, pulpy glass of slightly lower than room temperature OJ, but still... he wasn’t feeling that “zest” anymore. He needed something new. Something exciting. He headed into the kitchen and begin to work his magic... 4 hours later, Frank emerged with what he thought could be the perfect addition to his formidable nutritional arsenal... With great jubilation he had discovered that, when mixed in a blender (for 14 seconds on “frappe” to be precise), partially defrosted chicken nuggets, chocolate pudding mix and extra-firm, spicy cajun tofu combined to form a new substance that, while having the consistency of a slightly past date cod, and a smell that one might accurately relate to spoiled milk, tasted pretty darn close to a hearty head-cheese risotto.

Today's headlines #4

2005-11-08T16:26:00.000-05:00

Pilot injured after plane crashes into Wal-Mart
Receives multiple cuts and abrasions... not from crash, but from encounter with smiley-faced “rollback man” busy “slashing prices.”

Ship Blasts Pirates With Sonic Weapon
Gains +3 experience, +2 magic, level 9 scimitar of Andernol

Female Amputee Completes Ironman Triathlon
Random guy named Frank claims similar achievement – spends 37th consecutive day sprawled out on barcalounger subsisting on nothing but orange glazed donuts and yoo-hoo.

Penguin evolution linked to shifting icebergs
Flightless birds apparently had no choice but to “go with the flow”.

Study: Women Expect Less When It Comes to Humor
Unrelated study shows women boast higher levels of exposure to ABC sitcom “Full House” during formative years.

Today: Chocolate lovers invade New York!
Attacks easily thwarted when unexpected warm front moves in, melting confectionary arsenal.

Two Drunken Moose Invade Home for Elderly
One of the facility’s 15 “Senior Residents” responds: “We were happy to have the company... positively lovely fellows... a little hairy though... didn’t talk much... and I think one of them might have pooped in the cafeteria.”

Tom Cruise hires new publicist to replace sister
Newly-hired Paul Bloch promises to “tone down that crazy little bugger”

Random thought #23

2005-11-04T14:49:00.000-05:00

It's odd. When "Supernanny" Jo Frost mispronounces a word*, I actually find it endearing... but when the President of the United States does it**, it just makes me want to pretend I’m Canadian.

* "acceptable" as uh-sep-ta-bull.

** take your pick.

Insider ego trading...

2005-11-02T17:16:00.000-05:00

I am not what you call an overly confident individual.

As one who typically eschews the conventionally sought after self-esteem mandate for a more masochistic approach to life rooted in self-doubt, self-deprecation, and self-effacement, the idea of a positive self-image is one that on the whole, is wholly foreign to me.

I say all that not to illicit sympathy or reassurance, but to give you a sound basis and frame of reference for what I am about to say...

I am much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid.

Yes, I know, all kids are emotionally, shall we say, unstable? But trust me, at times I was quite the special case... I didn’t grasp the way the “world” worked back then... I never really understood what it would take to fit in with most of my peers... or if I did understand it, it certainly didn’t make enough sense to me for me to justify playing along (I equate this as the reason I’d be positively lousy as a salesman).

Now, this lack of understanding probably did more to fuel what would eventually become my somewhat creative personality than just about anything else, so today I am grateful and appreciative of my somewhat altered perspective, but at the time... well, let’s just say I didn't appreciate that it solidified my fate... or that any and all desperate attempts to BE cool (of which I made many) basically did nothing but reaffirm the fact that I never WOULD be cool.

As a child, you really don’t appreciate the fact that your burgeoning addiction to television and books will serve as a sound pop culture basis for dominating the “pink” category in future trivial pursuit games... when the “cool” kids are talking about clothing labels and fancy cars, your affinity for Stephen King seems more like a personality defect than an attribute.

Anyway, there IS an actual reason why I’m giving you all this setup...

You see, at the age of 11, I became the subject of a bizarre sociological experiment... one that utterly confused and degraded me, while simultaneously causing me to become a potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school.

But first, a little background...

When I got to sixth grade, I was at a crossroads. I was just starting to develop my own impressions of things... but I hadn’t really developed an identity yet. I had discovered that girls seemed to possess the potential to be entertaining in ways that boys couldn’t, but I had yet to evolve into the suave metrosexual lady-killer that types before you now...

In short, I knew I should be starting to make things happen for myself, but I had absolutely no clue what those things should be... or how to make them happen. Most of my peers however, seemed to have everything under control (at least that’s what I thought at the time).

And they did it all the same way...

They looked the same.

They dressed the same.

They acted the same.

And I just didn’t get it.

Now... I grew up in a fairly nice neighborhood and went to one of the area’s nicer public elementary schools, so you can probably imagine what these guys were like...

Affluence had truly run amok in my community, and this crew fit the archetype to a “T”: preppy, pretty, and self-assured.

Basically, they were the Johnny Lawrences to my Daniel LaRusso.

Only I didn’t know karate...

Or date Elisabeth Shue...

Or have a little Asian man to teach me how to prune and catch flies with chopsticks.

Heck, I never even painted a fence.

But I digress...

Ok, so that's the setup... let's move on and add to the picture my older brother. 3 years my senior, and to me, an enigma. I had no clue what made him tick, but in fulfillment of the traditional “little brother” job description, I had dutifully copied his every move from the time I could walk... hey, I was the little brother... that was what you did.

As I was beginning Junior High, he was starting to make his way through High School, and I don’t know if he hadn’t seen the other kids, or if he didn’t get the memo, or if things were different once you had actually started going through puberty, but he had apparently made a conscious decision to adopt a different approach to... well, to just about everything.

Whereas the “cool” kids I was surrounded by on a daily basis were dressing in Polo shirts and listening to Wham!, he was donning concert t-shirts and suede fringe jackets, growing his hair, and buying cassettes by bands with names like Iron Maiden, Ratt and Motley Crue.

This put me in quite the precarious position.

More than anything else at the time, I wanted people to like me (or at the very least, ignore me)... I’m a people pleaser after all, and the last thing I wanted was to be ridiculed...

This simple request soon became the Holy Grail to my 11th year of life.

At first, I tried to fit in with the cool kids.

I got a few Izod shirts (not quite as good as Polo, but hopefully still acceptable enough to get through the school day unscathed) and layered them appropriately... green with yellow... red with blue... etc... and much to my amazement it appeared to work. Kids that had previously mocked and teased me for wearing what I thought were perfectly acceptable t-shirts and jeans now generally left me alone... on occasion, they even spoke to me like I was human.

Then I came home from school... where my brother caught a glimpse of me.

To say that he was less than pleased with my particular choice of wardrobe would be an underestimation on par with saying that Rosie O’Donnell likes her some Ho Hos.

He let loose a string of insults like I had never heard before, working up into quite the fervor, and going so far as to bring my Mother into the situation so he could explain to her in great detail the dangers in my becoming a “Prep.”

The next day I went back to wearing a t-shirt and jeans...

You see where this is going?

Yes, the kids at school (now having seen that I actually owned clothing they considered passable) were relentless... I got off the bus at the end of the day feeling like someone who had gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson (even though I wouldn’t have any clue who he was for another 2 years)

So the next day it was back to the collar shirts...

And back to the brotherly abuse.

And that was how it went.

Back and forth and back and forth.

Some days I wore Izod... Some days I didn’t. After a while, it got so I was picking my clothes in the morning based on who I wanted to make fun of me less...

hmmm... should I go with the obnoxious preppy rich rids, or the angst ridden older brother?

It was much fun, let me tell you...

Then, something even more strange started happening.

As I would get on the bus in the morning, about half of the “cool” kids would break into spontaneous applause, while the other half would immediately appear angered with me. Who was happy and who was mad seemed to vary by the day, but without fail, as I stepped foot up the stairs and passed the yellow line, I would be greeted by both cheers and boos. For a while I almost enjoyed it... I mean, at least SOMEONE seemed pleased with whatever I was doing...

And then the other shoe started its slow decline...

One day, as the bell was getting ready to ring at the end of the day, one of the “cool” kids pulled me aside and asked what I planned on wearing the next day. When I told him I didn’t know, he asked if I could please try to wear a t-shirt. I was perplexed to say the least, but being the schmuck that I was (and just being happy that he was showing an interest) I gleefully complied. The next day, the scenario repeated itself.

As it did the next day...

And the next.

And the next.

I’ll spare you the drama in the details of what progressed next, but remember how I mentioned earlier that I became a “potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school”?

Yeah, well it turns out that people had begun wagering on what I would wear to school. It was a big joke that the entire bus was in on, and only after I informed some of the other kids that I was tipping off one of their compatriots on my potential wardrobe choices did it stop (inexplicably, they weren’t mad with the kid who swindled them out of their money... they were however quite mad with me for telling him what I might wear).

Yup, that's it... I layed out that big whole rambling scenerio just so I could put into context a story from my childhood that i'm only going to devote one paragraph to explaining.

Hey, it's my blog... I can do things like that.

But ya know, it’s funny how kids are sometimes...

Heck, it’s funny how adults are sometimes...

And sometimes, there doesn’t seem to be all that much difference between the two.

I don’t really know why I decided to relate this little adolescent anecdote today. It’s not a particularly painful memory or one that bothers me or anything.

And to tell the truth, I think it conjures up a pretty funny mental image.

Me, the conquering hero, striding onto the bus to cheers and boos of my adoring constituency.

That’s funny stuff!

But maybe it's only funny because now I have the hindsight of knowing that I’ve (mostly) gotten over those old insecurities...

And I know that I’m much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid...

And of course, I also know damn well that if we ever played trivial pursuit, I would totally kick those guys’ asses in the “pink” category.

Have faith, will shuffle...

2005-11-01T15:14:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what amuses me more, the fact that this exists:

http://www.devoted1.com/

Or, the fact that in order to have the buttons lined up correctly, you need to invert it.

This product seems to lack intelligent design.

Ha!

Get it? Intelligent design!

OK, so it's not my best work, but still...

Silver linings #14

2005-10-28T14:27:00.000-04:00

BLACK CLOUD :(
Once you’re a “grown-up,” it’s considered improper to dress up and go house-to-house trick-or-treating on Halloween.

SILVER LINING :)
All faux pas aside, as long as you have a pretty good costume and you kneel down when you’re actually receiving said treats you can probably get away with it. Plus, once the door is closed, you'll totally be able to get the jump on the other kids and bully them into giving you a cut of their stash.

Today's headlines #3

2005-10-26T17:09:00.000-04:00

U.N. draft demands Syrian cooperation
Invokes rare (but menacing) “or else” clause...

Wal-Mart memo: Unhealthy need not apply
Big box giant claims to have already surpassed quota of disease ridden workers. Says one exec, “just look at our cashiers for Christ’s sake!”

Eritrea launches tourism drive with new hotel
An excited public responds: “Where the #@%& Is Eritrea?”

Tensions mount as probe nears completion
35 year old men worldwide frightened

Voice of Jolly Green Giant dies
Family priest to perform special Ho, Ho, Homily

India 2.0: Growing Pains in Bangalore
Kirk Cameron declares missionary work tough sell with Richard "Boner" Stabone along for the ride

Cabbie Accused of Tainting Food With Feces
...and in a (un)related story
McDonalds To Post Nutrition Information On Packaging
I’m just saying...

Galapagos Volcano Erupts for Third Day
Vows “Never to eat Mexican again.”

Pointless observation #7

2005-10-21T13:51:00.000-04:00

Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have... a penny.

Random paragraph #24

2005-10-20T15:02:00.000-04:00

Sitting alone in his cubicle, Jack gnawed on a stale overpriced muffin while staring at the weathered “word of the day” calendar. He couldn’t believe it... not three days ago he had been lying on a beach in San Tropez, feeling the waves beat against his toes... a margarita in each hand and a bevy of beautiful women parading by wearing only slightly more than what one might use to floss one’s teeth. Now, stripped of his beloved sunshine and scenery, and burdened by the weight of knowing he wouldn’t be able to take anymore time off until at least the next fiscal quarter, he sighed. Slumping in his dilapidated aluminum-backed chair, a lukewarm cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the “Primotech Interoffice Gazette” in the other, he glanced back at the calendar and began to chuckle... after all, he couldn’t help but find it ironic... today’s word of the day: “mulct”.

Random thought #22

2005-10-17T13:54:00.000-04:00

I wonder what S'mores were originally called.

...or was their original creator really just THAT cocky?

