Here's the deal folks. All of us here who bring you DLOG on a near daily basis (me) are going on vacation, or at least are taking the next week and a half off. As such, it's going to get pretty quiet around here. I will, however, still receive DLOG email which is linked at the bottom.
Why do you care? Well, there are now a handful of people who read this blog somewhat regularly, and I'm interested in what you're here for. Do you read it for the humor? The rants? The potty jokes? (I know that's why I would come here.) Are you looking for personal insight into my life? Do you just need to kill a minute and a half, and that's how long it takes to read today's post? Let me know. Seriously.
I started this mess almost a year ago, in part to get things out of my head, and in part just as an excuse to write. Both have worked out fairly well, but since I do keep track of whether or not people actually read it, I would like to keep it interesting. If you want to see something else here, let me know. If there is something you'd rather not see here anymore, let me know that too. If there is some topic I've missed, point it out. Heck, if there's something you want to know about, but are too lazy to look up yourself, let me know.
Now, do I expect a big response from this? Probably not. In fact, my comments section has all but gone silent, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever used the email link at the bottom of the page. If that's the way this goes, so be it. I will continue rambling on in the way I've come to. Hopefully, some of you will continue reading about it.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Seriously, I Thought a Brazillian Was Some Kind Of Drink
This weekend found me in a position I've been in several times throughout my life - sitting amongst a pile of my newly shorn hair. It was about this time last year I decided I was growing it out again, and with the reluctant approval of my lovely wife...well, I didn't really do anything but stop getting haircuts so often. It's not like growing your hair out takes work.
Anyway, it had gotten long enough to officially be long, and as usual, I was already sick of how I looked. The idea of cutting it short had rumbled around my brain for a few weeks, but I kept pushing it back, if for no other reason that it had been a damned year. Growing it out doesn't take work, but it definitely takes time. So each time I though about cutting it, I'd reconsider and think to myself, "Let's give it another month and see how it looks".
As part of our to-do list, the Moose and I went in for haircuts this weekend. I just got mine trimmed and layered. I have no idea what it means to have your hair layered, but the wife said it needed it, and I passed that along to the lady cutting my hair as if I knew what I was talking about. She took an inch or so off the back, layered it (she could have just been opening and closing the scissors in the air for all I know), and said we were good. My lovely wife told me it looked better, and I was happy.
So I pay for our new quaffs, and having finished paying I go to collect the family from the waiting area. Much to my dismay, I find my wife and daughter going through a book of men's hairstyles discussing what would look good on daddy. I'm not typically one to pick up on hints that aren't stapled to my forehead, but the idea that maybe my new do was somehow less than pleasing to my good lady wife bothered me immensely. As I've probably mentioned before, I pretty much have one person in the world I have to impress as far as looks are concerned, so when I feel like I'm blowing that it doesn't sit right with me.
After some measure of badgering on my part, it was conveyed to me that a shorter cut would have been preferred, and since I had been considering it anyway, I went back the next day to have the job completed. The only catch is that now I have to remember how to style my hair, a task made unnecessary when it was longer. Well, that and my ears are cold. Still, it's all worth it if my lovely wife finds it more attractive, and it additionally fulfills my need to be constantly changing some part of my physical appearance.
I'm just glad she stopped dropping hints about the bikini wax - I am not going through that again.
Anyway, it had gotten long enough to officially be long, and as usual, I was already sick of how I looked. The idea of cutting it short had rumbled around my brain for a few weeks, but I kept pushing it back, if for no other reason that it had been a damned year. Growing it out doesn't take work, but it definitely takes time. So each time I though about cutting it, I'd reconsider and think to myself, "Let's give it another month and see how it looks".
As part of our to-do list, the Moose and I went in for haircuts this weekend. I just got mine trimmed and layered. I have no idea what it means to have your hair layered, but the wife said it needed it, and I passed that along to the lady cutting my hair as if I knew what I was talking about. She took an inch or so off the back, layered it (she could have just been opening and closing the scissors in the air for all I know), and said we were good. My lovely wife told me it looked better, and I was happy.
So I pay for our new quaffs, and having finished paying I go to collect the family from the waiting area. Much to my dismay, I find my wife and daughter going through a book of men's hairstyles discussing what would look good on daddy. I'm not typically one to pick up on hints that aren't stapled to my forehead, but the idea that maybe my new do was somehow less than pleasing to my good lady wife bothered me immensely. As I've probably mentioned before, I pretty much have one person in the world I have to impress as far as looks are concerned, so when I feel like I'm blowing that it doesn't sit right with me.
After some measure of badgering on my part, it was conveyed to me that a shorter cut would have been preferred, and since I had been considering it anyway, I went back the next day to have the job completed. The only catch is that now I have to remember how to style my hair, a task made unnecessary when it was longer. Well, that and my ears are cold. Still, it's all worth it if my lovely wife finds it more attractive, and it additionally fulfills my need to be constantly changing some part of my physical appearance.
I'm just glad she stopped dropping hints about the bikini wax - I am not going through that again.
Friday, December 19, 2008
At Least I Already Have A Bunch Of Their Change
Living in Michigan, I've been paying close attention to the news regarding the rotten state of the automotive industry. I have to. Not only do I know people who will be affected by the shutdown of the big three, but part of me believes that the government will cut its losses and sell Michigan to Canada when it happens, and it drives me a little crazy when people say "aboot".
Well, I'm not politically savvy enough to completely understand all of what's going on here, but last night I made a couple of helpful observations for my friends in the industry. It may be too late for this to help all of you, but those left standing might take note. It's regarding your advertising, which I made the mistake of not muting last night when it interrupted Stephen Colbert.
First, the commercial I was watching made a big thing about some award the car had just won. That's fine. You accomplish something, go on with your bad self and brag it up. What I take issue with was that the award for best resale value 2009. I'm not sure if you think we're stupid, or your claiming to be psycic, but trying to sell your cars by claiming that people from the future have declared it the best car, again, in the future is stretching things a bit far, don't you think. Why not just start bragging about the new flux capacitor design and the car's ability to fly while your at it.
Okay, obviously I'm kidding with that one, since the automotive industry has an odd habit of labeling their cars a year in advance, which frankly has always irritated the hell out of me, but here's the more serious observation. They pinned onto the commercial that there is also a huge deal going on right now where "the price on the tag is the price you pay". So the tag says it's a thirty thousand dollar car, and you pay thirty thousand dollars. Huh.
Now, you'll have to excuse me if I'm slightly underwhelmed with this, but if I understand this correctly, then what you're claiming is that the big special of the week is that for a limited time, your cars will be sold like almost every other product in the known world. Maybe I don't buy enough cars (I'm sure the automotive industry would say so), but can someone explain why this is a big deal? I mean, if I went to buy a head of lettuce or a video game, and there was a big sign saying "Special today - all price tags are accurate", I'm thinking I'd be unimpressed. Unfortunately, same thing applies to cars.
So yeah, if any of you are left standing in 2009, and I really hope you are (I actually drive an American car, and I like the idea of being able to get parts for it and whatnot), maybe this information will be useful. I'm sorry I can't offer more advice, but let's be honest. These are tough times, and we all need to watch our own backs, and bank accounts, for the moment.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go read up on parliamentary government and start practicing my moose calls, eh.
Well, I'm not politically savvy enough to completely understand all of what's going on here, but last night I made a couple of helpful observations for my friends in the industry. It may be too late for this to help all of you, but those left standing might take note. It's regarding your advertising, which I made the mistake of not muting last night when it interrupted Stephen Colbert.
First, the commercial I was watching made a big thing about some award the car had just won. That's fine. You accomplish something, go on with your bad self and brag it up. What I take issue with was that the award for best resale value 2009. I'm not sure if you think we're stupid, or your claiming to be psycic, but trying to sell your cars by claiming that people from the future have declared it the best car, again, in the future is stretching things a bit far, don't you think. Why not just start bragging about the new flux capacitor design and the car's ability to fly while your at it.
Okay, obviously I'm kidding with that one, since the automotive industry has an odd habit of labeling their cars a year in advance, which frankly has always irritated the hell out of me, but here's the more serious observation. They pinned onto the commercial that there is also a huge deal going on right now where "the price on the tag is the price you pay". So the tag says it's a thirty thousand dollar car, and you pay thirty thousand dollars. Huh.
Now, you'll have to excuse me if I'm slightly underwhelmed with this, but if I understand this correctly, then what you're claiming is that the big special of the week is that for a limited time, your cars will be sold like almost every other product in the known world. Maybe I don't buy enough cars (I'm sure the automotive industry would say so), but can someone explain why this is a big deal? I mean, if I went to buy a head of lettuce or a video game, and there was a big sign saying "Special today - all price tags are accurate", I'm thinking I'd be unimpressed. Unfortunately, same thing applies to cars.
So yeah, if any of you are left standing in 2009, and I really hope you are (I actually drive an American car, and I like the idea of being able to get parts for it and whatnot), maybe this information will be useful. I'm sorry I can't offer more advice, but let's be honest. These are tough times, and we all need to watch our own backs, and bank accounts, for the moment.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go read up on parliamentary government and start practicing my moose calls, eh.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Dude, I Don't Know How To Say This, But You Smell Delicious
I'm a man who has reached the point in my life where I no longer feel the need to wear cologne. In my youth, I would regularly douse myself in various manly scents in an effort to attract the opposite sex. Having snared myself a wonderful bride, I have lapsed in this, deciding instead to go with the ever popular "clean". It's worked so far as I can tell.
Anyway, having left the scene, I don't pay a lot of attention to new colognes. I've ignored the whole Axe Effect. I disregard celebrity colognes, only pausing to note that Antonio Banderas came out with a cologne and all I could do was wonder if it smelled like Melanie Griffith. Basically, I don't care.
Then the advertisers of the world proved that everyone can be made curious with this. This is a delicious combination of fascinating and creepy, and it's apparently centered around a new scent for men (I think). Someone has finally wedded the American fascination with vanity with the American fascination with food.
If I'm reading this right, someone has made a cologne that smells like a Whopper.
Why a cologne though? I know they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but do women get turned on by the aroma of grilling meat? I'm guessing not, but maybe I'm wrong. Either way, it seems like a perfume would have been a better choice.
