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.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
How to have fun test driving a new car...
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.
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.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Random thought #13
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?
...and by the same token, would buying "long-stemmed" roses still be a kind gesture, or is it really just mocking at that point?
Friday, June 24, 2005
Random Observation #4
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.
...kinda seems like a waste of time and effort to even pose the question in the first place.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Any takers?
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).
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).
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Questions on fish
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?
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?
Monday, June 13, 2005
Random Thought #12
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...
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...
Friday, June 10, 2005
Sometimes you just have to laugh...
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.
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.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Random Thought #11
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.
"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.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Friday, May 13, 2005
Random Thought #9
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Silver Linings #12
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Random Thought # 8
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"
...no matter how loud he screamed "go yankees"
The sound of self-pity...
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...
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...
Friday, April 29, 2005
You must choose wisely...
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.
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.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Random Thought #7
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.
...in which case he should probably growl a lot.
Random Paragraph #19
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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
The power of the Hoff...
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Random Observation #2
Eviserated (e·vis·cer·at·ed)
Definition: To have removed the entrails of; disemboweled.
Eviserator (e·vis·cer·a·tor)
Definition: Auto Mechanic.
Definition: To have removed the entrails of; disemboweled.
Eviserator (e·vis·cer·a·tor)
Definition: Auto Mechanic.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Random Thought #6
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.
...until I remembered I was talking about a pencil.
Monday, April 11, 2005
it makes sense to mike...
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...
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.
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.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Random paragraph #18
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.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Fat kids are harder to kidnap...
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Random Thought #5.1
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...
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”)
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”)
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