Today's headlines #2

2005-10-14T15:10:00.000-04:00

Mary-Kate Olsen Drops Out of NYU
NEW YORK (AP) — What would Bob Saget say about this? Mary-Kate Olsen, who shared the role of Michelle with her twin sister, Ashley, on the '80s comedy Full House, has dropped out of college, early in her sophomore year, according to a published report.

----------
Guidance counselor: “I really wish you’d reconsider Miss Olsen”

Mary-Kate: “I just don’t see the purpose in it.”

Guidance counselor: “A college education is very important for young women nowadays... it can help prepare you for the real world”

Mary-Kate: “But I already have 150 million dollars... I don’t have to LIVE in the real world.”

Guidance counselor: “Oh... right... very well then... good day.”
----------

New Orleans Cafe Prepares To Reopen
Owner plans exciting “Grand Reopening/Going Out of Business” sale.

Sea Turtle Returns To N.O. Aquarium
Blasts FEMA for poor Cheloniidae evacuation strategy.

Are Modern Americans A Rude, Boorish Lot?
Yes. ...you got a problem with that?!?!?

University Of Alabama’s First Black Grad Dies
School promises to admit 2 or 3 more “sometime soon”

Bush holds video rally for Iraq troops
Vows to play Duran Duran’s “Rio” over and over again until “everyone but saddam’s a smilin’!”

WHO Urges Calm On Bird Flu
Claim “it's only teenage wasteland”

Businesses Crack Down On Gas Use
Ban employees from eating at Chi Chi’s, Chili’s or Taco Bell.

To the "Fluffy's" of the world...

2005-10-11T16:19:00.000-04:00

Naming a pet is a personal thing. It’s a subjective question really, one that has no right or wrong answer. And truth be told, there’s absolutely no sound logic or reasoning behind making the decision to criticize or poke fun at what anyone chooses to call their beloved pile of fur, fins or scales.

...but I’m still going to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, I like animals, and I don’t wish to inflict upon them any additional measure of embarrassment above and beyond that which they already suffer at our hands, but you see... often, by looking at a pet’s name, you can tell just as much (or more) about the owner as you can about the pet. So really, when you get right down to it, I’m not actually mocking any animals here at all... I’m mocking people.

...and that’s something I have absolutely no problem doing.

For example, if a 6 foot 2 inch tall, 345 pound, bald behemoth named Brutus adopts a 3 pound Pekinese and affectionately starts referring to it as “princess snookems” Well, you’ve just learned something about Brutus. Namely, that even with all appearances pointing to the contrary, he is most likely a tough man with a tender soul who enjoys fresh daisies, the Gilmore Girls, and long walks through dewy meadows. That being said, I still wouldn’t even think of approaching said behemoth in a dark alley with a smile, a dewy daisy, and a freshly minted copy of season 4 on DVD, but still... you can pretty much guess that if you did... after pummeling you about the head and neck, Mr. Brutus would probably be willing to sit down with you and watch at least a few of the bonus features.

It’s an extreme example, but you get my drift... and hey, at least it would be somewhat original.

I think what bothers me the most about pet names is the lack of creativity. There should really be a moratorium on certain names at this point...

Ok, so your cat is black... we can see that... by LOOKING at it... there’s really no need to reinforce the matter by naming the little buddy “midnight.”

...or “shadow.”

...or “licorice”

And the same holds true if your feline friend happens to be white. Names such as “snowball,” “popcorn,” and “ivory” are not cute... they’re lazy.

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel compelled to reveal the following tidbits about my own life:

When I was a child, my brother got a hamster. A brown hamster. And when given the task of naming him, he thought long and hard... and then decided to call him “Brownie.”

Yes... “Brownie.”

I would mock him further, and rightfully, I should, but for one juicy nugget of information... you see, my brother’s supreme lack of creative thought is topped by the fact that shortly after “Brownie” entered our world, I acquired my own hamster. A black one. And when given the task of naming him, I thought long and hard, and decided to call him...

wait for it...

Yes... “Blackie.”

I know, I know... it’s sad, but the way I see it, children have to be excluded from creative judgment. As a child, when you get a pet, you’re so overwhelmed by the fact that you’re actually being entrusted with the care and companionship of another living creature, that you can’t possibly be called upon to process anything complex or creative. Basically, you should be applauded for even being able to ratchet up the brain power high enough to shout out the name of what’s in front of you. And I believe wholeheartedly that this very phenomena is what has led to countless cats and dogs across the country being given names such as “tiger,” “spot,” “chocolate,” “cocoa,” “oreo,” or “marshmallow”

...apparantly, our nation’s children are very hungry

In any event, children excluded, I feel we have an obligation to be a little more inventive with what we call our pets...

Some people take the responsibility of naming quite seriously... weighing the pros and cons of various names before eventually settling on a particular sentiment – something that says something about them, their pet, and their view of the world. Hey, if that’s your bag, then go for it...

Then again, some people see it as an excuse to be absurd. To point out something silly, or poke fun at the conventions of the modern world, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s cool too.

At the end of the day, it’s up to you... and whatever you choose will be fine. We are just talking about your pet here... So whether you go with “Princess Snookems,” “Gnarfblat the Impaler,” or even just “Chuck,” it’s all good.

But please... if you ever decide to get a python... I’m begging you... don’t name it “Monty.”

Trust me... it’s been done.

Random thought #21

2005-10-10T12:26:00.000-04:00

If “hell” is described as an eternity spent in horrendous pain, with a constant barrage of white-hot flames biting at your heals... then what exactly is “heck?" I'd guess, given its far less aggresive verbiage, that it must be along the lines of a slightly musty room where the thermostat is permanently set at around 86 degrees.

...and there’s also probably never anything good on tv.

Random paragraph #23

2005-10-07T14:21:00.000-04:00

Even though George had never seen a real-life alien in person (like his cousin Lester), he was pretty sure they weren’t this big... or this covered in rust. So when the previously unidentified ‘74 ford trailblazer surprised him by slamming into his solar plexus at 35 miles an hour, and he found himself broken, bloodied, and hurtling through the air toward a rather ominous and unwelcome-looking patch of asphalt, he was at least happy that he’d be able to take solace in the fact that he had been right about that alien after all... not that he actually knew what solace meant.

Random thought #20

2005-10-07T12:01:00.000-04:00

I really think that when you get right down to it... the differences between the typical kid and the typical grown-up can best be summed up with the following dessert analogy:

Kids eat pudding.

Grown-ups eat mousse.

Personally, I like both... but given the way I act on a daily basis, I don’t think this does anything to damage the credibility of my theory.

Today's headlines #1

2005-10-05T14:56:00.000-04:00

Language instructors arrested at Fort Bragg
Face formal tribunal on charges of “adding an extra ‘g’”

FDA to tighten mad cow rules
Cows that are merely incensed, perturbed, or really ticked off will no longer officially be considered “mad.” In order to pass FDA muster, said cows will now have to demonstrate at least 2 of the three telltale signs: 1) smoke emanating from ears, 2) face turning beet red while industrial “whistle” blows in background, or 3) unexplained affinity for rutabaga.

Senators prepare to grill Miers
Bi-partisan committee currently forming to debate use of sea salt and black pepper or a cajun rub.

'Chick flick' among new dictionary entries
“stink palm” and “cockblock” soon to follow.

Hardest-working frog tells all
Works with ghostwriter to reveal complete life story, “warts and all”

Trio wins Nobel Prize for ‘green chemistry’
Ziplock outraged. Promises lawsuit over illegal appropriation of coveted “yellow and blue make” technology.

Women fill key roles on Bush team
Hee hee.

Arctic sea ice melting faster
Refuses to stop taunting Antarctic sea ice.

Deadly 1918 Epidemic Linked to Bird Flu, Scientists Say
Woodrow Wilson/Audubon inspired plan to issue influenza shots (and tiny bottles of NyQuil) to all airborne creatures encountered snag when a large number of potential candidates refused treatment. “They just flew away... no pun intended” one source said.

Random thought #19

2005-10-03T14:30:00.000-04:00

Did you know...

An appropriately placed “s” can turn the world’s largest home improvement retailer into an evil tyrant who through unfair practices, intimidation and cruelty lords his control over the domination of a single residence?

That the removal of an “s” can also transform the world’s no. 2 soft drink manufacturer into a gardener in southern California who works with questionable nationalization credentials?

That it’s also possible, through insertion of the proper “i”, to convert the world’s leading provider of legal stimulants and effervescence into a national public radio contributing senior news analyst?

That believe it or not, through the simple omission of an “e”, we can change the home of craftsman tools, Ty Pennington, and $36 billion in annual revenue, into a severe viral respiratory illness more commonly associated with Asians and Canadians hailing from Toronto?

Then, there’s this...

Without changing even a single, solitary letter, you can transfigure a leading fitness specialty retailer for athletes and outdoor enthusiasts into an undefined grouping of multiple male genitalia!

List #5

2005-09-30T17:10:00.000-04:00

10 problems with proverbs

1. "Blood is thicker than water"
Oooooo......k... and a milkshake is thicker than a martini... and a volleyball is thicker than oatmeal... is there a point here?

2. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs"
So what is this one implying? I can’t have breakfast unless I’m willing to attack a few unfertilized chicken fetuses?

3. "Don't cut off your nose to spite your face"
No clue here. But self mutilation as a learning tool just never sits well with me.

4. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth"
Well I’m certainly not going to get all that close to the OTHER end.

5. "Don’t count your chickens before they hatch"
This one’s just dark man... what sullen, morose mother came up with this sunny outlook on life and poultry?

6. "Strike while the iron is hot"
I don’t get it. What on earth due work-stoppage forced labor negotiations have to do with eliminating unsightly wrinkles from unpressed fabric?

7. "You can’t tell a book by it’s cover"
Um... yes you can. If it looks like a book, and it has a cover, odds are... it’s a book!

8. "The early bird gets the worm"
But what about the hard-partying bird that just stays up all night and never goes to bed? By this philosophy, isn’t he likely to be equally rewarded for acting irresponsibly? What kind example does that set for the children of the world? Or for Danny Bonaduce?

9. "Variety is the spice of life"
Personally, I like basil.

10. "Don’t put all your eggs in one basket"
Another chicken reference? Ok, that’s it. I think someone’s contemplating poultry just a little bit more than is truly healthy...

Random thought #18

2005-09-29T17:19:00.000-04:00

I know they say “the pen is mightier than the sword” and I’m all for believing them on that and stuff... but if I’m walking through some dark alley... and it’s like the middle of the night... and I come across some strange angry-lookin’ dude... I’m gonna hope he has a pen.

...a guy with a pen probably has more honorable intentions than a guy with a sword. Plus, I don't think a pen can decapitate you.

Random thought #17

2005-09-29T15:40:00.000-04:00

Cows moo.
Sheep baa.
Horses whinny.
Crows crow.

Dogs bark.
Frogs croak.
Lions roar.
Cats mew.

Geese honk.
Snakes hiss.
Ducks quack.
Even a turkey gobble gobbles.

But how on earth do you describe the sound a Camel makes?

Random paragraph #22

2005-09-27T13:51:00.000-04:00

After spending the better part of an hour neck-deep in the refuse and filth that consumed the dumpster behind Wally’s Steak-o-rama, Bobby was spent... At this point, even if he DID find his retainer, he sure as hell wasn’t putting it back in his mouth. That being said, he really had no choice but to keep looking. After all, his mom was standing just a few feet away, watching his every move... tapping her foot and glaring at him with a look that seemed to indicate she would like nothing better than to see him spontaneously combust right then and there. Pushing a rotten banana peel off his shoulder and removing the broken syringe from his lower back, Bobby dove headfirst back into the sludge. "jeez," he thought, "she hasn’t looked this angry since that time I played hooky to go visit Anton at that Russian bathhouse."

Random thought #16

2005-09-27T10:08:00.000-04:00

What does an atheist say when someone sneezes?

List #4

2005-09-22T17:14:00.000-04:00

11 questions that don't need answers

1. Why are farm animals typically kept in what is linguistically a reservoir for ink?

2. Why is Spam – when it has a distinct reputation as one of the more well known “broke foods” – so darn expensive?

3. Why do Mickey and Goofy have to wear pants if Donald Duck doesn’t?

4. Why can an 870,000 pound mass of steel and jet fuel (carrying between 400-500 people no less) achieve heights in excess of 30,000 feet, when I can (even on my best day) only get my squat 185 pound frame about 10 inches or so off the ground?

5. Why doesn’t anyone tell Pooh that he is becoming obese, and if he keeps eating honey like he does, the sugar he loves so much will eventually kill him?

6. Why did I immediately think of pooh and obesity after considering my inability to take flight?

7. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time ewes are near?