Forgetting the gender bias for a moment though, is there really a crowd of people in the world who are sitting around thinking, "Gee, my life would feel so much more complete if I could smell like meat of some kind". If so, I suppose this product would give them a healthy alternative to hanging around with cannibals. So, you know, it's got that going for it I guess.
My point here is that once in a while the world throws a product out there that makes me sit back and realize that maybe I don't know people as well as I think I do. I mean, I never would have dreamed that such a thing would make it past the realm of humor, but there you go. So yeah, while I'm not running out to buy myself any of this (I'm thinking that my lovely wife, being a vegetarian, would be less than thrilled at the prospect of me smelling like a burger), it's interesting to me that there are those out there who will undoubtedly not only purchase, but actually wear such a thing.
To them, may I recommend avoiding the kennels.
Anyway, having left the scene, I don't pay a lot of attention to new colognes. I've ignored the whole Axe Effect. I disregard celebrity colognes, only pausing to note that Antonio Banderas came out with a cologne and all I could do was wonder if it smelled like Melanie Griffith. Basically, I don't care.
Then the advertisers of the world proved that everyone can be made curious with this. This is a delicious combination of fascinating and creepy, and it's apparently centered around a new scent for men (I think). Someone has finally wedded the American fascination with vanity with the American fascination with food.
If I'm reading this right, someone has made a cologne that smells like a Whopper.
Why a cologne though? I know they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but do women get turned on by the aroma of grilling meat? I'm guessing not, but maybe I'm wrong. Either way, it seems like a perfume would have been a better choice.
Forgetting the gender bias for a moment though, is there really a crowd of people in the world who are sitting around thinking, "Gee, my life would feel so much more complete if I could smell like meat of some kind". If so, I suppose this product would give them a healthy alternative to hanging around with cannibals. So, you know, it's got that going for it I guess.
My point here is that once in a while the world throws a product out there that makes me sit back and realize that maybe I don't know people as well as I think I do. I mean, I never would have dreamed that such a thing would make it past the realm of humor, but there you go. So yeah, while I'm not running out to buy myself any of this (I'm thinking that my lovely wife, being a vegetarian, would be less than thrilled at the prospect of me smelling like a burger), it's interesting to me that there are those out there who will undoubtedly not only purchase, but actually wear such a thing.
To them, may I recommend avoiding the kennels.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
If Part Of It Is Removed, Do You Call It a Semicolon?
Let's start today by pointing out that yesterday, I said I wanted enough snow to make it look Christmassy. One day later, we have exactly enough snow to make it look Christmassy, and no more. Conclusion: I may have super powers. I'll keep you posted on that.
Anyway, a couple of interesting news tidbits today regarding my musical companion, the colon. First, it has been discovered that colonoscopy's are not as effective as once thought. Basically, the view is limited to mostly the left side of the colon, resulting in things being missed on the right.
Now, as you may or may not recall, I actually went through that recently. It wasn't the worst thing in the world (that would be eating Quest Doritos), but I wouldn't exactly jump at the chance to go through it again. So the idea that something may have been missed based on alignment is a wee bit unnerving.
Anyway, the other news item, and the one I enjoy more, is that new research shows that smoking increases the risk of colon cancer. Aside from the obvious question (Are the smokers doing it wrong?), I'm once again forced to wonder why smoking continues to even be legal. I mean, we continue to outlaw marijuana, which has proved to have genuine medical benefits, but tobacco, which accomplished nothing but addiction and various flavors of cancer runs free. Bizarre.
On the bright side, now crack dealers can point out that there is more than one addictive substance that can be associated with your butt, helping sales in a struggling economy.
Anyway, a couple of interesting news tidbits today regarding my musical companion, the colon. First, it has been discovered that colonoscopy's are not as effective as once thought. Basically, the view is limited to mostly the left side of the colon, resulting in things being missed on the right.
Now, as you may or may not recall, I actually went through that recently. It wasn't the worst thing in the world (that would be eating Quest Doritos), but I wouldn't exactly jump at the chance to go through it again. So the idea that something may have been missed based on alignment is a wee bit unnerving.
Anyway, the other news item, and the one I enjoy more, is that new research shows that smoking increases the risk of colon cancer. Aside from the obvious question (Are the smokers doing it wrong?), I'm once again forced to wonder why smoking continues to even be legal. I mean, we continue to outlaw marijuana, which has proved to have genuine medical benefits, but tobacco, which accomplished nothing but addiction and various flavors of cancer runs free. Bizarre.
On the bright side, now crack dealers can point out that there is more than one addictive substance that can be associated with your butt, helping sales in a struggling economy.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Ah, If I Could Only Grow Mutton Chops
Well, it's just over one week to Christmas, and the snow is gone. As someone who has a love/hate relationship with snow, I just don't know how to feel about this. Normally, any lack of snow is a good thing in my book, but I'm a traditionalist, and thanks to a lifetime of Michigan weather (not to mention an affinity for Bing Crosby), I've come to expect snow on two days of the year - Christmas and it's eve.
Most of the time, I see snow, along with most of winter, as a nuisance. I was most prepared to abandon my current location at one point, even eyeballing Arizona. Somehow, though, I always remain here in a place that's known for things like skiing. Dude, strapping two pieces of thin wood to your feet and then seeing how fast you can go down a mountain. No thankee, sai.
As far as I'm concerned, winter and snow serve one purpose - look pretty. Snow is lovely so long as it can be used as an excuse for sitting inside on a Sunday afternoon, sipping cocoa and watching movies. Once you expect me to actually venture out into it, then we have an issue. I don't like being cold even a little bit, and the only detrimental effect of not maintaining my butterball figure is that I no longer have the protective layers of fatty tissue to harden me against the cruel winters. (Seriously, I used to walk to class in an unbuttoned jacket when it was around zero degree Fahrenheit, arrive to class sweating, and still convince myself that I wasn't that out of shape. Ah, denial is a powerful thing.)
As we edge closer to Christmas, though, I'm a little distraught at the lack of snowy goodness in my yard. Over on this side of the state (towards the thumb), it was raining yesterday. As a result, our yard is officially snow free today. It's sunny outside, so I don't see that changing today anyway.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not willing another blizzard like last year into existence (although if I could, I would will it to appear in Texas, just because it's funny reading about wide spread chaos being caused over a half inch of snow). I just want enough to cover the ground so I can continue towards my goal of the perfect picturesque Christmas scene. Fireplace burning. Hot coffee spiked with egg nog. My loving family surrounding me, children excitedly asking me if it's time to open their gifts in their adorable British accents.
What? I can't be the only person whose Christmas ideal has been shaped from years of A Christmas Carol.
Most of the time, I see snow, along with most of winter, as a nuisance. I was most prepared to abandon my current location at one point, even eyeballing Arizona. Somehow, though, I always remain here in a place that's known for things like skiing. Dude, strapping two pieces of thin wood to your feet and then seeing how fast you can go down a mountain. No thankee, sai.
As far as I'm concerned, winter and snow serve one purpose - look pretty. Snow is lovely so long as it can be used as an excuse for sitting inside on a Sunday afternoon, sipping cocoa and watching movies. Once you expect me to actually venture out into it, then we have an issue. I don't like being cold even a little bit, and the only detrimental effect of not maintaining my butterball figure is that I no longer have the protective layers of fatty tissue to harden me against the cruel winters. (Seriously, I used to walk to class in an unbuttoned jacket when it was around zero degree Fahrenheit, arrive to class sweating, and still convince myself that I wasn't that out of shape. Ah, denial is a powerful thing.)
As we edge closer to Christmas, though, I'm a little distraught at the lack of snowy goodness in my yard. Over on this side of the state (towards the thumb), it was raining yesterday. As a result, our yard is officially snow free today. It's sunny outside, so I don't see that changing today anyway.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not willing another blizzard like last year into existence (although if I could, I would will it to appear in Texas, just because it's funny reading about wide spread chaos being caused over a half inch of snow). I just want enough to cover the ground so I can continue towards my goal of the perfect picturesque Christmas scene. Fireplace burning. Hot coffee spiked with egg nog. My loving family surrounding me, children excitedly asking me if it's time to open their gifts in their adorable British accents.
What? I can't be the only person whose Christmas ideal has been shaped from years of A Christmas Carol.
Monday, December 15, 2008
This Must Have Developed Since I Gave Up Winged Vigilantism
Today, we get to have an educational moment here at DLOG, for today we get to learn a new word. Today's word is acrophobia. Acrophobia, according to Wikipedia (for people too lazy to click a link) "is an extreme or irrational fear of heights". Why are we discussing it here?
'Cause I got it.
Oh I haven't been to a doctor for diagnosis or anything, standing firm on my policy of only seeing doctors for ailments that are visible from across the street, but I've got it. I know because this weekend I had to do a simple task that took way longer than it should have. We had some rotted wood replace on a second floor window, but didn't have it painted yet. Well, it had been a few weeks, and we were having a cookie decorating party for the Princess, so my lovely wife asked me to take care if of it. I'm not handy, but I know my way around a paintbrush, so I stepped up.
Well, sort of. While everyone else went to gymnastics, I dragged the 20 foot ladder outside and tried to get it against the house in an appropriate manner. Succeeding at that, I got myself an old peanut butter jar full of paint, a brush, stuffed both in my pockets, and climbed up the ladder. About half way up, I just stopped, hung out for a minute, and then climbed back down.
I made the pretense of checking that it was sturdy enough, adjusting the ladder a bit. Then I started climbing again. This time I made it to the top of the porch roof, a whopping ten feet in the air maybe, before I froze up. Now, it's hard to explain how strange this was for me. I knew I wasn't very far off of the ground. I looked down, and it didn't even look that far off the ground. Nonetheless, I literally couldn't make myself go further. So, once again I backed down, and went inside for a minute to gather myself.
Keep in mind, dear reader, that my glorified sense of importance makes this all the worse, as the whole time I'm doing this I'm imagining the neighbors looking out the windows, trying to figure out why I keep climbing the ladder and then coming back down. So far I'm okay, as the first one was poor ladder setup, and the second trip would probably be viewed as forgetting some needed item. This time, though, I had to make it, lest they quietly begin snickering to themselves.
So, out I go. I climb the ladder, and this time make it to my goal. Well, almost anyway. See, I got high enough on the ladder to reach the top of the area to be painted, so we were all good there. The only issue was that I couldn't make myself get the paint out. I'm literally standing at the top of this ladder (again, maybe a whole 15-17 feet of the ground now), and I'm saying to myself, "Dude, just reach into your coat pocket, pull the jar of paint out, and go". My hands chose to soundly ignore this request and instead chose to cling tenaciously to the rungs.
This would be bad, but soon I discovered that was the least of my problems. See, having apparently avoided heights with an efficiency previously unimagined, I discovered that not only were my hands being uncooperative, now my feet had joined the revolution. So now I'm standing at the top of the ladder, not painting, and unable to make myself climb down. My limbs had decided that I was not the one calling the shots anymore, and that they were in charge now. Thank goodness my colon remained loyal.
Anyway, I managed to get down, and almost a full hour (and a lot of pacing and talking to myself) later, I managed to get back up the ladder and start painting. What was odd was that as long as I was painting I was fine, but the second I stopped I could feel myself freezing up again. I've not experienced such a loss of physical control over my body in my life, and frankly it was as disturbing an experience as I've ever had. I'm sure I'll get over it in time, but I'm not in any hurry to try it again.
'Cause I got it.
Oh I haven't been to a doctor for diagnosis or anything, standing firm on my policy of only seeing doctors for ailments that are visible from across the street, but I've got it. I know because this weekend I had to do a simple task that took way longer than it should have. We had some rotted wood replace on a second floor window, but didn't have it painted yet. Well, it had been a few weeks, and we were having a cookie decorating party for the Princess, so my lovely wife asked me to take care if of it. I'm not handy, but I know my way around a paintbrush, so I stepped up.
Well, sort of. While everyone else went to gymnastics, I dragged the 20 foot ladder outside and tried to get it against the house in an appropriate manner. Succeeding at that, I got myself an old peanut butter jar full of paint, a brush, stuffed both in my pockets, and climbed up the ladder. About half way up, I just stopped, hung out for a minute, and then climbed back down.
I made the pretense of checking that it was sturdy enough, adjusting the ladder a bit. Then I started climbing again. This time I made it to the top of the porch roof, a whopping ten feet in the air maybe, before I froze up. Now, it's hard to explain how strange this was for me. I knew I wasn't very far off of the ground. I looked down, and it didn't even look that far off the ground. Nonetheless, I literally couldn't make myself go further. So, once again I backed down, and went inside for a minute to gather myself.
Keep in mind, dear reader, that my glorified sense of importance makes this all the worse, as the whole time I'm doing this I'm imagining the neighbors looking out the windows, trying to figure out why I keep climbing the ladder and then coming back down. So far I'm okay, as the first one was poor ladder setup, and the second trip would probably be viewed as forgetting some needed item. This time, though, I had to make it, lest they quietly begin snickering to themselves.
So, out I go. I climb the ladder, and this time make it to my goal. Well, almost anyway. See, I got high enough on the ladder to reach the top of the area to be painted, so we were all good there. The only issue was that I couldn't make myself get the paint out. I'm literally standing at the top of this ladder (again, maybe a whole 15-17 feet of the ground now), and I'm saying to myself, "Dude, just reach into your coat pocket, pull the jar of paint out, and go". My hands chose to soundly ignore this request and instead chose to cling tenaciously to the rungs.
This would be bad, but soon I discovered that was the least of my problems. See, having apparently avoided heights with an efficiency previously unimagined, I discovered that not only were my hands being uncooperative, now my feet had joined the revolution. So now I'm standing at the top of the ladder, not painting, and unable to make myself climb down. My limbs had decided that I was not the one calling the shots anymore, and that they were in charge now. Thank goodness my colon remained loyal.
Anyway, I managed to get down, and almost a full hour (and a lot of pacing and talking to myself) later, I managed to get back up the ladder and start painting. What was odd was that as long as I was painting I was fine, but the second I stopped I could feel myself freezing up again. I've not experienced such a loss of physical control over my body in my life, and frankly it was as disturbing an experience as I've ever had. I'm sure I'll get over it in time, but I'm not in any hurry to try it again.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Ah, To Be Chewbacca. What a Wookie.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. I've got a great family. I have a job that does not seem to be under any kind of immediate threat. I'm pretty. I've got a lot of things going for me. Some of it is through hard work, some because I have an excellent support system, but some, some is pure, random luck. In this last category I put the following item.
I've got a full head of hair.
I'm not saying this to make my follically challenged fellows feel bad about the gleam upon their pate. Rather, I'm saying it because I dodged a genetic bullet on this one. This is an instance of tremendous luck on my part.
When I was a young man growing up, I had always heard the same thing. If you want to know if you'll be bald, look at the uncles on your mother's side of the family. Well, I had two biological uncles. (Mom was adopted, so I also had a drunk of other uncles, which for those of you who didn't know, is the proper term for more than one uncle - a "drunk" of uncles. Well, it was in my family anyway.) These two were nice and all, but they had less hair on their combined heads than Keanu Reeves has emotional outbursts ("Whoa...I'm so upset. Dude, what were we talking about again?"). So yeah, I was looking forward to a life spent scouring haberdashers in the hopes of hiding my striking resemblance to Friar Tuck.
Now I know what you're all saying right now. "You're so charming and smart and funny, why would you concern yourself with looks?" I get that a lot. Nonetheless, I must confess that I, shamefully, am a proud man. That, and I have a tenancy to grow my hair out long. Guys who can wear the bald look are lucky, but I have yet to see the successful pulling off of the balding hippy look. It always comes off so...I don't know. Balding hippy I guess.
So there you have it. Amongst the things that I am grateful for in my life, I simply must count the fact that I've got a full head of hair. I know it shouldn't matter, but even with the whole "beauty comes from the inside", I'm still grateful.
After all, as a man, I have yet to have something come from inside of me that would fall into any category other than "Gah...get it away! Kill it! Kill it with fire!".
I've got a full head of hair.
I'm not saying this to make my follically challenged fellows feel bad about the gleam upon their pate. Rather, I'm saying it because I dodged a genetic bullet on this one. This is an instance of tremendous luck on my part.
When I was a young man growing up, I had always heard the same thing. If you want to know if you'll be bald, look at the uncles on your mother's side of the family. Well, I had two biological uncles. (Mom was adopted, so I also had a drunk of other uncles, which for those of you who didn't know, is the proper term for more than one uncle - a "drunk" of uncles. Well, it was in my family anyway.) These two were nice and all, but they had less hair on their combined heads than Keanu Reeves has emotional outbursts ("Whoa...I'm so upset. Dude, what were we talking about again?"). So yeah, I was looking forward to a life spent scouring haberdashers in the hopes of hiding my striking resemblance to Friar Tuck.
Now I know what you're all saying right now. "You're so charming and smart and funny, why would you concern yourself with looks?" I get that a lot. Nonetheless, I must confess that I, shamefully, am a proud man. That, and I have a tenancy to grow my hair out long. Guys who can wear the bald look are lucky, but I have yet to see the successful pulling off of the balding hippy look. It always comes off so...I don't know. Balding hippy I guess.
So there you have it. Amongst the things that I am grateful for in my life, I simply must count the fact that I've got a full head of hair. I know it shouldn't matter, but even with the whole "beauty comes from the inside", I'm still grateful.
After all, as a man, I have yet to have something come from inside of me that would fall into any category other than "Gah...get it away! Kill it! Kill it with fire!".
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Do Scotsmen Dream of Electric Sheep?
I have a question, and it's one that is now really eating at me. We have all this technology, right, and we use it to build all of this ridiculous %#@$ that no one really needs, right? So, for those of us who tend to watch such innovation, you see certain trends, and one glaring absence.
Why isn't anyone trying to build android men?
This topic is being discussed today thanks to my lovely wife. She sent me the link to the latest attempt to build a robot bride. This yahoo (sorry for my international readers, but I do not know the proper, Japanese transaction for "yahoo"), for reasons I do not comprehend, has taken two years and several thousand dollars and dedicated himself to building himself a girl. This is a variety of creepy that even I, at my most nerdcore, find disturbing.
She includes many "features" too. She reads the day's headlines to him over breakfast. She gives directions while they drive (heh - the world's first genuine GPS nagigator). She'll slap a dude who gets out of line. The guys was kind enough to point out that their relationship remains, shall we say, platonic, although he has pondered the upgrades that would be required to make them man and droid (and in that instance, I'm using "man" in the loosest possible sense).
The thing is, this isn't the first I've heard of men attempting to create robot wives/girlfriends. Ignoring the obvious Stepford comments, all sorts of attempts have been made to allow guys with enough money to simply sidestep the whole "actually go out and meet a girl" scene. Take real dolls for example (link is Wikipedia, so it's safe and informative, in a really creepy kind of way, but I don't recommend following any links after that if you be at work today).
So, while all of that is creepy and whatnot, it naturally leads to the question at hand: where the hell are all of the male doll makers? I mean, why are men so desperate to avoid women, but women seem to lack this desperation? Are we really that easily replaced? I suppose it's not that difficult to take out your own garbage, so as long as a woman can open jars, our usefulness is greatly diminished. But still, it would seem like there would be some market for an artificial fella, right?
Personally, I would like to think that it would take more than one of these and a "neck massager" to replace me, and if anyone thinks otherwise, I would appreciate them keeping that opinion to themselves.
Why isn't anyone trying to build android men?
This topic is being discussed today thanks to my lovely wife. She sent me the link to the latest attempt to build a robot bride. This yahoo (sorry for my international readers, but I do not know the proper, Japanese transaction for "yahoo"), for reasons I do not comprehend, has taken two years and several thousand dollars and dedicated himself to building himself a girl. This is a variety of creepy that even I, at my most nerdcore, find disturbing.
She includes many "features" too. She reads the day's headlines to him over breakfast. She gives directions while they drive (heh - the world's first genuine GPS nagigator). She'll slap a dude who gets out of line. The guys was kind enough to point out that their relationship remains, shall we say, platonic, although he has pondered the upgrades that would be required to make them man and droid (and in that instance, I'm using "man" in the loosest possible sense).