8. Why did we as a society decide that the quest for the perfect paper fastener had been completed once the paper clip was invented?

9. Why can’t I pick up a paperclip without bending it so out of shape that it can never suitably be used for its intended purpose again?

10. Why is the person with the pocket-watch and funny hat who drives a train called the same thing as the guy in tails who holds a baton and tells the violins when to play... and why do both share their name with the technical term for any material that allows for the flow of electrons?

11. Why do I not have anything better to think about?

List #3

2005-09-21T14:53:00.000-04:00

7 Random thoughts I had today

1. Fat people shouldn’t own inflatable furniture.

2. Snow globes are really only entertaining for a few seconds – they probably make great gifts for people with ADD.

3. If cows had wheels they’d be a lot easier to mooove.

4. A rowing machine neither transports you anywhere, nor reduces the work involved in a given task. In that regard (as far as I’m concerned), it fails at both objectives its name implies.

5. I firmly believe that skinny people are unable to appreciate the full benefit of overstuffed chairs.

6. I have no idea what “NERF” stands for.

7. It’s kinda sad... though they sound more like names for a pet ogre on a 70s kids’ TV show, “google” & “blog” are now words that people in suits utter everyday with a straight face.

Random Paragraph #22

2005-09-15T16:34:00.000-04:00

37 weeks he’d spent at Miss Daisy’s Academy of Dance. 37 weeks foxtrotting, waltzing and quick stepping. 37 weeks filled with bruises, blisters, & calluses. All in the name of the dance. So, as he watched the great white swim away with what used to be the lead leg in a formidable paso doble, he cursed. At the shark, at God, and at Miss Daisy herself. She’d told him time and time again he’d never have a professional career in ballroom... that he just didn’t have, as she put it, “the legs of a dancer.” Well now, thanks to fate (and the mighty carcharodon carcharias), she’d finally been proven right.

Silver Linings #13

2005-09-15T15:42:00.000-04:00

DARK CLOUD :(
No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find any logical or rational nutritional justification for eating a Krisy Kreme donut or two... or seven.

SILVER LINING :)
With taste akin to glazed sunshine, and enjoyment on par to sliding bareback down a sugary rainbow, logic and nutrition should bear no weight in reasoning an activity such as this.

Adventures with magnets (part two)...

2005-09-12T15:24:00.000-04:00

All right, so when last we left our story, I was staring down the business end of a magnet that meant serious business...

Trying to force the image of being burned alive from my head (lest I somehow taint the results of what was about to take place), I deposited my remaining loose articles in a small wicker basket (how quaint) and proceeded to make my way over to “the machine.” Having been briefed at length on the various frightening and dramatic reactions other people had encountered upon embarking on this experience, my formerly calm outlook was now replaced with a growing fear – not really over what was about to happen, but rather a fear of embarrassing myself in front of the three professionals who now stood before me.

Now why exactly I cared what the woman wearing the bunny-print smock thought about the way I was conducting myself is a separate question altogether – and is one that I guess will have to be left for another occasion...

So, I laid down on the table and tried to make myself comfortable. I had just begun to convince myself that things weren’t so bad after all, when they brought out “the helmet.” Apparently, the medical personnel I had just been asked to put MY faith in, had such little faith in my ability to keep my head still that they felt it would be necessary to lock me into place like a battery in a flashlight. I soon came to learn that the helmet also served another purpose... helping to funnel the magnetic rays more directly into my skull.

Lovely.

To add insult to my impending fear of injury, I was then given earplugs and additional weighted “pillows” to help protect me from... something.

I can’t really tell you what they were supposed to protect me from, because once they put the earplugs in, everyone took on the audible characteristics of an adult from the “peanuts” cartoons, and I no longer possessed the capacity for discernable conversation.

Example:

Me: “Excuse me oh kind purveyor of the magnets lady... why are you smooshing sandbags into my head?”

Her: “wah, wah, wah, wah waaah... wah wah.”

Me: “but shouldn’t I be concerned if I’m letting someone expose me to something that requires these types of precautions?”

Her: “wah”

Me: “but what if I need to get out really quick... you know, like if there’s a fire or something?”

Her: “ha, ha, ha... waah, wah”

Then she walked away chuckling...

My fears fully realized, she hit the button to start my ascent... my descent... my... well whatever “cent” applies to lateral motion...

I began to slowly slide into the tube and I must admit... it was pretty freaky. Trying to come to grips with the fact that the ceiling was now only about an inch above my forehead, with the side walls just slightly wider than my frame... well that was a bit much... I never really considered myself to be susceptible to claustrophobia, but at that given moment in time, given my surroundings... I was beginning to get a strong feeling that my body was more than willing to take it up as a hobby...

So I closed my eyes... and that’s when the noises and the shaking began.

Correction... first there was the buzzing. Imagine if you will, being trapped inside one of the machines that gives hearing tests to fourth graders... You know, the ones where you sit on the hard-backed chair in the nurse’s office, and she plays all sorts of buzzing sounds, and expects you to raise your hand every time you hear one... well imagine that you’re inside one of those, and you can’t move or see anything... and instead of just hearing the sounds... imagine that you get a little shock every time one of the little “buzzes” is played...

(you know, kind of like if you stuck the wires from a smoke alarm together without disconnecting the power first – not that I’ve ever done that 17 times or anything)

Sounds like fun, huh?

Ok, so not EVERY sound was accompanied by pain... but enough of them were that I was beginning to get mildly suspicious... and I began to wonder if maybe something was wrong with the machine.... I was starting to worry that I was going to end up the subject of one of those weird news stories where something really bizarre happens and some poor schmuck has to watch his own nose disintegrate in front of his face because someone forgot to press the right switch...

(yes, I think about things like that)

I considered saying something... but I knew any indecipherable response I would get would probably accomplish nothing but to annoy the lady behind the controls... and as they always say:

“He who angers the magnet-lady.... um... probably won’t be able to carry credit cards in his pocket for a really long time.”

...or something.

Basically, I just had to hold on and hope for the best.

Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the noises and the clicking and the shaking and the pain all stopped, and they pulled me back out of the machine.

I was congratulating myself on a job well done (and starting to get my pulse to return to normal), when she appeared with the needle. Still locked in the helmet, there was little I could do to avoid her. She injected me with... something... and smiled, saying it was “wah, wah” and would “wah wah wah,” my “wah wah” (I still had the earplugs in).

Left with no other choice, I simply smiled back and resigned myself to the fact that I was no longer in control of anything that would happen to my body (heck... if these people decided they wanted to shave my chest and use it to play a marathon game of “Risk,” well the best I would be able to do is undulate my tummy in hopes of simulating a large earthquake).

Then... they slid me BACK into the tube, for another round of the human buzzer... which mercifully, was much shorter than the last.

When all was said and done, I changed back into my clothes (trying not to disturb the fresh band aid on my arm) and quickly made my way back out to my car, quite sure that somehow my body parts must have retained at least some sort of magnetic charge (I confusing quite a few people in the parking lot when I tried to see if my face would stick to a lexus)...

It wasn’t really as miserable an experience as I have described... I’ve embellished here, and I’m being a bit overdramatic... In fact, I had made peace with the whole experience and even almost forgiven the people involved in my torture for causing me such anguish when I received a certain phone call last week... It seems they “forgot” to run a couple of tests when I was there, and now (and I swear this is the truth) they need me to come back so they can run them again...

Wonderful.

Maybe this time I’ll wear a thong... that should have me out of there in no time.

Adventures with magnets (part one)...

2005-09-02T15:52:00.000-04:00

So here’s a question...

Do YOU know what it would sound like if a woodpecker and an Atari 2600 got into a heated debate?

Well thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I do.

Let me back up a step or two here...

Last night I went to the hospital for my MRI. Nobody’s really concerned about my health, or expects anything other than the standard blobs and goo to show up on the films, but all the same, the doc wanted me to go, and I guess there were a couple of med techs who had nothing better to do on a Thursday night, so it was universally decided that spending an hour or so pummeling my cranium with high intensity radio and magnetic waves would be a wonderful idea...

Ok... technically, they exposed me to a large noninvasive device, which utilizing the properties of magnetism, created nondestructive, three-dimensional, internal images of the soft tissues of my body.

But they did it a lot.

And they stuck a needle in me.

And it hurt.

And they seemed to enjoy it.

And I think I heard them giggling.

...but I suppose that’s beside the point.

Here’s the rundown on what happened.

After getting to the hospital and checking in, a young woman ushered me into a small room and asked me to remove the majority of my clothing.

Normally I would consider this an auspicious start to any evening (and would frankly find it hard not to grin and giggle like a schoolboy with a frog in his pocket), but seeing as I was already acutely aware of what they had planned for me, it failed to produce anything other than a shrug and an obligatory smile.

I ventured into my stall, drew the curtain, and began to assemble my wardrobe for the upcoming festivities, which consisted mainly of my underwear (which I made sure to choice specifically for the occasion), my socks and shoes, a thin robe, and a “Johnny.”

If you’ve ever been in a hospital... or been TO a hospital, or heck, even seen a hospital on TV, then you probably know what a “Johnny” is... It’s that big flap of floral patterned fabric (looking disturbingly like wallpaper you might find in a Nantucket B&B) that you’re supposed to use to cover your abhorrent nakedness. It’s purposely left open in the back, with two comedically-designed ties that theoretically allow you to secure both it, and... ahem... your dignity.

Now the hospital was nice enough to give me a robe to wear as well, thereby eliminating any possible drafts that might arise due to my inabilities to properly secure my “Johnny” (that sounds dirty), but my question is this... nobody was going to be poking around with any of my real squishy parts... or looking to examine anything I don’t normally show off at parties... in truth, the only part they were really even going to be messing with was my head, a part of my anatomy that I already keep more or less out in the open on a pretty regular basis... so why did I need the “Johnny” and the robe?

“24 of 46 MRI facilities responding to a survey in 1999 (52 percent) reported the occurrence of MRI-related injuries and/or deaths resulting from undetected or misplaced metal objects either in the room or on the patient’s person”

Ok, so I guess I understand the need for the special, limited engagement, standing room only performance of “Flarf Nude,” but still... couldn’t somebody design some sort of getup that’s appropriate for this type of occasion? Did I really need to bundle up like a mentally challenged sherpa mounting an ill advised trip to the top of mount crazy?

Oh well...

Sheepishly walking beside the med tech (who I noted, didn’t seem to have any reservations about turning me into a living science experiment), I tried to imagine what lay ahead. I had heard all sorts of stories about what MRIs were like. Everything from tales of claustrophobic fits and nausea, to cold sweats and panic attacks flooded my brain. As we made our way down the hall, I came up with countless scenarios as to what my future might hold (one of which involved a stethoscope, a poodle, and an Armenian circus geek named Tullio). But I can honestly say that I was not in any way, shape or form expecting what greeted me as we turned the corner...

A trailer.

That’s right... a run of the mill, hook me to a big rig, east bound and down, jerry reed and floppy eared dog, “where’s the bandit” trailer...

My MRI machine... the piece of equipment I was about to get uncomfortably intimate with... the pinnacle of modern medical achievement standing before me... was housed... in a trailer. All I can say is, it’s not exactly comforting to realize that the set of “E.R.” has more advanced medical surroundings than the ones I was currently being asked to subject myself to. And to make it even better... the only way I was allowed to get into said trailer, was via a small motorized loading platform built into the side. Apparently, stairs are far too hazardous for someone in a “Johnny” to take on. Instead, I got live the life of a crate of peas being prepped for delivery. I stood on the platform and watched the tech press the magic button that began my 17-second (yes, I counted) ascent into the trailer.

...lifting me a grand total of three feet off the ground.

And then... there it was. A hulking behemoth in beige with a miniscule little hole in the middle (which was presumably, where they were going to try to stuff my pudgy little frame)... It looked a little bit like a bloated bagel, and for whatever reason, that thought kinda comforted me... until that is, I suddenly had the revelation that when one also took into consideration the table/conveyor belt that was emanating from said hole, it bore more of a resemblance to something else entirely...

...in short, a smaller version of every crematorium I had ever seen on tv.

That thought... not so comforting.

[to be continued]

What's up, doc (part II)...

2005-09-02T12:54:00.000-04:00

So last week I saw a specialist.

It was a visit that went pretty much as scripted... The doc asked all sorts of questions, poked and prodded me with various implements and appendages, had me walk a (relatively) straight line, and shined lots of lights of various levels of brightness into the assorted orifices of my anatomy.

All in all, a successful application of medical care.

He was professional, courteous, arrogant and condescending... in other words, everything I look for in specialist. Unfortunately though, aside from telling me I was an idiot to think that something other than the fact that I have migranes might be causing my problems, he didn’t really have much to say...

Correction... He knows what the Tullio symptom is.

You should now be impressed.

I know I was... want to know why?

Because he told me I should be impressed... many, many times.

When I told him about some equilibrium problems I was having (related to some stuff going on in one of my ears), he informed me I was displaying... [insert dramatic pause] the Tullio symptom. Then, he got all excited, started smiling, and immediately ran from the room.

I interpreted this as a positive sign... an indication that perhaps he had had an epiphany, and now, with a simple flourish of his pen upon his mighty pad of prescription, he would be able to remedy all my problems.

I would be incorrect in this assumption.

Upon returning, he said (with a very self-satisfying smirk on his face) that he was one of maybe 2 or 3 doctors in the entire Boston area who would be able to recognize the Tullio symptom.

And he said that this was something extraordinary.

[insert second dramatic pause]

I wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to react to this... Was I supposed to applaud? Give him a gold star? Swoon and fall to my knees? I still don’t know... but whatever he was expecting, I must not have delivered, because he seemed to be under whelmed by my reaction to his revelation. In fact, I think I even saw him pout a little. Then, he handed me a page of “research” he had printed out from the internet that described the Tullio symptom. This was all well and good except for one thing... he/it didn’t tell me anything... I didn’t know if this new found diagnoses was related to my recent episodes... or if it was some impending harbinger of doom that would trigger me going into some sort of delusional rage, giving all my possessions away and frolicking nude with reckless abandon... or even if I might now morph into some form of superhuman that would be able to read minds and fight crime with a special unit of the FBI.

He didn’t know any of this...

All he knew was that HE knew what it was called... and most people didn’t.

...so there.

The rest of my visit proved mostly uneventful. He doesn’t really think anything’s “wrong” with me per se, and most likely I’ll just have to see if I can manage my symptoms on my own. Maybe by eating different foods. Maybe by altering my sleeping patterns. Maybe by pounding medications like they’re chicklets... only time will tell which things will work out best.

That being said, he did want me to have an MRI... you know, just in case.

Reassuring.

In truth, since I have a family history of noggin’ problems, it was kinda a no brainer (pun fully intended) to order the test. These things can be passed on, and it would probably be prudent to make sure that nothing serious is going on – either as a result of my recent symptoms, or simply as a result of my genetics.

Or, to use his exact words...

[insert third dramatic pause]

“We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Very reassuring.

List #2

2005-08-31T15:41:00.000-04:00

26 Bad titles for “how-to” books

1. 50 ways to draw a snake

2. The amputee’s guide to unicycles

3. Teaching yourself to read

4. The blind man’s guide to electrical repair

5. The optimist’s guide to the apocalypse

6. How to get 3 minute abs (in seven days or less)

7. How to draw attention in airports

8. So you wnt too be a proofreedr?

9. The pessimist’s guide to rainbows

10. The atheist’s guide to prayer and reincarnation

11. The pack rat’s guide to Feng Shui

12. How to catch a bullet in your teeth... once

13. 17 ways to draw a worm

14. Tai Chi for poodles

15. Build your own wife!

16. Life’s little destruction book.

17. LOWER YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE NOW!!!!

18. How to publish a “how to” book on “how to” books

19. Cliff’s notes for dummies

20. The gynecologist’s guide to plumbing repair

21. The plumber’s guide to...

22. How to hunt broccoli for sport

22. 34 puppet shows that will get you arrested

23. The sadist’s guide to office supplies

24. 72 ways to remove a staple

25. The quadriplegic’s guide to mime

and finally...

26. Red wire, blue wire... who gives a crap

What's up, doc...

2005-08-25T17:04:00.000-04:00

Ok, so tomorrow I finally get to see the doc.

I’ve had some weird goings on lately that have left me with the nagging impression that either something’s wrong with my noggin, or I’m about to start receiving transmissions from the mothership... Now I’m not really against the latter... there are quite a few questions I’d like answered, and if I’m cooperating enough to receive transmissions, then they probably won’t feel the need to invoke “the probe.” And of course, to be able to communicate with the forces that gave us ET, the pyramids, and Tom Cruise, well that would be kinda neat. But if it’s not an otherworldly presence making mischief in my medulla oblongata, then we’ve some more pressing things to ponder (provided of course, that said pondering doesn’t do anything to exacerbate said mischief with the aforementioned oblongata).

Now, before you start planning the farewell party (is Menudo available?), please, please, PLEASE understand something here...

I’m being INCREDIBLY melodramatic right now...

I’m fine... In fact, I’m better than fine... Aside from a few extra pounds and a budding sunroof on the top of my formerly fuzzy cranium, I’ve got very little to complain about. But still, I’m of the general opinion that one shouldn’t see more than one copy of anything unless you’re staring at the Olsen twins or downing tequila shots like they’re a jumbo bag of out-of-date M&Ms bought three weeks after Halloween... add in a few dizzy spells, headaches, and a propensity to stare longingly at pictures of David Hasslehoff, and you can start to understand why I might be a little concerned...

So I’m going to the doc.

It could be something simple. It could be something not so simple. It could simply be that it’s summer cold and flu season, and I’m too much of a wuss to handle a few thousand bacteria shacking up and throwing a mucus party in my upper nasal cavities... who knows... whatever the case, I’m going to see the doc... and not just some run-of-the-mill, put my diploma from Joe’s Community College on the wall doc either... No, no, no... I’m going to the special doc... the kind of doc that gets to be condescending to you and act like he possesses the secrets of the Holy Grail simply because he went to college for a few extra classes and learned the definition of “benzodiazepines” ...you know, the kind that you need to pay the EXTRA co-pay for...

Well anyway, he’s most likely going to look at my head, shine lights in my eyeballs and make bad jokes about not seeing anything inside... and if past history holds true, he’ll prod me with all sorts of implements that one would never find existing naturally (outside of a doctor’s office or a well-stocked S&M “exploration” facility).

Then he’ll tell me that I’ve been eating pizza when I should have been stocking up on kale and iguana root, or he’ll tell me I’ve been putting my contacts in the wrong eyes (that’s certainly something I would do), or he’ll give me some magic pill that I’ll kindly thank him for and dutifully pop in my mouth (without questioning the ramifications of what it does or how it might affect my bowel movements)... and once again all will be right with the world.

Yes... that is most likely exactly what’s going to happen when I go see the doc.

But for now... if you happen to come across a strange man standing in an open field with his arms stretched wide and a roll of tinfoil wrapped about his head and torso... please don’t think there’s anything wrong...

I’ll just be trying to get better reception.

Random paragraph #21

2005-08-18T15:25:00.000-04:00

When he caught wind of the first sign of trouble, Stanley had made a b-line for his bomb shelter. Built from mud, old spackle, and approximately 1,372 issues of Field and Stream, it was his crowning achievement... and even if he had forgotten the can opener (and the toilet paper), it was still the smartest thing he’d ever done... 47 years later, he was now emerging from his homemade sanctuary dazed, bleary eyed and more than a little fearful... Upon walking a bit, and taking in his new surroundings, he came to the conclusion that something terrible must have taken place here... he wasn’t sure what... he wasn’t sure when... but he WAS sure that no one born natural on God’s green earth could have created the abomination that now lay before him. This... “Hooters.” Apparently, that’s what they called this den of sin... He closed his eyes, and prayed for salvation... Stanley was shocked. Stanley was dismayed. Stanley was outraged. And then, Stanley felt a sudden pang for chicken wings.

List #1

2005-08-09T16:50:00.000-04:00

37 thoughts to distract yourself with while clients tell you your copy is trite and unsophisticated.

1. That commercial with the cute penguins.
2. Cheese.
3. Not being lame.
4. A sweet-ass bass.
5. How short Howard Dean really is.
6. How tall Mandy Moore is.
7. Metal.
8. Rogaine.
9. The disturbing fact that Omarosa is still on TV.
10. The more disturbing fact that you actually watch the show she’s on.
11. The plight of the African snow pea.
12. Your Netflix Queue.
13. The plight of Africans who pee in the snow.
14. Monkeys.
15. What bowling would be like if the pins were bigger.
16. What billiards would be like if the balls were smaller.
17. Full-contact naked washews.
18. More monkeys.
19. The sound that balloons make when you slowly drag them across your skin.
20. The sound that baboons make when you punch them in the stomach.
21. A loaf of bread.
22. A container of milk.
23. A stick of butter.
24. Your Dad’s yellow pants.
25. Chocobos.
26. Puppies and butterflies.
27. That scene in Tron where the dude takes that guy out with the Frisbee thing.
28. Voltron.
29. The other Voltron.
30. The Magic Garden.
31. Pi.
32. Pie.
33. Cow Pies.
34. Moo.
35. All the different ways you can pronounce the word "Road".
36. All the different ways you can pronounce the wood "Glockenspiel".
37. Defenestration.

Leveraging my intellectual capital...

2005-08-02T15:18:00.000-04:00

“A” players.

That’s the latest corporate buzzword being bandied about in my office.

“A” players.

Yup… it’s driving me crazy. Everything I do lately is being looked at for how it will pertain to them. Will this appeal to “A” players?” Will “A” players” respond to this type of messaging? How does the imagery you’re using relate to “A” players?”

Apparently, “A” players have become more desirable than a quarter-pound of penicillin in a cambodian brothel…

We want to attract them.
We need to be them.
“A” players are the new corporate crack.

In fact, if you heard the VP of our company talk about them, you'd have to assume that he's dreaming of the day he can leave his wife and kids to shack up with one in a quaint little bungalow by the seaside – a bottle of corona, a wedge of lime, and an “A” player playfully smiling back at him as he feels the wet cool sand slip between his toes…

So what then you ask is this amazing marvel that can inspire such indiscriminate fantasies of infidelity and indiscretion?

What IS an “A” player?

An “A” player is a go-getter!
An “A” player is a visionary!
An “A” player is a team leader!
An “A” player defecates solid gold bricks of motivation and spirit!

An “A” player is a ridiculous concept that gives meaning to that which has none – that provides those without creativity a way to label something that is obvious to anyone with an IQ over 7 – that makes people feel important in meetings while causing actual cognizant humans to simply roll their eyes.

I hate business speak. It’s shallow. It’s empty. It’s meaningless. And in that regard, it has much in common with my blog here. But the difference is, I don’t try to convince anyone else out there that my little blog has any substance. I’m just trying to give you a little giggle.

These people actually take this stuff seriously…

Take for example the following passage… it’s talking about what to do if you have an employee that isn’t currently functioning as an “A” player:

(and tell me you can’t just picture exactly what the sad sack saying this looks like)

Well, they should be coached into jobs where they can be "A" players, usually at lower-level positions. If that doesn't work, they'll have to find another job. That's best for the company and the employee. Provide hard-hitting, empathetic feedback, so the employee realizes he's a drag on the whole team and either improves or exits.

What a dweeb…

Hey, I’m all for booting someone who isn’t doing his job or pulling his weight, but do we HAVE to cloak everything in such condescending doublespeak – so it gets to the point where it sounds like we’re saying vital and important when in fact all we’re saying is:

“Get your butt in gear or you’re out the door!”

I don’t know… maybe I’m just grumpy today, but I tell ya, if I hear one more speech about being engaged in mission critical skill sets while actualizing our positioning and constructing a tactical team-building infrastructure wherein I can push the envelope on our current paradigm to enable a more validated methodology that creates a win-win scenario replete with result-driven enterprises that can seize the low-hanging fruit while adapting vertical markets to a more even plane well I think I just might have to get proactive on some executive’s downward facing assets.

Then again… I’ll bet my target audience love to see the ROI on that dog and pony show.

Random Paragraph #20

2005-07-29T12:29:00.000-04:00

Glancing back at the now-liquefied remains of what used to be his chubby friend Ralph, Edgar was overcome with a feeling of shame... for as he raced to escape from what would soon be the “former” home of the University’s chemistry lab, the thought that kept resonating in his brain was NOT that he’d just lost one of his dearest and closest friends, but rather that teaming with a man who had a sweet tooth and an obvious thyroid problem was not the wisest course of action to take when you’ve chosen “pop rocks – untapped potential” as your senior thesis project.

I admit, my proverbial grapes are slightly acerbic...