The thing is, this isn't the first I've heard of men attempting to create robot wives/girlfriends. Ignoring the obvious Stepford comments, all sorts of attempts have been made to allow guys with enough money to simply sidestep the whole "actually go out and meet a girl" scene. Take real dolls for example (link is Wikipedia, so it's safe and informative, in a really creepy kind of way, but I don't recommend following any links after that if you be at work today).
So, while all of that is creepy and whatnot, it naturally leads to the question at hand: where the hell are all of the male doll makers? I mean, why are men so desperate to avoid women, but women seem to lack this desperation? Are we really that easily replaced? I suppose it's not that difficult to take out your own garbage, so as long as a woman can open jars, our usefulness is greatly diminished. But still, it would seem like there would be some market for an artificial fella, right?
Personally, I would like to think that it would take more than one of these and a "neck massager" to replace me, and if anyone thinks otherwise, I would appreciate them keeping that opinion to themselves.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Of Course, If You Guys Wanted to Start a Collection, I Wouldn't Say No
For those of you not watching the news now that the election is over (and who could blame you), you might be missing one of the most delightful scandals in recent times. It seems that the Governor of Illinois tried to sell the now vacant Senate seat previously belonging to Barack Obama. He had the decency not to do it on eBay or anything, but he tried nonetheless.
You may be asking why this scandal is different from the myriad abuses that we face each day from those in power. My response would be that, at least from the outward appearances, this one differs in the brashness of the accused. He's caught on wiretaps saying things like "you don't just give it away for nothing". He's been accused of holding up legislation until he got campaign donations, trying to get journalists who criticized him fired through state business deals and threatening to pull state funds from a children's hospital unless part of the funds came back as campaign contributions. There's no word yet if they guy tried to use his position to take candy from babies, but I wouldn't count it out.
So, faced with arrest, and multiple accusations, how does the good Governor Blagojevich respond? Does he publicly apologize for all of it, or (more likely), deny the hell out of it? Well, not exactly.
He posted bail and went back to work.
His spokesman commented on that. "The day-to-day operation doesn't change nor is it affected. There are still critical state issues that he wants to address - things like dealing with the current financial crisis, looking at ways to keep people in their homes and finding ways to create jobs - and will continue to do so as governor." Included in these critical state issues is presumably the aforementioned Senate seat assignment.
Of course everyone want his out now. Cries have gone up for his resignation, and there is a movement to hold some variety of special election to select the new Senator, but no word from Blagojevich (which is really hard to type, by the way). Nope, he's all business as usual. So here's to you, Guvnor. Way to stick to the work, disregarding all of this corruption brouhaha that's going on around you. And pay no heed to the naysayers who mocked you for attending court in a lowly pair of sweatpants.
After all, I'm not sure where you'll find dress pants that could contain the hundred pound, solid brass cojones you're clearly sporting.
You may be asking why this scandal is different from the myriad abuses that we face each day from those in power. My response would be that, at least from the outward appearances, this one differs in the brashness of the accused. He's caught on wiretaps saying things like "you don't just give it away for nothing". He's been accused of holding up legislation until he got campaign donations, trying to get journalists who criticized him fired through state business deals and threatening to pull state funds from a children's hospital unless part of the funds came back as campaign contributions. There's no word yet if they guy tried to use his position to take candy from babies, but I wouldn't count it out.
So, faced with arrest, and multiple accusations, how does the good Governor Blagojevich respond? Does he publicly apologize for all of it, or (more likely), deny the hell out of it? Well, not exactly.
He posted bail and went back to work.
His spokesman commented on that. "The day-to-day operation doesn't change nor is it affected. There are still critical state issues that he wants to address - things like dealing with the current financial crisis, looking at ways to keep people in their homes and finding ways to create jobs - and will continue to do so as governor." Included in these critical state issues is presumably the aforementioned Senate seat assignment.
Of course everyone want his out now. Cries have gone up for his resignation, and there is a movement to hold some variety of special election to select the new Senator, but no word from Blagojevich (which is really hard to type, by the way). Nope, he's all business as usual. So here's to you, Guvnor. Way to stick to the work, disregarding all of this corruption brouhaha that's going on around you. And pay no heed to the naysayers who mocked you for attending court in a lowly pair of sweatpants.
After all, I'm not sure where you'll find dress pants that could contain the hundred pound, solid brass cojones you're clearly sporting.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
All New Holiday Traditions, Brought to You By Burma Shave
So lets talk about something that's...unusual today. Today, I would like to address an odd side effect of a huge part of American life, something that has occurred, and that a lot of us appreciate, without anyone really bothering to put it into words that often. Today, I sing the praises of a certain unsung group of heroes.
Advertisers.
Okay, now I know what you're thinking. Normally, the denizens of Madison Avenenue are spoken of in the same breath as lawyers, politicians and oompa loompas (%@$#ing oompa loompas), and for good reason. Their job is to take some thing that we probably don't need, and convince us that we do. It's manipulative. It's disturbing. Overall, not a great mission in life.
There are those, however, who take that mission and create something wonderful out of it. Then they transcend their positions from mere marketers to artists. Sometimes, they even create something so impressive that it becomes part of our culture. I'm not talking about that red haired freak who pushes burgers on the unsuspecting masses. No, I'm talking about something bigger, something that has become a tremendous part of many of our lives.
I'm talking about Santa Claus.
Now don't get me wrong. I understand that everyone's favorite demigod has origins that trace back to Saint Nicholas of Myra. (At least I'm assuming he's a demigod - he has super powers and all that.) I also know that the current, accepted version of the man came in large part from "A Visit From St. Nicholas" a.k.a. "The Night Before Christmas", dating back to 1823. It was the Coca-Cola company, however, that put the fat man in the red suit all over the map. Oh he was gaining popularity, but it was the soda pop people who pushed him into icon status.
For that matter, what about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? This was purely a concoction of advertising, originating in 1939 as part of a Montomery Ward coloring book to be given away at Christmas time. Now, there isn't a kid who is unaware of the crimson-schnozzed caribou round these parts. It's simply part of the culture.
So there you have it. While many of us may look down our nose at our advertising counterparts, let us not sell short their contribution to our culture as Americans. Who knows what today's marketing geniuses will produce that our children will accept as part of our culture at large.
Heh - imagine people warning their children of the dreaded Axe effect, and how it leads to venereal disease.
Advertisers.
Okay, now I know what you're thinking. Normally, the denizens of Madison Avenenue are spoken of in the same breath as lawyers, politicians and oompa loompas (%@$#ing oompa loompas), and for good reason. Their job is to take some thing that we probably don't need, and convince us that we do. It's manipulative. It's disturbing. Overall, not a great mission in life.
There are those, however, who take that mission and create something wonderful out of it. Then they transcend their positions from mere marketers to artists. Sometimes, they even create something so impressive that it becomes part of our culture. I'm not talking about that red haired freak who pushes burgers on the unsuspecting masses. No, I'm talking about something bigger, something that has become a tremendous part of many of our lives.
I'm talking about Santa Claus.
Now don't get me wrong. I understand that everyone's favorite demigod has origins that trace back to Saint Nicholas of Myra. (At least I'm assuming he's a demigod - he has super powers and all that.) I also know that the current, accepted version of the man came in large part from "A Visit From St. Nicholas" a.k.a. "The Night Before Christmas", dating back to 1823. It was the Coca-Cola company, however, that put the fat man in the red suit all over the map. Oh he was gaining popularity, but it was the soda pop people who pushed him into icon status.
For that matter, what about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? This was purely a concoction of advertising, originating in 1939 as part of a Montomery Ward coloring book to be given away at Christmas time. Now, there isn't a kid who is unaware of the crimson-schnozzed caribou round these parts. It's simply part of the culture.
So there you have it. While many of us may look down our nose at our advertising counterparts, let us not sell short their contribution to our culture as Americans. Who knows what today's marketing geniuses will produce that our children will accept as part of our culture at large.
Heh - imagine people warning their children of the dreaded Axe effect, and how it leads to venereal disease.
Monday, December 8, 2008
I'm Not Fat! I'm Festively Plump.
Okay, I'm now feeling properly Christmassy. I set up a tree (just lights so far, because it takes a bloody long time to wind four strings of lights into a fake tree so you can't see the cords, thank you very much). We've almost finished shopping. The local grocer carries Silk egg nog (which goes extremely well with whiskey). I'm all on the Christmas station on the iPhone. Dude, I'm totally jolly and %#$@.
Mostly I'm feeling it though because the kids were out for the weekend, giving us the opportunity to set up the big gifts this year. So we took an entire afternoon to put together this and this. This rocks because now, on Christmas, the only assembly required will be putting batteries in stuff, which hopefully will be kept to a minimum. This a lot more fun that the kids watching daddy quietly cursing out an Allen wrench for five hours.
It's funny, because being a big kid myself, part of my looking forward to Christmas has always been the loot. Even now, we as parental units really don't spend money on ourselves often, so Christmas is one of the few times I replenish my game supply, or maybe get a book or CD I've wanted. Ordinarily my money is slated for more important things like education or broken things around the house.
Don't get me wrong - I'm still all about the loot. I have my little Amazon wish list (which despite reports I cannot see whether or not things have been purchased from - they hide that the entire month of December). It's just not the focus for me. These days, I'm more excited to see the kids open their stuff and play. Oh sure, part of that excitement is that I'll get to "help" the Princess figure out how to use a remote control Wall-E to chase the cat around, but still.
So yeah, I'm now ready for the upcoming festivities. So long as we can keep the snow at it's current levels (enough to look festive, but not so much that I have to go snow blowing each morn), I think I'm good. We just need to bust out the rest of the holiday decorations, crack open a fruitcake, put on Der Bingle, and proceed with the holiday goodness.
On second thought, why don't we hold off on that fruticake for now.
Mostly I'm feeling it though because the kids were out for the weekend, giving us the opportunity to set up the big gifts this year. So we took an entire afternoon to put together this and this. This rocks because now, on Christmas, the only assembly required will be putting batteries in stuff, which hopefully will be kept to a minimum. This a lot more fun that the kids watching daddy quietly cursing out an Allen wrench for five hours.
It's funny, because being a big kid myself, part of my looking forward to Christmas has always been the loot. Even now, we as parental units really don't spend money on ourselves often, so Christmas is one of the few times I replenish my game supply, or maybe get a book or CD I've wanted. Ordinarily my money is slated for more important things like education or broken things around the house.