2005-07-26T16:55:00.000-04:00

So… there’s a new show premiering on Bravo tonight called Situation: Comedy. The premise is pretty simple… get a bunch of schlubs to send in a script for what they think is sure to be the next great sitcom. Then, pick a few of the “best” ones, and let those writers complain, bicker, whine, and pout, all while trying to produce a pilot to pitch to NBC. Finally, let the audience vote on which one should be in the fall lineup, and watch as NBC surreptitiously finds some way to nudge it off the schedule so they can instead expose an unwilling public to the new “bound to succeed” offering from the producing team that brought you “who wants to marry my dad?”.

Anyway, more than 10,000 of these aforementioned schlubs submitted their dubious attempts at prime time bliss… and I was one of them.

I was NOT however one of the 9 finalists…

Nor was I one of the 50 semifinalists that were asked to submit a video outlining our pitch.

No… instead, my hopes and dreams languished in the abyss with 9,950 other would be writers whose end product apparently seems to be better purposed for birdcage liner than network stardom. That being said, I’d still estimate that at least 3,478 of those birdcage liners would be funnier than “Family Matters” on it’s best day… and that show lasted for years!

And that’s okay… I honestly didn’t expect to launch a new career out of this contest… I simply wanted some forced motivation to make me try something new. And I did it. I actually completed a script, which (in my estimation) wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t better than everything already on the air, but I’d wholeheartedly assert that if a somewhat large cross-section of America can sit through 30 minutes of “according to jim” (minus the commercials of course), then enduring the debacle that would have been my sitcom would probably have been preferable to at least 7 of them.

I wasn't really looking for fame and fortune, so I wasn't all THAT upset... but ya know what would have been nice? a frickin’ response… any kind of frickin’ response… but instead, I got bupkis. I mailed out my package (with a friendly word of encouragement in broken-english from the nice Japanese man at the post office no less), and was left to wonder if it had even been received…

A poorly worded rejection letter written in crayon would have been a welcome respite from the silence that greeted my submission. A piece of Hello Kitty stationary with a frowing face. A post it with “YOU SUCK” scrawled in sharpie black. A carefully wrapped piece of poo. All of these would be preferable alternatives to not knowing if my work was even read.

Yeah, yeah, yeah… the work is its own reward, I know… but I also know this…

As I sit and watch the premiere tonight, and I start to see and hear about some of the ideas that came out ahead of mine, I’m going to begin to wonder what in the world these people were thinking… I’m going to wonder what made them pick those schlubs' scripts over mine… I may even start to question the integrity of the US postal service…

In short, I’m going to complain, bicker, whine, and pout… and it’ll almost be like I’m actually on the show.

Randon thought #15

2005-07-19T17:12:00.000-04:00

Why don't "black coffee" and "decalf" mean the same thing?

Math in the hood...

2005-07-13T15:15:00.000-04:00

I have come to the conclusion that the development of new urban slang really owes much of its origination to mathematics, or more specifically, to the transitive property of equality…

Stay with me here…

If you close your eyes and concentrate, and focus on the days of yore you spent whiling away the hours in a junior high math classroom (and try desperately to block out the humiliation and disgrace that seeing what you looked like, dressed like, and acted like no doubt drums up), you should be able to remember that basically, the transitive property states the following:

If a=b, and b=c, then a=c.

It’s a simple set of rules, but for some reason, it's one that I’ve been able to derive a great amount of enterainment from over the years (and by now this should come as no surprise to you).

So what does this have to do with urban slang you ask? Well nothing really… but for the purposes of this column I’m gong to try to draw some form of loose conclusions as to why there might actually be some sort of connection between the two… in reality, if you asked the author of the latest “krunk” term to explain to you the meaning of the transitive property, he or she would most likely cock their head to one side, contort their face into a shape that resembled a grape that’s been out in the sun too long (i.e. a raisin), and stare at you with a glazed-over “why’s he talking bout old fashioned radios?” look…

Or, maybe not… maybe that’s just me generalizing about people that I don’t understand. Maybe in truth, the person in question would be more apt to start quoting Stephen Hawking’s principles on Quantum Physics, discussing how they are ignorant in their absence of incorporating the finer points of Nihilist philosophy, and how in fact, if one considered the greater evidence at hand, they would discover that the transitive property doesn’t even exist… that blue is red, dogs are in fact cats, and Emu Phillips is the only who REALLY understands the nature of the universe…

Yes, it is indeed possible that all this would happen (provided that this person was equally versed in both the greater sciences and obscure stand-up comedians from the 80s)… but somehow I doubt it…

Whatever the case, all this is beside the point (even as loosely as I’m abusing that term here)… I’m here to apply the transitive property of equality to urban slang… or actually, to the development of new slang.

Basically, the way it works is, you take a conventional known term, and determine what an existing slang phrase for that term is. Then, you come up with a synonym for the already accepted slang that has absolutely nothing to do with the original term, thereby creating an entirely new slang term via the transitive property.

Got it?

Ok, let me try to explain this another way… When we think of money, we often refer to it as “dough” (i.e. “I need to earn some more dough”). The word “dough” is already a universally accepted term to substitute for the word “money.” If we now find a new word or phrase we can substitute for dough (preferably with some brand affiliation), we will have a hip new urban slang term for money… like say “Pop n’ Fresh.”

Now you get it?

You see, if money=dough, and dough=pop n’ fresh, then money=pop n’ fresh

“Pop n’ fresh” is a kind of dough… but in the common vernacular, it has no association with the word “money.” Therefore, “Pop N’ Fresh” is now slang, for money. (i.e. “I gots ta get me some mo’ pop n’ fresh yo!”) Other accepted slang terms for money could include “yeast filler”, “whole grain”, or my personal favorite, “Pillsbury”.

And by this same philosophy we could also refer to a large quantity of money as “a herd of whitetails” (if money=bucks, and bucks=whitetail deer, then money=whitetail deer).

It’s fun with the transitive property!

Now that you know the secret to the progression of slang, you too can join in the fun… in no time at all you’ll be “hangin’ at your crib”, “kickin’ it with some peeps,” and saying interesting things like:

“Why’d you yarn my spare change, gee? I was money marketing those fo’ a post dangle nibble-fiesta!”

(Translation: Why did you consume my peanuts, sir? I was saving them so I would have a snack to eat once I had returned from the basketball game.)

Fun, isn't it!

Next week’s lesson: inflationary language and correct/incorrect use of the “fo’shizzle” modifier.

Random thought #14

2005-07-12T14:49:00.000-04:00

The midget/roses thing the other day got me thinking...

Is it considered insensitive to ask an amputee if he/she wants to play football?

What about offering him/her a chicken finger? Is that wrong? How about a leg of lamb? An ear of corn? A head of lettuce? ...what about tofu?

Adding it up...

2005-07-06T15:10:00.000-04:00

2005 Nissan Sentra ............... $13,000

Check Engine light that
comes on during dealer
test-drive of trade-in .............. $250

Extra sales-tax paid when
Massachusetts refuses to
recognize dealer as
legitimate, simply because
they’re from NY ..................... $300

Extra interest paid on
loan when NY bank refuses
to approve loan because you
LIVE in Massachusetts ............. $1,440

Cost of cellphone “overage
minutes” used talking to
dealers, insurance companies,
and banks while scrambling
to get new loan in less
than 48 hours ........................ $75

___________________________________________

Knowing you’re almost done
with the insanity that is
buying a car out of state
when you're currently
living in the commonwealth ..... Priceless.

How to have fun test driving a new car...

2005-07-05T16:36:00.000-04:00

While in motion, roll the windows down and stick your head out. Respond to the salesperson’s perplexed look by stating that you are trying to determine which car your dog will like best.

Ask if you can test the air bags.

Tune the radio to an open AM frequency and turn the volume all the way up. Respond to the salesperson’s concerned look by stating that you are trying to determine if the car is a suitable antenna to receive directives from the mothership.

Ask the salesperson to quote exact figures on the viscosity of the wiper-fluid.

Ask the salesperson if he/she’s ever seen “Thelma & Louise.”

Make allusions to having repeated fantasies about taking first prize in a demolition derby. Hey, this one is constructive... if the salesperson tries to grab the wheel, then they probably don’t have faith in the safety of the vehicle.

Ask the salesperson how many immigrants he/she thinks you could fit in the trunk.

Refuse to drive in any gear but reverse. Tell the frustrated salesperson you’re dyslexic, and this is the only way you can feel “normal.”

If the car has a spoiler, ask the salesperson if it’s still okay to put groceries in the trunk...

Even fresh fish?

When the salesperson instructs you which way to turn, flatly refuse... tell them you’re an adult now, and you will turn whichever direction you gosh darn well please thank you very much... then, when the salesperson starts to get worried, turn that way anyway… respond that you’re not doing it to make THEM happy, this was in fact the way YOU wanted to turn in the first place... do this every time.

Drive the salesperson to a competing dealership and ask them if they want to rumble.

Once you’ve set out on the test drive, slow the car down to a crawl... lock the doors... then, turn to the salesman, and calmly inquire as to whether or not he/she has accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior.

Drive with your feet.

Take the car to a car wash... when you’re halfway through, open the sunroof... tell the exasperated salesperson that you just wanted to see how the car would handle in the rain.

Ask where you’re supposed to keep your goldfish.

Force the salesperson to play the license plate game with you. Refuse to return to the dealership until you’ve gotten all the way through. When you finish, ask to test drive another car.

Take the car through a drive-thru... ask for 14 orders of fries, and then tell the salesman you forgot your wallet.

Don’t give him any of the fries.

Point the rear-view mirror directly at the salesman. Ask him to let you know if anything important happens.

Refuse to make anything but left turns. Tell the salesperson you’re training for NASCAR.

Demand to inspect the integrity of the head gasket.

Random thought #13

2005-06-30T11:42:00.000-04:00

If you were dating a midget, and wanted to buy her/him roses... would you actually need a whole dozen? I mean, proportionately, wouldn't like, eight, be enough?

...and by the same token, would buying "long-stemmed" roses still be a kind gesture, or is it really just mocking at that point?

Random Observation #4

2005-06-24T16:46:00.000-04:00

Did ya ever notice that whenever someone poses the question "What's YOUR problem" to another person, they usually aren't particularly interested in helping that person find a solution.

...kinda seems like a waste of time and effort to even pose the question in the first place.

Any takers?

2005-06-16T15:57:00.000-04:00

FOR SALE: 1998 Acura Integra 3DR Coupe. Red. 123,500 miles.
Runs Goo... for now. Lots of cool blinking lights on dashboard. New radiator. New timing belt. New water pump. New thermostat. New tires. Needs: head gasket/engine/miracle. Speedometer works but lies incessantly. Kick-ass stereo (not included).

Questions on fish

2005-06-15T15:17:00.000-04:00

I was just wondering...

Are "Bluefish" always sad?

Are "Sunnies" always cheerful?

Are "Lungfish" predisposed to contracting emphysema?

Can "Angelfish" be atheists?

Do "Catfish" respond to the sound of a can opener?

If a "Clownfish" mated with a "Bluefish," would the offspring be a "Sunny"?

Are "Triggers" ever itchy?

Why don't "Perch" just stay in one place?

Do "Jawfish" ever get TMJ?

If you eat a "Lemonfish," do you still need to squeeze any?

Why aren't "Goldfish" more valuable than "Silverfish"?

Do "Whitebait" even really stand a chance?

and finally...
Would a dyslexic "Carp" think it was just a pile of poo?

Random Thought #12

2005-06-13T15:11:00.000-04:00

The way I see it, a Ritz cracker must have really low self-esteem.

I mean, before you even get a chance to break open a sleeve, they're already being undermined... Ever look at the box? It's just an onslaught of options about how to improve upon the product. It's like the packaging itself is telling you, "Hey, these crackers are crap, but if you cover them with some peanut butter and jelly... or some cheese... or some strangely tiny luncheon meat... well then I suppose they might be okay." I tell ya, if I was a Ritz, I'd be pissed...

...of course I'd also be a cracker, so any insecurities about the quality of my consumption would probably be outweighed by my fear of actually being consumed, but that's a discussion for another day...

Sometimes you just have to laugh...

2005-06-10T15:28:00.000-04:00

I wish I knew more about cars.

I can change a tire. I can tell you where to put the windshield wiper fluid. And on a particularly good day, I might even be able to check the oil. But that’s about where my expertise stops. So when I’m driving down the road, and warning lights begin to flash, I feel more like Robot B9 (“Danger Will Robinson”) than Mr. Goodwrench (“No Danger Will Robinson”). I'm not really even in the realm of Mr. Goodyear, Mr. Goodbody, or Mr. Goodbar… in truth, it’s more along the lines of Mr. Good god how much is it going to cost me this time.

Such was the case the other day.

I recently went through an all too comic scenario with my cooling system (coolant system? Cooli… whatever… you know, the radiator and all its assorted hoses, clips, and doohickeys) where by the time all was fixed and happy, I had endured 4 trips to the mechanic, and overseen the replacement of approximately 5,684 parts (all of which I was informed served a vital purpose that alleviated some condition that gone unchecked would have undoubtedly resulted in immediate and painful death not only for me and my passengers, but also that woman in the Escort wagon next to me who happens to be a single mother and is working 2 jobs, including late-shifts at the diner on nights and weekends, just so she can save up enough money to pay for little Jimmy’s chemotherapy). Theoretically though, once all this was done (and the mechanic stopped convulsing in hysterical fits of laughter) my car would be safe again.

Well imagine my surprise as I made my way to work the other morning and my “check engine” light came on (you know, the “bad” light… the one light that you can’t ignore… the one that isn’t like the others… that's not like the “maintenance required” light, or the “low fuel light”, or the little light with the symbol of the thingee on it that no one really knows what it means… the one you can't even rationally cover up with electrical tape)… and not only that, as I gazed down at the beacon of disaster smiling at me from my dash, I also happened to notice one other interesting development… the needle on my temperature gauge was now fighting desperately to achieve as great a distance from the capital “C” as possible.

I naturally assumed this was not good.

Summoning up the whole of my automotive knowledge, I tried to make a rational diagnosis, but seeing as the present situation didn’t appear to involve tires, wiper fluid, or dipsticks (other than myself), I came up empty. I decided therefore to make my way to the nearest off-ramp. I figured it would be better to be broken down and laughed at somewhere near civilization, than to be speed bump fodder for a semi with a deathwish (that would undoubtedly be delivering chickens… in the movies they’re ALWAYS delivering chickens).

Sure enough, once I slowed the car down, it sensed weakness and decided to surrender. Coughing in fits, and spewing smoke out of every available outlet, it quickly stalled and died (without so much as a shred of dignity I might add). So, as a parade of morning commuters made their way by and gawked at my misfortune, I dialed for a tow-truck. By the time it had arrived, I had gained two new tidbits of knowledge. First, Tow-trucks know you’re not going anywhere and therefore feel absolutely no obligation to arrive anytime before, say… November. Second, when waiting for said tow-truck, it’s probably not a great idea to spend the entire time playing Texas Hold ‘em on your cell phone… if you do, then when you begin to worry about whether or not said truck is actually coming, you might find that you’re lacking the battery strength necessary to actually call and check up on them... oops.

Anyway, so the truck came and towed my car to a little garage where the owner was very nice, very foreign, and very unable to say anything in English that I completely understood. It wasn’t all that reassuring… but he smiled a lot… and he shook my hand… and he scribbled my name on a post-it… so I gave him the keys to my car.

When I called later in the afternoon to check up on my beleaguered vehicle, I received good, and bad news… my car was ready, but it might also be a ticking time bomb (those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of what I understood).

When I went to pick it up, the owner was very gracious, and he very carefully tried to explain to me what had happened. Without any sarcasm apparent, he told me that the people installing my radiator had done (in his opinion) a “very silly” thing (that’s a direct quote). Instead of replacing my clamps when they reattached certain hoses and stuff (he lost me a bit there for a moment)… they had reused the original factory clamps, something he would never do (he reiterated again how “silly” it was)… they had also possibly installed the clamps incorrectly (more “sillyness”)… Consequently, what had most likely happened was, the clamp slipped off, the hose disconnected, and the entire contents of my radiator had spilled out onto the highway, thereby causing the car to overheat. He had reattached the hose, and put on new clamps (replacing the ones that weren’t even a problem), and refilled the radiator. Now, the only question mark was whether damage had been done to the… wait for it… yes, the “head gasket.”

“Head gasket” is one of those phrases that you just don’t want to hear. It’s kind of like “Hepatitis C.” You’re not quite sure what it is, but if it’s ever spoken in reference to you, you’re probably not going to be throwing a party.

Basically, he said the car was running, and he had tried to fix and clean things up best he could, but he didn’t really know yet whether any serious damage had been done to my head gasket or not (which if present would indicate a much less fun situation brewing).

Then he said I could go.

Perplexed (to say the least), I enquired as to how I would know if there had been in fact any more serious damage …it was then that the very nice old man smiled, and the very nice old man told me (in English that I very clearly understood) “you go to drive, and (motioning his hand in an excellent mime of an explosion) Kprgjdfsashtfhfwhgef!”

I really wish I knew more about cars.

So far, so good… the car sounds a little sick at times, but it’s getting better (still burning off stuff that had spilled from the radiator is the best explanation I have found)…

It hasn’t broken down, exploded, or derailed little Jimmy’s hopes of beating Cancer, and for now at least, the only bit of additional bad news I’ve received is that there’s most likely no way to prove that it was the other garage’s fault. I’m told that there are in fact a number of other circumstances (all highly unlikely) that could have caused the hose to come off, and given my breadth of understanding of the inner workings of my vehicle, I have little choice but to accept that…

But it would certainly be nice to be able to look at my car with a greater sense of understanding… to really be aware of how things worked and how to fix them… alas, that isn’t the case right now… maybe later, just to make myself feel better… I’ll do something that shows I can be the master of my own vehicle… I’ll pop the hood, roll up my sleeves… and check the oil.

Random Thought #11

2005-05-27T11:14:00.000-04:00

From cnn.com:

"Federal health officials are examining dozens of reports of blindness among men using the impotence drug Viagra"

...I wonder if they develop hairy palms as well.

Random Thought #10

2005-05-15T16:58:00.000-04:00

Aren't MOST boots made for walking?

Random Thought #9

2005-05-13T11:08:00.000-04:00

Doesn’t doing “the wave” at a public sporting event really just reinforce the age-old practice of peer pressure? You’ve seen what they do to the one cranky guy who doesn’t feel like participating... they boo... they yell... occasionally they even throw plastic cups filled with malt and hops-based substances... all in an effort to get someone to stand up.

Where have we gone wrong?

I mean ok... sure... it's fun to see a crotchety, old, and rather unpleasantly wrinkled fat dude (provided he's not related... or sitting near you) dunked in a pint of cheap beer (and by "cheap" I mean of poor quality but still ungodly expensive)... But does that really make it right?

Ok maybe it does... kinda.

Silver Linings #12

2005-05-10T15:21:00.000-04:00

DARK CLOUD :(
Watching pornographic movies can create extremely unrealistic expectations for what a man’s biological gifts should entail… and how long he should be able to… um… entail them… This can lead to very unhappy partners whose unsatisfactory “real world” experiences will drive them to mock you… and your um… entailments…

SILVER LINING :)
You get to see boobies.

Silver Linings #11

2005-05-10T15:16:00.000-04:00

DARK CLOUD :(
Watching Hollywood movies can give you an affinity for an alternate set of life circumstances and events that is impossible to attain… therefore, when the movie ends, you’ll be left feeling dejected and lost, even more dispassionate about reality than when the movie first began.

SILVER LINING :)
If you sit near the front, there’s a good chance that by the end of the movie, if you look under your seat, you’ll discover that a few stray Goobers have found their way down from the back of the theatre... this won’t enrich your life any… but it will give you something to throw at anyone who looks TOO happy.

Random Observation #3

2005-05-10T14:54:00.000-04:00

My brain is going to mush...

You see... I can recite, without fail (and from memory mind you), countless quotes from movies... a veritable plethora of riddles, bad jokes, and puns... and every last word to the theme song from “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.” ...yet as I sit here writing this, I am having tremendous difficulty deducing whether or not I ever put on deodorant this morning.

...I mean, I guess I’ll know for sure in a few hours... but somehow, that doesn’t really make me feel any better.

Random Thought # 8

2005-05-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

At the Superbowl, when you see someone on the sidelines wearing their team's respective baseball cap, you think nothing of it... but if during the World Series, you gazed in the dugout and saw Derek Jeter wearing a football helmet with a big "NY" emblazoned upon it, i'll bet you'd question more than his abilities as a shortstop.

...no matter how loud he screamed "go yankees"

The sound of self-pity...

2005-05-06T15:11:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life just laughs at you…

So, a little over a month ago, I finally got a new job. Not a great job mind you, but still… a job. And I finally thought I’d be able to start climbing back out of debt. Then it happened… my car started having “issues.” Now, I’m not going to expel the time or energy necessary to lay out all the details for you, but by the time the whole fiasco was over, I would have much rather endured a wildly public flogging administered by an angry dwarf with a studded cat-o-nine tails and a penchant for low swings, than part with the number of duckets I haplessly volunteered to the gods of automotive repair.

My car’s running again, and I’ve tried to make peace with that situation… you know, like the wise old shaman is fond of saying:

“when life deals you negative thoughts, you must set them free… just put those thoughts in a balloon… a bright colorful balloon… then go outside and release that balloon into the wind, careless of where it goes… so it can fly away… higher and higher… creating an ever increasing distance between the negative thoughts, and the YOU that is living in the present”

and that’s all well and good… until of course your wonderful, bright balloon gets caught up in some wonderful, electrified power lines and gets ripped to shreds, leaving those wonderful, concentrated negative thoughts to drift down through the wonderful atmosphere until they get sucked up by a wonderful fluffy cloud, collect wonderful moisture, and then rain down on wonderful you with one hundred-fold strength!

Ok, so the analogy’s a bit deranged, and I should probably get back on my meds, but still… that’s what it felt like when I received the following recent bit of “wonderful” news.

According to my employer… my NEW employer… the one that just HIRED me… yes, THAT employer… well according to that employer, business isn’t as good as they had hoped… funds are not what they should be… and therefore ALL employees (even the new, cute, endearingly witty ones) are now being forced to take multiple weeks off… WITHOUT pay…

Um… excuse me?

First of call, call me naïve, but I didn’t even realize they could do that… You’d think they’d have to wait longer before telling me I’m not going to be making as much money as they just finished promising me I was going to be making… did that make sense? I think I said that right… “not going to be making… was going to be making…” yeah… exactly… how can they do that?!

Ok, yes… I know money isn’t everything… and yes, it could be a heck of a lot worse, but still… every time I start to catch up a little bit lately, life seems to hand me a fiscal banana peel, knocking me to the floor with a chuckle and a resounding whump…

You ever get the feeling that your life is just one long drawn-out episode of Candid Camera, and Alan Funt (only adorned in white robes with a long beard and looking more strikingly like God) is hiding behind a ficas somewhere with a big honking grin on his face, waiting to jump out and scream “surprise” and tell you that it’s all just a farce and in reality you’re a multi-millionaire and on you way to a tropical island where cheerful locals will massage your feet and lavish you with all sorts of fine cheeses and fruity drinks as every person who has ever been rude to you in your entire life is forced to tell you just how special and wonderful you are?

Maybe it’s just me...

You must choose wisely...

2005-04-29T11:24:00.000-04:00

I never thought public bathrooms would be a source of stress for me anymore…

Sure, when you’re 5 and you jump out of the town pool and run to the bathroom to take care of business (after all, this is the “ool” area… there’s no “p” in it, and they’d like to keep it that way thank you very much) only to find that the string on your bathing suit has knotted up so bad you think they’re going to have to use the jaws of life to set you free, and you’re standing up against the corner of the stall trying to keep the door from unlatching… and now you’ve really got to go… I mean you’ve REALLY got to go… and the sweat starts beading down your puffy little flushed cheeks ‘cause you’re beginning to think about the ramifications of not being able to get your suit off in time (even though at age five you have absolutely no idea what the word “ramifications” means)… so you start pulling, and twisting and tugging… to no avail of course (not that you know what “avail” means either)… and as a result of your efforts, you’re really only managing to make the knot tighter… but in doing so you discover that the waist has at least gotten slightly stretched, so you try to shimmy out of the suit altogether, thinking that might provide you with the relief you need (and at age 5 who really understands the advanced principles and physics of the bonds that exist between bathing suits and wet skin)… and this involves even more twisting and pulling and tugging… and eventually you find yourself making way more noise than is acceptable for a public restroom… flopping around in a stall with your bathing suit stuck halfway down your butt… absolutely no circulation getting to your thighs… trying carefully to maneuver over to the toilet to see if there’s anyway you can make this work… and then the door swings open…

Sure, that’s acceptable at age 5… even humorous in retrospect (after years of intense therapy)… but at age 31, you’re not supposed to suffer indignities like that anymore (and if you did, they’d probably phone the authorities)

But, as I have discovered, there’s still at least one way for a public bathroom to make a grown man feel like a 5 year old with his bathing suit wedged in his neither regions…

It seems to be a trend in the restaurant industry nowadays to label the restrooms in accordance with whatever type of food happens to be served there. Go to a western steakhouse, and you’re sure to find doors labeled “cowboys” and cowgirls” …go to a Mexican restaurant, and they’re likely to be marked “Seniors” and “Senioritas” (a distinction that, oddly enough, becomes progressively harder to make with each ingested margarita)…

When you first thionk about it, this might not seem like a big deal. It may appear to simply be a cute way to acknowledge and exploit the culture of your cuisine. But as you move into less and less familiar culinary territory, the decision of which door to choose (feel free to insert your own “lady or the tiger” parables here) becomes exponentially harder… and the ramifications of making the wrong decision (at 31, I DO know what that means) carry a much weightier impact (unless of course there’s a woman in the restroom who can be easily bribed to stay quiet). I'm not saying it's always a challenge… I mean, it’s easy to go to an Indian restaurant… who can’t tell the difference between a “brave” and a “squaw” right?