Don't get me wrong - I'm still all about the loot. I have my little Amazon wish list (which despite reports I cannot see whether or not things have been purchased from - they hide that the entire month of December). It's just not the focus for me. These days, I'm more excited to see the kids open their stuff and play. Oh sure, part of that excitement is that I'll get to "help" the Princess figure out how to use a remote control Wall-E to chase the cat around, but still.
So yeah, I'm now ready for the upcoming festivities. So long as we can keep the snow at it's current levels (enough to look festive, but not so much that I have to go snow blowing each morn), I think I'm good. We just need to bust out the rest of the holiday decorations, crack open a fruitcake, put on Der Bingle, and proceed with the holiday goodness.
On second thought, why don't we hold off on that fruticake for now.
Friday, December 5, 2008
It's Truly a Marvel
I rely heavily on my Playstation Portable to get my through my workouts, and I've once again scored a terrific game to keep me distracted while I sit on the accursed exercise bike - Marvel Ultimate Alliance. You put together a team of four superheroes from the Marvel universe, and they have to fight through a series of challenges. It's nerdcore awesomeness.
It does remind me, though, that I am far from a comic book geek. I read whatever they have at the library, and I'm a fan of some of it. I think the Sandman series by Niel Gaiman, for example, while starting out kid of rough, ended up being something that really stuck with me, and as previously reviewed, I quite enjoyed Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. I'm far from what you'd call a fan though, always preferring the more text-based storytelling of novels.
Marvel, however, has proven itself an entertainment juggernaut, and having loved the first two X Men movies as well as last summer's Iron Man, I know enough about the characters to be interested. The problem is that, well, sometimes it feels silly. I mean, at least in Marvel's case, the X Men came along to give an excuse for why all these people were showing up with super powers, but some of the story lines just put to much pressure on my suspension of disbelief if you follow them too far.
Take Spiderman for example. A spider gets all radioactive, and somehow doesn't die. Then that spider bites a dude. As we all know, he's suddenly super strong and can climb walls and stuff, which is awesome. (I'm enough of a geek to deny the movies allowing him to sling web, which the comics always did with a gadget he invented, but only because I still don't like the idea of some guy leaving bodily fluids all over New York. Well, okay, another guy.) In real life, the guy would get an slightly less awesome welt, along with some form of necrosis. Don't Google it - trust me that it's something some spiders give people, and it's icky.
It's like that over and over. Dare Devil goes blind when exposed to a radioactive substance, and all of his other senses go through the roof instead of him getting the normal heightened sense of smell. (Plus he's supposedly a hero and a lawyer. Please. Like that could ever happen.) Bruce Banner is exposed to a ton of gamma radiation, and he turns into a super strong behemoth, which is much more exciting that the more realistic cancer. I think you see where I'm going with this.
Of course, most of the time I try not to think so much about all of this. I mean, some of these characters were created over fifty years ago. It's not like they could hop on Wikipedia and look up gamma rays like I can. So, not unlike my complaints about Swiper, I should probably learn to just accept that it's silly and enjoy it, or not bother with it at all. Knowing me, I'm going the silly route.
After all, it seems like the people there are always having more fun.
It does remind me, though, that I am far from a comic book geek. I read whatever they have at the library, and I'm a fan of some of it. I think the Sandman series by Niel Gaiman, for example, while starting out kid of rough, ended up being something that really stuck with me, and as previously reviewed, I quite enjoyed Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. I'm far from what you'd call a fan though, always preferring the more text-based storytelling of novels.
Marvel, however, has proven itself an entertainment juggernaut, and having loved the first two X Men movies as well as last summer's Iron Man, I know enough about the characters to be interested. The problem is that, well, sometimes it feels silly. I mean, at least in Marvel's case, the X Men came along to give an excuse for why all these people were showing up with super powers, but some of the story lines just put to much pressure on my suspension of disbelief if you follow them too far.
Take Spiderman for example. A spider gets all radioactive, and somehow doesn't die. Then that spider bites a dude. As we all know, he's suddenly super strong and can climb walls and stuff, which is awesome. (I'm enough of a geek to deny the movies allowing him to sling web, which the comics always did with a gadget he invented, but only because I still don't like the idea of some guy leaving bodily fluids all over New York. Well, okay, another guy.) In real life, the guy would get an slightly less awesome welt, along with some form of necrosis. Don't Google it - trust me that it's something some spiders give people, and it's icky.
It's like that over and over. Dare Devil goes blind when exposed to a radioactive substance, and all of his other senses go through the roof instead of him getting the normal heightened sense of smell. (Plus he's supposedly a hero and a lawyer. Please. Like that could ever happen.) Bruce Banner is exposed to a ton of gamma radiation, and he turns into a super strong behemoth, which is much more exciting that the more realistic cancer. I think you see where I'm going with this.
Of course, most of the time I try not to think so much about all of this. I mean, some of these characters were created over fifty years ago. It's not like they could hop on Wikipedia and look up gamma rays like I can. So, not unlike my complaints about Swiper, I should probably learn to just accept that it's silly and enjoy it, or not bother with it at all. Knowing me, I'm going the silly route.
After all, it seems like the people there are always having more fun.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Maybe I Do Believe In Santa Claus
So, today I was all primed to discuss one of my random topics when someone shared a link so lovely, so special, that it pre-empted my thoughts and forced me to address it. See, for each generation, there is a set of icons - those figures that someone become something more than their fellows. For some reason when I was a kid, one of those icons for me was actually four guys, dressed in coveralls, being everything a young, impressionistic man could ever want to be - funny, suave and heroic.
I speak, of course, of the Ghostbusters.
Ghostbusters was somehow a perfect blend of action and humor. We got Harold Ramis as the extremely intelligent scientist. We got Ernie Hudson as a perfect, straight talking, in-it-for-a-check working man. We got Dan Akroyd at his best, bumbling simpleton led by his friends. And we got Bill Murray, the brilliant, sublime Bill Murray, as the opportunistic smart aleck along for the ride.
Ghostbusters, and for me anyway, Ghostbusters 2, were nearly perfect movies. They were silly enough for laughs, serious enough for suspense, and overall completely engrossing. I'm not exaggerating when I say that this movie really shaped me a little. If nothing else, I remember taking cues from Bill Murray on the proper dispensing of humor to diffuse tense situations.
A few months ago, in wondering why they never went for a trilogy, I did a little Googling and discovered that there was some feud between Bill Murray and Harold Ramis as a result of Groundhog Day (another classic), and that they had declared that they would never work together again. My heart broke a little at the thought that, without the four of them, a third movie would be somehow lacking. It would be like a lead singer of a great band declaring that he's reforming the band without any of the other original members and then taking ten years to release an album that is widely criticized as mediocre at best. Why would anyone bother?
Today, however, finds me filled with hope. You see, through the healing power of video games, we now have the upcoming Ghostbusters video game, and the linked trailer seems to be filled with promise. Presumable taking advantage of the fact that voice work does not require the actors to be together, they have brought back the original four Ghostbusters in game form. It's all of them...and..and it's a game. I didn't actually wet myself with excitement, but it was a near thing. Another cup of coffee, and I probably would have embarrassed myself.
So there you have it. Once again, video games have stepped up to create something magical for me. Even better - there's talk that if the game renews enough interest, they may actually try and bust out a third movie after all. My childhood heroes, reunited. I'm...I'm just so happy now.
You'll have to excuse me...I seem to have something in my eye.
I speak, of course, of the Ghostbusters.
Ghostbusters was somehow a perfect blend of action and humor. We got Harold Ramis as the extremely intelligent scientist. We got Ernie Hudson as a perfect, straight talking, in-it-for-a-check working man. We got Dan Akroyd at his best, bumbling simpleton led by his friends. And we got Bill Murray, the brilliant, sublime Bill Murray, as the opportunistic smart aleck along for the ride.
Ghostbusters, and for me anyway, Ghostbusters 2, were nearly perfect movies. They were silly enough for laughs, serious enough for suspense, and overall completely engrossing. I'm not exaggerating when I say that this movie really shaped me a little. If nothing else, I remember taking cues from Bill Murray on the proper dispensing of humor to diffuse tense situations.
A few months ago, in wondering why they never went for a trilogy, I did a little Googling and discovered that there was some feud between Bill Murray and Harold Ramis as a result of Groundhog Day (another classic), and that they had declared that they would never work together again. My heart broke a little at the thought that, without the four of them, a third movie would be somehow lacking. It would be like a lead singer of a great band declaring that he's reforming the band without any of the other original members and then taking ten years to release an album that is widely criticized as mediocre at best. Why would anyone bother?
Today, however, finds me filled with hope. You see, through the healing power of video games, we now have the upcoming Ghostbusters video game, and the linked trailer seems to be filled with promise. Presumable taking advantage of the fact that voice work does not require the actors to be together, they have brought back the original four Ghostbusters in game form. It's all of them...and..and it's a game. I didn't actually wet myself with excitement, but it was a near thing. Another cup of coffee, and I probably would have embarrassed myself.
So there you have it. Once again, video games have stepped up to create something magical for me. Even better - there's talk that if the game renews enough interest, they may actually try and bust out a third movie after all. My childhood heroes, reunited. I'm...I'm just so happy now.
You'll have to excuse me...I seem to have something in my eye.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Call Me When We Get To Fuchsia Tuesday
So, being a combination of anti-social and not a big fan of shopping, you might imagine that I avoid the whole "Black Friday" scene like Star Trek fans avoid red shirts. If so, you would be correct. Coming off of a relaxing Thanksgiving with my family, I'd frankly rather eat my feet than stand in line trying to score a deal on some doodad that I can probably order on the internet (or even better, just buy at Meijer with groceries) for not much more money.
Beyond my laziness, however, is the fact that I get mallstrophobic. When I go into the mall, or any other store this time of year, if there are too many people there I start to panic a little. I'm not sure why, but my stress levels go through the roof, and within seconds I'm prepared to start throwing elbows if it will get me and my family back into the comparatively calm sanity of the parking lot.
This panic isn't entirely unfounded. As I'm sure you've all heard, this year led to an actual Black Friday death at a Wal Mart in New York. The highlight of that particular story, by the way, is at the end. When people were asked to leave because, you know, somebody died, some of the shoppers had the nerve to complain that they had been waiting in line since the day before. Apparently getting to watch Nascar on their new 50-inch screen television trumped that whole be-kind-to-others, spirit of Christmas thing.
But there you go. Maybe this is the spirit of Christmas now. Maybe this is why so far, I'm not feeling it this year. It got a little better when we bought the kids presents (on a relatively safe and sane Sunday at Toys R Us), but I'm still just kind of blah about the whole thing. Hopefully putting up a tree will alleviate this.
Either way, the concept of waiting in crazy long lines for material goods just isn't something I can ever see myself doing. The whole thing feels like a scam to me anyway - we'll put a couple of cameras on a crazy clearance, people will fight over them, and then they'll buy other stuff while they're here. No thanks. I'll stick with Amazon. They bring the stuff I order right to the door.
You find another way for me to do my shopping without bothering with niceties like, I don't know, putting pants on, and maybe we can talk.
Beyond my laziness, however, is the fact that I get mallstrophobic. When I go into the mall, or any other store this time of year, if there are too many people there I start to panic a little. I'm not sure why, but my stress levels go through the roof, and within seconds I'm prepared to start throwing elbows if it will get me and my family back into the comparatively calm sanity of the parking lot.
This panic isn't entirely unfounded. As I'm sure you've all heard, this year led to an actual Black Friday death at a Wal Mart in New York. The highlight of that particular story, by the way, is at the end. When people were asked to leave because, you know, somebody died, some of the shoppers had the nerve to complain that they had been waiting in line since the day before. Apparently getting to watch Nascar on their new 50-inch screen television trumped that whole be-kind-to-others, spirit of Christmas thing.
But there you go. Maybe this is the spirit of Christmas now. Maybe this is why so far, I'm not feeling it this year. It got a little better when we bought the kids presents (on a relatively safe and sane Sunday at Toys R Us), but I'm still just kind of blah about the whole thing. Hopefully putting up a tree will alleviate this.
Either way, the concept of waiting in crazy long lines for material goods just isn't something I can ever see myself doing. The whole thing feels like a scam to me anyway - we'll put a couple of cameras on a crazy clearance, people will fight over them, and then they'll buy other stuff while they're here. No thanks. I'll stick with Amazon. They bring the stuff I order right to the door.
You find another way for me to do my shopping without bothering with niceties like, I don't know, putting pants on, and maybe we can talk.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Dora. Pawnshop. Crackhouse. Again!
Since I spend most of my time with one or more kid, I get to see lots of educational television. I don't mean the good stuff like Mythbusters or The History of Sex on the history channel (which I actually saw a lot of - the ancient Egyptians put out enough hieroglyphic porn to fuel two Internets). No, I get the crowd from Sesame Street, library lions, and a little Hispanic girl, which is where I noticed an interesting thing.
Most episodes of Dora the Explorer involve Swiper. Swiper is a fox who shows up to...well, swipe. If Dora and her entourage manage to say "Swiper, no swiping" three times, Swiper is forced to run off. One would guess he suffers from the same psychological impediment as Mustafa from Austin Powers.
Anyway, if they don't manage to say it three times, Swiper takes whatever they have at the moment, but he doesn't run off with it as you might expect from a criminal. No, he just throws it into the distance, laughs and declares "You'll never find it now" before vanishing from the scene. This is exactly where they lose me. He doesn't actually steal anything, he just takes it and makes it hard for Dora and friends to get it back. Just once, instead of Dora asking for help finding the lost loot, I want her to call him out on it.
Now I know, it's a kids show. I'm over thinking the whole thing. In my defense though, you can only watch it so many times before you start to wonder just what Swiper's %#$@ing problem is. If you're going to steal, at least pawn it off, maybe buy a pair of pants to match your Zorro mask and little gloves. Is it too much to ask that the character have some motivation?
Maybe a crack problem?
Most episodes of Dora the Explorer involve Swiper. Swiper is a fox who shows up to...well, swipe. If Dora and her entourage manage to say "Swiper, no swiping" three times, Swiper is forced to run off. One would guess he suffers from the same psychological impediment as Mustafa from Austin Powers.
Anyway, if they don't manage to say it three times, Swiper takes whatever they have at the moment, but he doesn't run off with it as you might expect from a criminal. No, he just throws it into the distance, laughs and declares "You'll never find it now" before vanishing from the scene. This is exactly where they lose me. He doesn't actually steal anything, he just takes it and makes it hard for Dora and friends to get it back. Just once, instead of Dora asking for help finding the lost loot, I want her to call him out on it.
Swiper throws (object of day).
Swiper: Heh-heh-heh. You'll never find it now.
Dora: Wait, so you're just going to throw it away?
Swiper: Yeah, and you'll never find it.
Dora: So you didn't need it or anything?
Swiper: Uh...no, I guess not.
Dora: You're not, like, starving, and need to sell it for food?
Swiper: Well...I...no. No, I just felt like slowing you guys down I guess. And you'll never...
Dora: (Interrupting) Yeah, we'll never find it now. Got that, thanks. So, you just showed up here to take the stuff that we need and hide it, even though you clearly didn't need it yourself, and seem to gain nothing from the experience other than %#^$ing up our day. Do I have that about right?
Swiper: (Clearly uncomfortable now) Well I didn't mean to ruin your day or...I just thought it would be fun, like a game. You know, hide and seek or something.
Dora: Yeah, we're kind of in the middle of something right now, which I think you knew, didn't you?
Swiper: (Hands behind back fidgeting with his tail while looking down at his feet) Yeah, I suppose I did.
Dora: And you just show up, take our stuff, and then toss it in a tree. For no reason. Do I have that right?
Swiper: (Quietly, starting to cry a little) Yes.
Dora: I SAID DO I HAVE THAT RIGHT!
Swiper: (Sobbing loudly) Yes, yes.
Dora: Good. I'm glad we've gotten that out of the way. Swiper?
Swiper: What?
Dora: You're an %#$hole.
Now I know, it's a kids show. I'm over thinking the whole thing. In my defense though, you can only watch it so many times before you start to wonder just what Swiper's %#$@ing problem is. If you're going to steal, at least pawn it off, maybe buy a pair of pants to match your Zorro mask and little gloves. Is it too much to ask that the character have some motivation?
Maybe a crack problem?
Monday, December 1, 2008
At Least I'm Still the Only One Who Can Open Any Jar in the House
I had a short list of things to get done this weekend, and I failed miserably. Oh well - I'm over it. Unfortunately, this weekend once again threw into my face one thing that I am not over, one thing that continues to haunt me and bother me.
I am not a handy man.
Seriously, no part of my upbringing involved learning how to repair or build anything. While other young men were standing behind their parental units watching car repairs or learning the proper way to hang siding on a house, I was receiving such useful wisdom as "Never give them the money first". Not really as useful as one might think.
So now, as a man in his thirties and a first time homeowner, I can't fix a #%@$ing thing, instead doing the one thing I learned well from my parents growing up - I pay other people to do things I cannot. Now, I'm at least smarter about it (they had a habit of hiring people they knew, which can lead to awkward situations when a job is not done to your standards), but still, it's degrading in a way. As an American man, I've been led to believe that I should be able to step out into the garage and magically know how the cars work, or the proper way to maintain a lawn mower, or whatever. I expected that I would awake one day, and in a shining moment of clarity, all the requisite information would just be downloaded, Matrix-like, into my noggin. Instead, I can write code, bake cookies, and occasionally fix your computer (although my current success rate at that even is faltering).
I know I shouldn't let it bother me. I mean, I have skills, just not those skills. It's hard though. It doesn't help that the men in my wife's family all seem to be of the type that can go out into the woods and, in a week, have a small cabin with cable and indoor plumbing built. I mean, good for them and all, but it tends to cast the occasional shadow that makes it hard to see when I'm writing the handyman's check.
Well, like I said, I'll get over it. I always do with things like this. It bothers me though that this is another area where my kids will have to look to others to learn what I never did. I'm not too worried about the Princess, but I feel some guilt over the Moose. I mean, between this and not knowing how football is played, I'm going to have to outsource a lot of standard "man" knowledge.
Thank goodness I'm still a master at rude noises and dirty jokes.
I am not a handy man.
Seriously, no part of my upbringing involved learning how to repair or build anything. While other young men were standing behind their parental units watching car repairs or learning the proper way to hang siding on a house, I was receiving such useful wisdom as "Never give them the money first". Not really as useful as one might think.
So now, as a man in his thirties and a first time homeowner, I can't fix a #%@$ing thing, instead doing the one thing I learned well from my parents growing up - I pay other people to do things I cannot. Now, I'm at least smarter about it (they had a habit of hiring people they knew, which can lead to awkward situations when a job is not done to your standards), but still, it's degrading in a way. As an American man, I've been led to believe that I should be able to step out into the garage and magically know how the cars work, or the proper way to maintain a lawn mower, or whatever. I expected that I would awake one day, and in a shining moment of clarity, all the requisite information would just be downloaded, Matrix-like, into my noggin. Instead, I can write code, bake cookies, and occasionally fix your computer (although my current success rate at that even is faltering).
I know I shouldn't let it bother me. I mean, I have skills, just not those skills. It's hard though. It doesn't help that the men in my wife's family all seem to be of the type that can go out into the woods and, in a week, have a small cabin with cable and indoor plumbing built. I mean, good for them and all, but it tends to cast the occasional shadow that makes it hard to see when I'm writing the handyman's check.
Well, like I said, I'll get over it. I always do with things like this. It bothers me though that this is another area where my kids will have to look to others to learn what I never did. I'm not too worried about the Princess, but I feel some guilt over the Moose. I mean, between this and not knowing how football is played, I'm going to have to outsource a lot of standard "man" knowledge.
Thank goodness I'm still a master at rude noises and dirty jokes.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Thanksgiving 2008
Because I'm a sucker for traditions (not to mention easy to use holiday themes), we now proudly present:
Things I am thankful for this year
A reasonably healthy family.
The fact that the town we've moved into has thus far proven to be as nice as it seemed before we moved.
A good job where I am appreciated.