But when you’re sitting in a quaint little bistro that just happens to serve specialties from the island of “Koonga” (and no, not THAT Koonga… the other one) and you start to, you know… get the itch… and you find yourself staring at doors marked “gnohic” and “durkad” …which are YOU going to choose?

Exactly.

Well now you know how I felt as I stood outside a pair of doors in a small restaurant in Germany a couple years ago… I can’t remember what words were actually written on them… all I know is, it was nothing as simple as “Mann” and “Frau”

I must have stared at those two doors for a full minute before taking the plunge. And to be honest, I can’t really tell you if I made the right choice… urinals don’t seem to be quite as pervasive in Europe as they are be in the U.S., so I’m not sure how you tell if it’s a men’s room or not… the entire time I was in there, all I could envision was the sight of some large woman with too many consonants in her name bursting through the door, discovering my misjudgement, and shrieking, only to be quickly followed by her father and three brothers, each larger than the next, carrying some form of pike, pitchfork, or spear, and demanding (in a language I didn’t understand) that I make amends for offending the honor of some other guy named Gunter.

I have an odd imagination…

Anyway, when I had finished my activities, I scurried back upstairs (yes, I washed my hands) and relayed the story of my predicament (and it’s associated conundrum) to my 2 companions…

both of whom promptly laughed at me.

Hey, all I'm asking is this… if you ever find yourself standing outside the restroom doors of a restaurant, and you happen to see a confused, disheveled man staring at the entrances with a blank look upon his face… please point him in the right direction… he’s probably just having bathing suit flashbacks.

Random Haiku #2

2005-04-28T16:53:00.000-04:00

too much busy work
leaves me no time for fun stuff
tomorrow I blog

Random Thought #7

2005-04-21T15:52:00.000-04:00

Ya know, if a really short guy had exceptionally long arms, he could just walk on his hands and everybody would probably think he was about regular size... but if a tall dude had short, little, stubbly arms... well I'd guess the best he could hope for is someone thinking he's some sort of midget T-Rex.

...in which case he should probably growl a lot.

Random Paragraph #19

2005-04-21T12:23:00.000-04:00

As Stan worked up some phlegm and coughed for the 137th time today (yes, I was now counting), my hackles shot skyward and my temper flared to within an inch of breaking… When he chuckled and told me that his kids’ inability to wash their hands after using the bathroom was to blame for his malady (a story he took great pleasure in repeating to me ad nauseam as well… he had had actually come to referring to his illness as the “spongebob flu”) a single thought clarified my vision… given the confined atmosphere in which we work, and the lack of any open window or functioning ventilation system, it was only a matter of time before the ratio of breathable clean air, to whatever in god’s name seemed to be emanating from Stan’s mouth (and apparently derived from little Stan’s mouth), tilted in favor of the latter. This being the case, I felt it was my civic duty as a human being to rectify the situation and restore order to my workplace environment… so I shoved my computer mouse in his mouth and stapled his lips shut (thank God for office supplies). Of course, due to lack of forethought, I was now left with a non-functioning computer and an inability to bind paperwork (the fourth staple hadn’t quite gone through all the way, and my stapler was now dangling from his lower lip). Not wanting to take advantage of my employer (as the nicely illustrated poster on the wall cheerfully states, “once you clock in, it’s OUR time you’re wasting”), I decided to take what I felt would be the best advisable course of action… I clocked out and went home.

The power of the Hoff...

2005-04-19T16:16:00.000-04:00

I learned a lot this weekend. I learned about intimidation. About the subtle use of suggestion. About the black arts.

But most importantly, I learned about the power of “the Hoff”.

You see, on Saturday I took part in another poker tournament… a cordial gathering of friends and strangers who convene every few months to test their abilities at what the experts have deemed “the Cadillac of poker games”: Texas Hold ‘em.

Now I know it’s a bit trendy to be talking about hold ‘em these days… its gotten a bit ubiquitous lately, and truth be told, it’s a little more than a little bit media oversaturated… I’m sure we’re going to see some sort of backlash soon, and all the celebs will flock to the latest game de jour (coming up next, “Celebrity Scrabble” – watch all your favorite stars from stage and screen as they compete to be the first to spell a word using more than three of their tiles!)… but I don’t care… I like hold em… it’s fun… it’s smart… and if you play it right, it’s often more about skill than luck…

Unless you have “the Hoff”

Ok, so that’s the second time I’ve mentioned that (not counting the title of this rambling, in which case it’s the third time, not the second like I said before but really, who’s counting… and if you are counting, please tell me why?)…

Anyway… the point is, I still haven’t explained myself…

So perhaps I better have.

(trust me, if you say that last line with a British accent, the grammar almost kinda makes sense.)

When I arrived at the tournament this weekend I had a plan… you see, though I was relatively confident that my poker skills had improved somewhat since the last tournament, I was by no means expecting to do very well, so I decided to bolster my chances. It was upon finding my chair at my first table that I revealed my secret weapon… a 5x7 autographed photo of the baywatchliest man on the face of this earth…yes, the one… the only… David Hasslehoff. Now, by “autographed photo,” please understand that I mean I took a printout from a website I found and wrote on it myself… but anyway, the spirit was there… Upon the photo, the following message was inscribed:

“To Flarf-
KEEP ROCKIN’

Love,
The Hoff!”

I’m sure it’s quite easy for you to understand how this made me the envy of my fellow cardplayers. There it was in all it’s glory… a nice cherry frame… freshly windexed glass… shining like a beacon on the table in front of my chips… my inspiration for the evening…

“The Hoff”

Well once the laughter had died down, a funny thing began to happen… you could sense a change in the room…

People began to fear the Hoff.

Oh yes… it’s true…

The woman sitting next to me regarded that it was “a little creepy to look at”… Some refused to look in it’s direction… others began to come over and admire it… commenting at length on such things as the Hoff’s power, his strength… his abundance of chest hair.

It was an intimidating presence indeed.

Little did I know at that point, that I had only begun to scratch the surface of the Hoff’s power… you see, on the first hand of the tournament… the very first hand! …I knocked someone out and doubled my chips!

Yes, the battle was on, and the Hoff… he was strong.

Over the course of the next 8 hours, the Hoff would be mocked… the Hoff would be threatened… and the Hoff would be insulted…but most of all, the Hoff would be feared… and through it all, the Hoff remained steadfast in his mission. Around hour 4, as I was fighting to stay alive, a candle was placed in front of the Hoff by some gracious fellow believers… it was a testament to his strength, and thusly the Hoff was renewed… in turn, I triumphed, and found myself with a place at the final table…

Now I wish I could tell you that this was a tale of ultimate victory… that through the Hoff’s power I was able to conquer all foes and emerge victorious, but that just wouldn’t be true… I battled admirably, looking to the Hoff for support and guidance when I needed it most, and I played as best I could… but when the dust had settled, I found myself in third… beaten by stronger players.

Now before you even mention it, I most certainly do NOT blame the Hoff for my loss… I am but a humble man, who was trying to put forth a good effort… The Hoff got me through a lot, and carried me almost to victory. Yes, when the time came, he was spent, and had nothing left to give. And I’ll admit, I was angry for a moment when my chips rejected me, but just for a moment…

After all, how could I expect more…the Hoff is only one man.

Random Observation #2

2005-04-15T14:54:00.000-04:00

Eviserated (e·vis·cer·at·ed)
Definition: To have removed the entrails of; disemboweled.

Eviserator (e·vis·cer·a·tor)
Definition: Auto Mechanic.

Random Thought #6

2005-04-14T14:43:00.000-04:00

The other day, I started thinking about pencil sharpeners... you know, how they’re really just a tool of the establishment... "The man’s” system for maintaining uniformity... abhorring uniqueness... trying to whittle us all down to identical standards... no jagged edges... no rounded points... everything and everyone, exactly the same. It’s wrong man... just wrong. Well the more I thought about it, the more irate I became at the sheer presumption that we would even want to be like that... I became enraged... I'll tell ya, it really chapped my patoot.

...until I remembered I was talking about a pencil.

it makes sense to mike...

2005-04-11T16:47:00.000-04:00

So, did I tell you about the ignoranus I ran into the other day? Oh man, I tell ya… this glibido must have been reintarnated, cuz when he started telling me about seein’ a beelzebug, it was all I could do not to point out the defining parameters of his bozone layer… I mean really… you could see the sarchasm just widening as the words left my mouth… so here this osteopornotic idiot obviously thinks he’s got a case of hipititas, cuz he’s rattling off all these “big ideas” about how it’s going to make him famous, and I don’t know if it was the cashtration I was suffering from, my intaxication, or just the fact that I had been inoculatting all morning, but I started suffering from the dopeler effect, and thought it could work. I figured that if we got the message out with some giraffiti, and hired a few professional dancers to go into arachnoleptic fits in a few key subway stations, we might be able to attract an audience. So I spent the next day totally psyched, decalfalating and banking on what was sure to be my success. I guess I should have considered it a sign of my future when my face went catterpallor at lunch… everybody had heard about the dancers and started telling me how much it was going to fail… it was nothing but negativity… all day long… over and over… I tell ya, by the end of the day, I was almost thankful for the karmageddon…

An epihany of stupid...

2005-04-11T15:28:00.000-04:00

I’m dumb.

Ok, technically this isn’t true... in fact, through standardized testing one would probably even conclude that I’m a bit smarter than the average bear (lack of coordination, geological bearings or Hanna Barbera references not withstanding), but nonetheless... today I discovered that I am dumb.

But that’s ok, because so are you.

Now don’t get all riled up... I’m not trying to pick a fight here, or start some “Hatfield-McCoy” like feud that would most likely endure long beyond the point when either one of us could remember why it began (and make no bones about it, we WOULD forget… after all, we’re dumb)...

I’m just stating a fact.

Maybe I should clarify my point a bit... if you can’t remember where you put your keys, or multiply 3 digit numbers in your head, or recite the presidents’ names in alphabetical order while rubbing your belly and patting your head... that shouldn’t make you feel dumb. But take a quick look around the net, and you’re bound to find a lot of things that will...

Take the following headline for example:

“New Sources of High-Energy Gamma Rays Discovered at Milky Way's Center”

I found this at the website for Scientific American magazine... now it’s simple enough in nature that I can make out the basics of what it’s trying to say (as I’m sure you can as well)... but be honest, when you first looked at it, did you really think that the ramifications of this discovery could be the exciting possibility of a new class of 'dark' particle accelerators in the Galaxy?

...or did you think about angry green superheroes and candy bars?

I thought so...

and actually, if you were anything like me, you thought about both of these things...

First, my mind drifted to the Hulk (perhaps Bruce Banner had actually found a way to reverse the results of his experiments, and find peace within himself)... Then, I wondered if this meant that I could now indulge my childhood fantasies, and actually BECOME the Hulk simply by eating a confectionary combination of milk chocolate, corn syrup, sugar, soybean oil, milkfat, cocoa powder, malted barley, wheat flour, salt, egg whites, and artificial flavor (giving whole new meaning to the term “nougat*”).

Now there’s nothing wrong with admitting that your mind doesn’t always function at a level in keeping with Einstein, Hawking, or Hasslefhoff... but it sure is humbling to think there are people out there who read that headline and immediately thought of High Energy Stereoscopic Systems – instead of Lou Ferrigno.