Maintaining my ability to nearly always come up with an appropriate (or if I can get away with it, inappropriate) witty response to something.
Tofurkey.
The fact that none of my weird medical issues this year turned out to be anything serious.
All five of our regular readers here at Dangerously Low On Grog.
A family of in-laws who make me feel welcome and accepted, often more so than my real family did.
Only one awkward death situation (hey, I'm getting up there in the years, and I need to be glad that these are kept to a minimum).
Having a PSP to help get me through the dreaded exercise bike time.
Two beautiful, intelligent children who make me feel strong, important, and loved.
One beautiful, intelligent, wonderful wife who continues to impress me in ways that words cannot express. No one helps me grow, challenges me, or fills me with as much joy as she can, and I'm forever thankful that she is part of my life.
I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving, unless you're in a country other than America. Then, I hope you have a wonderful Thursday. Either way, take a minute to appreciate the things you have.
Things I am thankful for this year
A reasonably healthy family.
The fact that the town we've moved into has thus far proven to be as nice as it seemed before we moved.
A good job where I am appreciated.
Maintaining my ability to nearly always come up with an appropriate (or if I can get away with it, inappropriate) witty response to something.
Tofurkey.
The fact that none of my weird medical issues this year turned out to be anything serious.
All five of our regular readers here at Dangerously Low On Grog.
A family of in-laws who make me feel welcome and accepted, often more so than my real family did.
Only one awkward death situation (hey, I'm getting up there in the years, and I need to be glad that these are kept to a minimum).
Having a PSP to help get me through the dreaded exercise bike time.
Two beautiful, intelligent children who make me feel strong, important, and loved.
One beautiful, intelligent, wonderful wife who continues to impress me in ways that words cannot express. No one helps me grow, challenges me, or fills me with as much joy as she can, and I'm forever thankful that she is part of my life.
I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving, unless you're in a country other than America. Then, I hope you have a wonderful Thursday. Either way, take a minute to appreciate the things you have.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
gLife
As someone who's life is intricately woven in with technology, it's probably not surprising that I use a lot of cutting edge tools to run things. What's making me nervous at this point is that so much of it comes from a single source. One company consistently pulls off what I need - a useful version of a desktop application that I can use online. The issue is that so much of my life is wrapped up in it now, that I'm beginning to fear their power over my.
Google may very well own my life at this point.
Seriously, I use Gmail as my main account (as well as the email for this blog). I use Google Calendar to not only maintain all of my appointments, but monitor my lovely wife's appointments (we share calendars), the Princess's school calendar, a home maintenance calendar, and the typical U.S. holidays. I've used the Google maps customization to map out my neighborhood in an effort to remember the names of those who live around me. I love my iGoogle desktops, and obviously they are the only search engine I bother with whether looking for web pages, images, maps or videos. Throw on top of that that DLOG is on Blogger (also owned and run by Google), and you've got a pretty good swatch of my life wrapped up in free Google technology.
So the other day, I'm setting up the whole counting calories scene, and trying to figure out where to keep track of stuff. Initially, I started out on the family wiki (yes, we have a family wiki). The problem was that I don't like entering data into wiki or HTML format. In looking for another solution, I once again checked out Google Documents, and found, both to my relief and consternation, exactly what I was looking for.
If you have a Google account (or a Gmail account), then you can access Google Documents. There, you can create text documents, Powerpoint like presentations, and even spreadsheets. That's the one that got me. I can enter my calories into a spreadsheet that will calculate totals, and then I can switch to a second page to put the daily totals for calories and exercise. Very cool.
My only concern is that Google's "Do no evil" creed can only last so long. One day, they are going to look at all this awesome free stuff they've been offering up, and decide that it's too good to be free. By then, my life will be so intertwined with these systems, I will be forced to commit to whatever demands they make. They can decide that they are a new religion, and I will have to choice but to bow down to my new Google overlords.
Here's hoping they don't require funny, Hari Krishna haircuts.
Google may very well own my life at this point.
Seriously, I use Gmail as my main account (as well as the email for this blog). I use Google Calendar to not only maintain all of my appointments, but monitor my lovely wife's appointments (we share calendars), the Princess's school calendar, a home maintenance calendar, and the typical U.S. holidays. I've used the Google maps customization to map out my neighborhood in an effort to remember the names of those who live around me. I love my iGoogle desktops, and obviously they are the only search engine I bother with whether looking for web pages, images, maps or videos. Throw on top of that that DLOG is on Blogger (also owned and run by Google), and you've got a pretty good swatch of my life wrapped up in free Google technology.
So the other day, I'm setting up the whole counting calories scene, and trying to figure out where to keep track of stuff. Initially, I started out on the family wiki (yes, we have a family wiki). The problem was that I don't like entering data into wiki or HTML format. In looking for another solution, I once again checked out Google Documents, and found, both to my relief and consternation, exactly what I was looking for.
If you have a Google account (or a Gmail account), then you can access Google Documents. There, you can create text documents, Powerpoint like presentations, and even spreadsheets. That's the one that got me. I can enter my calories into a spreadsheet that will calculate totals, and then I can switch to a second page to put the daily totals for calories and exercise. Very cool.
My only concern is that Google's "Do no evil" creed can only last so long. One day, they are going to look at all this awesome free stuff they've been offering up, and decide that it's too good to be free. By then, my life will be so intertwined with these systems, I will be forced to commit to whatever demands they make. They can decide that they are a new religion, and I will have to choice but to bow down to my new Google overlords.
Here's hoping they don't require funny, Hari Krishna haircuts.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Why The Count Is Always Ripped
Despite the fact that I have incredible powers of denial, it has come to my attention that I have once again put on a few extra pounds. It's nothing dramatic yet, but it needs to be dealt with before I expand back to my marriage weight (I'm not showing the pictures, but we were a monocle, top hat and umbrella from my lovely bride marrying the Penguin). As such, I've returned to the dreaded task of calorie counting.
Now, I cannot properly express my disdain for this practice. It's not that it's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's the only real path to me ever losing weight. Rather, I dislike it because it goes against one of my most deeply rooted habits. Not only do I love to eat, I love to graze.
This is an issue because I fail to realize how often I'm eating something without thinking about it. You go to work, and there's always someone who has a dish (or in my current case, a bucket) of candy free for anyone. I have a near physical inability to walk by such things without partaking. It's worse when someone trots out baked goods or, Bob forbid, the almighty doughnut. You might as well just throw them at me.
Then I start counting calories, and realize that each thing I pick up will not only count against me, but will involve work. I have to write it down or I'll forget I ate it. Then I have to look up the calorie, fat and protein content of the item. Then it goes on my chart, and the totals are recalculated. Fact is, my laziness contributes at least as much to any resultant weight loss as the concern over caloric intake, but hey, as long as it works, great.
Don't get the wrong idea here - I'm glad I'm doing it. It's just that when I'm trying to discuss work stuff, and I realize that I've looked at the bowl of Fun Size Snickers six times in the last minute, well...it's hard. I'm not an inherently strong person, taking most of my power from my lovely wife. (I actually do it while she sleeps. It's complicated, and there's chanting involved - send me an email if you need more information.) I was raised to face such adversity with an overwhelming "Oh, what the %#$@" followed by a gorging of such decadence it would make Caligula blush.
I will overcome my resistance though and follow through, if for no other reason than the rat bastards who make Desperate Housewives continue to ignore my pleas to let a couple of the male characters let themselves go a bit. I mean, these are supposed to be old married couples, right? Is it really necessary that Tom remain in his chiseled state? The guy owns a pizza place for Pete's sake (last I watched anyway). They need to let him kick back, knock down a few beers, eat some nachos, and bulk up a bit so I don't have to work so hard to compete.
Well, that or I could convince my lovely wife to only watch According to Jim, but that just seems so cruel.
Now, I cannot properly express my disdain for this practice. It's not that it's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's the only real path to me ever losing weight. Rather, I dislike it because it goes against one of my most deeply rooted habits. Not only do I love to eat, I love to graze.
This is an issue because I fail to realize how often I'm eating something without thinking about it. You go to work, and there's always someone who has a dish (or in my current case, a bucket) of candy free for anyone. I have a near physical inability to walk by such things without partaking. It's worse when someone trots out baked goods or, Bob forbid, the almighty doughnut. You might as well just throw them at me.
Then I start counting calories, and realize that each thing I pick up will not only count against me, but will involve work. I have to write it down or I'll forget I ate it. Then I have to look up the calorie, fat and protein content of the item. Then it goes on my chart, and the totals are recalculated. Fact is, my laziness contributes at least as much to any resultant weight loss as the concern over caloric intake, but hey, as long as it works, great.
Don't get the wrong idea here - I'm glad I'm doing it. It's just that when I'm trying to discuss work stuff, and I realize that I've looked at the bowl of Fun Size Snickers six times in the last minute, well...it's hard. I'm not an inherently strong person, taking most of my power from my lovely wife. (I actually do it while she sleeps. It's complicated, and there's chanting involved - send me an email if you need more information.) I was raised to face such adversity with an overwhelming "Oh, what the %#$@" followed by a gorging of such decadence it would make Caligula blush.
I will overcome my resistance though and follow through, if for no other reason than the rat bastards who make Desperate Housewives continue to ignore my pleas to let a couple of the male characters let themselves go a bit. I mean, these are supposed to be old married couples, right? Is it really necessary that Tom remain in his chiseled state? The guy owns a pizza place for Pete's sake (last I watched anyway). They need to let him kick back, knock down a few beers, eat some nachos, and bulk up a bit so I don't have to work so hard to compete.
Well, that or I could convince my lovely wife to only watch According to Jim, but that just seems so cruel.
Monday, November 24, 2008
That's Just How I Roll
When you move into a house, you find all sorts of things that need to be fixed. Carpets need to be straightened, paint needs to be touched up, incredibly dangerous installed fireplace inserts need to be reinstalled - that kind of thing. After a while, things settle, and you began to notice the smaller things that previously escaped your notice before. This weekend, I had such a revelation.
The fixtures in my bathroom were installed upside down.