Great you say, so this may prove that YOU aren’t matched intellectually with the great thinkers of the world, but how is this supposed to be any indication of how intelligent I am? “I” of course, meaning “you” the reader, not “You” meaning “me” the writer...

That is an excellent point... one that my puny little brain can’t quite compete with other than to say that if you WERE really all that smart... if your mental capacity WAS in fact exceeding the parameters of the mundane... if your cerebellum WAS in fact in league with the masters...

Well...

...then you probably wouldn’t be reading this.

*By the way, in case you’re wondering... “nougat” is actually made by whipping egg whites until they are light and frothy. Sugar syrup is added, stabilizing the foam and creating "frappe". A number of other flavoring ingredients are then added to the frappe – each ingredient creating a nougat with a different taste. These nougats are then ready for use in the manufacture of specific brands as the filling in the bars.

Random paragraph #18

2005-04-08T16:53:00.000-04:00

As he made his way to the door, Howard apologized profusely for the uncomfortable situation he had just caused. Who knew so much fuss could be arise from the asking of a simple question. Now... having downed 6 whiskey sours and 4 glasses of scotch over the course of the evening, he couldn’t exactly remember what that question had been, but he did know this... when an 82 year-old woman with arthritis throws her own prosthetic leg at you... it’s time to go.

Random Observation #1

2005-04-08T14:41:00.000-04:00

Pretty soon my mom’s gonna be bionic.

Fat kids are harder to kidnap...

2005-04-06T10:33:00.000-04:00

Losing weight is an interesting endeavor... when you think about it, it’s almost absurdist in concept really... with everything else going on in the world I’m going to concentrate on trying to make sure there’s less of ME in it? I mean, I’m not morbidly obese or anything, it’s not a health issue per se, I’m just a little... round.

If I were a woman, one might categorize me as Rubenesque... but not in that “she’s attractive, I think I’ll make a statue of her and forget to attach the arms” kind of way*... it would be more of a “She’s a bit plump isn’t she... let’s be nice and call her Rubenesque because her face is just this side of disgusting, and she doesn’t have much else going for her” kind of way (after all, I’d make quite the homely bride)...

In any event, I’m not a woman, so that discussion is moot...

It’s probably more accurate to characterize me as “chubby” or “portly.” If I were a 12 year-old boy, one might call me “husky” and suggest I ride my bike more often... my mother in turn, would then keep telling me I’m “gearing up for a growth spurt” (she’s good like that)... a dramatic increase in vertical fortitude that would theoretically compensate for the abundance of cheeseburgers in my belly... it would, of course, never come... yeah... a growth spurt... that’s a good line... a rational explanation even... but somehow, as I stand here 31 years old and a towering 5 foot 8 (and a half), I don’t think my growth spurt’s going to happen... I believe that ship has long since sailed (and it’s a short ship indeed).

This being the case, I guess I’ll have to work harder on reducing my horizontal specifications...

Now, the first thing you need to make any weight loss plan successful is motivation… mine came courtesy of a gruff little Mexican dude who told me in broken English that he had the perfect t-shirt for me...

Perhaps I should back up a step or two.

Picture this: A cruise to the Caribbean. You dock for the day in Cozumel. You stroll along a pristine beach with your girlfriend while the sun breaks through a cloudless sky and the waves gently lap at your feet. It’s the postcard definition of a perfect day. Then, you head to a shop so your girlfriend can pick up a pair of shorts. An overly ambitious huckster reels you in, but promises he’s giving you “a great deal” …then, as the shorts are being rung up, he shifts his focus…ducking behind the counter, he fumbles around, and then emerges with a t-shirt... one that he states (grinning ear to ear no less) is absolutely “perfect” for you. On this shirt, a picture of a guy who bares a striking resemblance to Captain Lou Albano is sunbathing, and the image is accompanied by the following words:

“It’s not a beer belly, it’s a fuel source for my sex machine!”

Yeah... I decided right then that it was time to lay off the burritos. When a pudgy little Mexican guy thinks you're fat, it's time for self-evaluation. I was quietly and humbly mortified. The only consolation I had was the fact that I was standing thousands of miles away from my regular life, thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I knew, and therefore no one would ever have to know about the humiliation I had just suffered.

Of course, I just wrote about it here, so I guess I’ve kind of negated that line of reasoning… but really, how many of you are actually going to read this far?

Anyway, my point is... That lovely event gave me more than enough fuel (pun intended) for my fire... I was ready to make a change. And now, I’m working on it. I‘m eating better and cursing the treadmill on a nearly daily basis... and we’ll see what happens. Maybe I’ll get down to my goal weight, maybe I won’t. Either way, I’m sure I’ll wind up in better shape than I am now…

And hey… if I’m really successful at this, and miracle of all miracles, I’m able to get down to what I weighed when I graduated high school... well I’ll tell you right now, I’m getting the mesh half-shirts back out of storage.

*Yes, I am aware that the Venus de Milo was not created by Peter Paul Rubens... I’m also aware that the statue originally DID have arms... it probably isn’t “technically” Rubenesque either, but trust me... it’s funnier if you don’t think about things like that.

Random Thought #5.1

2005-04-05T15:14:00.000-04:00

They say that all great works of literature draw from direct personal experience... by these standards, midgets should be really good at haiku.

Grieving for the likes of Camp Candy...

2005-04-05T11:37:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I feel the need to take a moment for reflection… a moment where I can acknowledge the things that are slowly fading into the gentle tapestry of my collective consciousness, and now exist only as a memory of what they once were. I reflect upon important things… significant things… things that have had a profound effect on my life in one way or another…

Currently, I’m lamenting the loss of Saturday morning cartoons.

Have you taken a look at the major networks on a Saturday morning recently? It’s a travesty! Sure, there’s no Bugs or Tweety… no Donald or Goofy… I accept that, with the advent of cable, and Corporate America being what it is and all… but tell me, where’s today’s version of the Smurfs? Or their lesser-appreciated red-headed stepchild of a cousin, the Snorks? And what’s going to fill the void left by the departure of Shirt Tales? Where am I supposed to get my fix of animals in cotton T’s doing good, overcoming complex emotional issues, and living in a hollowed out tree? Oh, and can you give me ANY good reason why Alvin & the Chipmunks aren’t partaking in some madcap adventure that forces them to sing an adorable rendition of 50 Cent’s “In da Club” while running away from an angry sous chef who just had his entire first course trampled on?

On second thought, that last question kinda answers itself… there’s just something inherently wrong with the chipmunks (even Alvin) singing cheerfully about Bitches and Hos.

OK, so maybe it’s no longer possible to have exactly the same type of cartoons that I had, but that still leaves the door open to one of the most endearing types of Saturday morning entertainment…

“Grab your pixie sticks kids, it’s time for a crudely drawn, overly hyped, quick cash-in on popular culture!”

You’d think that’d be a natural in today’s business environment…

oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.

In my day, I had Pac-Man and Friends… I had Punky Brewster… I had Dragon’s Lair… I had Mr. T… Apparantly (though I can’t say I ever recall seeing it), I even had Rubik, the Amazing Cube!

Every year we’d get a new onslaught of cartoons, engineered to take advantage of whatever trend, fad, or tv show had been popular the year before. That’s how we got Alf, Beetlejuice, Ghostbusters and The Completely Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley. It’s also why we sat through Donkey Kong, Q*Bert, Frogger, Pitfall and Pole Position (80s cartoons were very big on video games) The California Raisins were even on the air, and they were the spinoff of a friggin’ commercial!

For a child with a short attention span, growing up during this time was sheer bliss. A Saturday morning spent with a bowl of fruit loops and the cable box on my lap… yes, I said a cable “box” …it was bulky, had pushbuttons for the channels, and was attached to another box on the tv via a 30 ft length of wire (that often served double-duty as a defensive weapon during the controller wars of ’84)… anyway, it was a beautiful thing…

So what happened to it all?

One word… Screech.

In the fall of 1989, NBC unleashed Saved by the Bell on an unsuspecting public as part of its new TNBC Saturday mornings. The rest, as they say, is contrived poorly written history. Teen shows took off, and proceeded to infest the majority of the Saturday morning schedule (they were so popular in fact, that no one seemed to bat an eye when the entire class at Bayside repeated their Senior year). The traditional Saturday morning cartoon began to fade into nothing more than a memory.

And that, is truly sad.

Nowadays, it’s a bit more varied… Yeah, there’s still a host of teen shows raining acne on my morning airwaves, but there’s also news and sports for kids and a couple poor attempts at computer animation. Adding insult to injury, in another alarming trend, the weekday morning shows (Like Today and Good Morning America) have also apparently decided that they’re just SOOOOOO important, they need top be on seven days a week now (whatever happened to waking up, turning on the TV, and not be able to immediately being able to recognize the fact that it’s the weekend?). I guess the closest thing we have now to the good old-fashioned pop culture rip off would be the kids’ reality shows… which from what I can tell are a knock off of survivor, and for some reason, a kids version of trading spaces (oh wow, next week I get to make an armoire out of duct tape and a refrigerator box!).

It’s all ok I guess… things change after all, it’s the natural order of the universe… but all things considered, I’d much rather be watching the new adventures of Bigfoot and the Muscle Machines.

And that’s, “one to grow on…”

(or if you younger kids would prefer… “The more you know”)

The salmon makes all the difference...

2005-04-01T11:24:00.000-05:00

I absolutely love the audacity of the new ads for Dasani water... have you seen them? If not, go to their website right now, and then come back. Just click first on “TV ads”, and then on the picture of the guy in a bear suit holding a fish.

Here’s the URL:

http://www.dasani.com/flash.htm

This ad has been running quite frequently around here lately, and it amuses me to no end.

So did you check it out?

Yup, that’s right... here’s a company selling bottled water that has the utter chutzpah to base their campaign around the fact that they AREN’T filling their bottles with fresh, natural, clear water from a river or spring…

In fact, they go so far as to imply that natural water is a bad, bad thing, closing their spots with the unique tagline:

"Dasani... It's crisp, refreshing, and salmon-free"

After all, who’d want water from a mountain spring or free flowing river? That’s where fish spawn, for christ’s sake!

(now granted, I wouldn’t want to drink anything taken from the Jacuzzi used in Ron Jeremy’s production of “Finding Nympho” but I think this is a little different...)

Before you think I have no sense of humor, trust me, I realize that this ad has its tongue planted firmly in cheek, and it’s meant to be funny and memorable, but still… you know that under the surface is a message that’s very important to their marketing… and when you get down to it, they really ARE saying that their water is purer (purer? more pure? Containing a greater quantity of the essence of pure? Whatever... you get the drift). They really want you to believe that natural water is bad, and you should only drink water that undergoes their top-secret special “filtering” process…

That’s quite a leap to make... and here’s what makes it even more amazing...

Recently, 500,000 bottles of Dasani water had to be recalled in Britain, due to the fact that they contained illegally high levels of bromate - a cancer-causing chemical.

Oops… guess you can’t blame that on salmon semen.

UK paper The Guardian also had this to add:

"Coca-Cola's new brand of "pure" bottled water, Dasani, was revealed earlier this month to be tap water taken from the mains. Then, it emerged that what the firm described as its "highly sophisticated purification process", based on NASA spacecraft technology, was in fact reverse osmosis used in many modest domestic water purification units."

To which executives at Coca-Cola replied:

“Yeah, but we put it in a really cool bottle... it has swirlies and everything!”

So basically, Dasani is nothing more than tap water... or actually, it’s tap water, “with an extra special heaping of bromate (chemotherapy sold separately).”

Just kind of makes you want to find a guy in a bear suit and smack him with a fish, doesn’t it?

...but the ad is kinda funny.

Random Thought #6

2005-04-01T11:13:00.000-05:00

If it takes a tough man to make a tender chicken, then what can you say of the consternation of one who would prepare a slightly gamey roast beef au jus?

[In honor of Frank Perdue: 1921-2005]

Random Thought #5

2005-03-31T11:36:00.001-05:00

They say that all great works of literature draw from direct personal experience... by these standards, are midgets really qualified to write haiku?

Pointless Observation #6

2005-03-30T13:55:00.000-05:00

Broken pencils don't write very well.

[that one's just for me...]

Silver Linings #10

2005-03-30T13:51:00.000-05:00

DARK CLOUD :(
If you ask someone out on a date and they say no, you’ll probably feel embarrassed and dejected... especially when they laugh at you.

SILVER LINING :)
You can always tell everyone that it was YOU who said no, and that you in fact declined because you had heard they picked up an incurable venereal disease from a transient Taiwanese busboy named Dip Sook... rumors like that have a way of spreading very quickly.