Now, for the towel rack this does not matter much, but for the toilet paper roll it's a real issue. See, the fixtures feature a metal design, sort of an altered Fleur-de-lis (that's right, I'm all cultured and %#$@). As a result, the upside down installation puts the point of the design at the bottom, as can be seen here:
You may be asking why this is a big deal. Well, the pointy part digs into the toilet paper roll when it is hung correctly, i.e. when the paper comes over the top toward the bathroom, as opposed to hiding behind the roll. So, in order to use this holder, you have to hang the roll incorrectly, like this:
This is incorrect because it sends the wrong message. When hung correctly, the roll of toilet paper is expressing its readiness. It's right there, willingly waiting to perform its duty, fearless and confidant that it can get the job done.
When hung the other way, the paper seems to be hiding. It knows why you're there. It knows how this is going to down. It's almost cowering in its knowledge of its final destination, avoiding those patrons of the porcelain facilities in the hopes that perhaps they will instead opt for one of those Cottenelle wipes or even a facial tissue instead. This is not a product who is ready and willing to do its job, and the user is shamed for forcing it out of hiding to meet its end, or their end, or whatever.
So yeah, I'm going to have to remedy this situation as part of my ongoing to-do list. I can't have my guests feeling all bad about themselves each time nature calls. I want people to feel comfortable and relaxed in my home, free to do whatever job needs to be done guilt free. I want us to receive compliments on it."I love how you've decorated the place, and to tell the truth, I've never been so comfortable dropping a duece in someone else's house in my life."
Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I can put that one off for just a little while longer.
The fixtures in my bathroom were installed upside down.
Now, for the towel rack this does not matter much, but for the toilet paper roll it's a real issue. See, the fixtures feature a metal design, sort of an altered Fleur-de-lis (that's right, I'm all cultured and %#$@). As a result, the upside down installation puts the point of the design at the bottom, as can be seen here:
You may be asking why this is a big deal. Well, the pointy part digs into the toilet paper roll when it is hung correctly, i.e. when the paper comes over the top toward the bathroom, as opposed to hiding behind the roll. So, in order to use this holder, you have to hang the roll incorrectly, like this:
This is incorrect because it sends the wrong message. When hung correctly, the roll of toilet paper is expressing its readiness. It's right there, willingly waiting to perform its duty, fearless and confidant that it can get the job done.
When hung the other way, the paper seems to be hiding. It knows why you're there. It knows how this is going to down. It's almost cowering in its knowledge of its final destination, avoiding those patrons of the porcelain facilities in the hopes that perhaps they will instead opt for one of those Cottenelle wipes or even a facial tissue instead. This is not a product who is ready and willing to do its job, and the user is shamed for forcing it out of hiding to meet its end, or their end, or whatever.
So yeah, I'm going to have to remedy this situation as part of my ongoing to-do list. I can't have my guests feeling all bad about themselves each time nature calls. I want people to feel comfortable and relaxed in my home, free to do whatever job needs to be done guilt free. I want us to receive compliments on it."I love how you've decorated the place, and to tell the truth, I've never been so comfortable dropping a duece in someone else's house in my life."
Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I can put that one off for just a little while longer.
Friday, November 21, 2008
At Least I'm Not Crying and Telling People I Love Them...Yet
We're running late today. It's not that I don't have anything to say. I'm simply having trouble putting words together in a coherent fashion. See, the Moose is all better, and that's great, but staying up with him and taking care of him left me vulnerable to a sinus infection. As a result, I was up a good part of last night with a crushing sinus headache. When I woke up, it hurt to move my head, so I took a Sudafed, which got rid of the headache.
Now I just don't know where I am.
It seems to be getting worse too. Over lunch I squandered a half an hour picking up lumber for the handyman (who postponed until tomorrow and frankly is nearing replacement) to do some repairs, and felt tired, but that was all. As the afternoon presses on, I'm teetering closer to...I'm not sure what. I'm not going to fall asleep I don't think. It's not like I've been drinking, although honestly if it doesn't clear up by six, I might be calling home for a ride. I'm just really out of it and wishing I was at home under a blanket.
So, another disappointing blog in a week of weak posts. Sorry folks. That's the reality of being a family guy - frequently, everything else has to be dropped for the sake of one of my pod. Now I'm off to get another half pot of godawful complimentary company coffee. I don't know that the caffeine is really helping at this point.
I do find that trying to suppress the gag reflex keeps me awake though.
Now I just don't know where I am.
It seems to be getting worse too. Over lunch I squandered a half an hour picking up lumber for the handyman (who postponed until tomorrow and frankly is nearing replacement) to do some repairs, and felt tired, but that was all. As the afternoon presses on, I'm teetering closer to...I'm not sure what. I'm not going to fall asleep I don't think. It's not like I've been drinking, although honestly if it doesn't clear up by six, I might be calling home for a ride. I'm just really out of it and wishing I was at home under a blanket.
So, another disappointing blog in a week of weak posts. Sorry folks. That's the reality of being a family guy - frequently, everything else has to be dropped for the sake of one of my pod. Now I'm off to get another half pot of godawful complimentary company coffee. I don't know that the caffeine is really helping at this point.
I do find that trying to suppress the gag reflex keeps me awake though.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Niger(ia), Please
Okay, we're kind of back. The Moose is well enough that he wants to play and watch Zobomafoo, so I have a few minutes to put down my thoughts, and today, despite lack of sleep and Sudafed head (sweet, sweet Sudafed head), I have thoughts. First, today's soundtrack (for those of you who don't know how this works, click the link and let the default occur, and if that fails, right click the link, save it to your computer, and then open it).
Message No. 419
So, one would hope that at this point this kind of public service announcement would be unnecessary, but the gullibility of the common man never ceases to amaze me. Case in point: the nice lady who sent hundreds of thousands of dollars to someone she didn't know, cleaning out hubby's retirement fund, mortgaging her house, taking a lien on her car - all hoping to get a cut of millions of dollars from someone escaping Africa. It's known as the "Nigerian Scam". Note the last word there.
Now, this is hardly a new phenomena. The whole "I have to escape the country with my 40 million dollars and will happily give you a cut if you give me your bank account information" thing showed up in my first inbox about eight years ago. Since then, it has been well documented. So yeah, no excuse there.
But let's assume that this woman somehow missed the television, radio and print news stories about these scams. Maybe we should cut her some slack. After all, we're all human, right?
In the immortal words of Will Smith, "Aw, hell no".
Her friends told her it was a scam. Her family told her it was a scam. The %#@$ing police told her it was a scam. Not even a supposed letter from George W. Bush full of misspelled words clued her in that something was not right here. I mean, I would believe the misspelled words, but he has people for proofreading. It's a Presidential perk.
So, for any of you that still don't get it, there is no way that anyone, anywhere, is going to offer to share lots of money with you. People are, in their tiny little hearts, essentially greedy beings. It's part of survival. There's a reason we all wait around for our inheritances - death is pretty much the only way to get people to give away money without wanting something in return.
Now forward this to all of your really gullible friends. They'll thank you. Actually, wait...just send me their emails.
I have some lovely swampland that I would like to talk to them about.
Message No. 419
So, one would hope that at this point this kind of public service announcement would be unnecessary, but the gullibility of the common man never ceases to amaze me. Case in point: the nice lady who sent hundreds of thousands of dollars to someone she didn't know, cleaning out hubby's retirement fund, mortgaging her house, taking a lien on her car - all hoping to get a cut of millions of dollars from someone escaping Africa. It's known as the "Nigerian Scam". Note the last word there.
Now, this is hardly a new phenomena. The whole "I have to escape the country with my 40 million dollars and will happily give you a cut if you give me your bank account information" thing showed up in my first inbox about eight years ago. Since then, it has been well documented. So yeah, no excuse there.
But let's assume that this woman somehow missed the television, radio and print news stories about these scams. Maybe we should cut her some slack. After all, we're all human, right?
In the immortal words of Will Smith, "Aw, hell no".
Her friends told her it was a scam. Her family told her it was a scam. The %#@$ing police told her it was a scam. Not even a supposed letter from George W. Bush full of misspelled words clued her in that something was not right here. I mean, I would believe the misspelled words, but he has people for proofreading. It's a Presidential perk.
So, for any of you that still don't get it, there is no way that anyone, anywhere, is going to offer to share lots of money with you. People are, in their tiny little hearts, essentially greedy beings. It's part of survival. There's a reason we all wait around for our inheritances - death is pretty much the only way to get people to give away money without wanting something in return.
Now forward this to all of your really gullible friends. They'll thank you. Actually, wait...just send me their emails.
I have some lovely swampland that I would like to talk to them about.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Couch Sitting, Moose Style
I'm sitting here with the Moose, pretty much getting hollered at every
time I leave the couch, which is rough as I'm running on coffee and
Sudafed myself (I've been getting sick all week). So not only am I
wasting my really sick, Barry White voice (oh baby baby), I'm again
not writing a decent blog entry. So, sorry to the five people or so
that follow this. Please don't abandon it - we'll be back to droning
on about things that rarely matter soon enough.
time I leave the couch, which is rough as I'm running on coffee and
Sudafed myself (I've been getting sick all week). So not only am I
wasting my really sick, Barry White voice (oh baby baby), I'm again
not writing a decent blog entry. So, sorry to the five people or so
that follow this. Please don't abandon it - we'll be back to droning
on about things that rarely matter soon enough.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Well, I Can Tell You How To Get There
We're going to be brief today because I'm writing from my phone while the Moose watches Sesame Street. We're home because someone has hives (hint - it ain't me). So yeah, stop by tomorrow and we should be back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Monday, November 17, 2008
On The Bright Side, Still No Contact From Relatives
This weekend, I finally hit the point of Facebook weirdness. See, I'm pretty open when it comes to the whole friend invite thing. So long as I know you, or knew you, we're good. It's turning into a bit of a high school reunion, but that's okay. As I've previously mentioned, it's nice to see what people are up to, make smart ass remarks about their statuses, and generally feel like I'm maintaining contact, all without the difficulties of actual, real-life socialization.
So, this weekend I get another friend invite. This one actually included an email spelling out that I went to high school with her, she graduated a year ahead of me, yadda yadda yadda, which people don't usually go to the trouble of doing (typically it's just the automatic "so and so want to add you as a friend"). So, I'm at this point curious as to who this is.
I follow the link (all on my iPhone, where I do the Facebook stuff), and I'm presented with the usual, extremely brief overview that is supplied when you're not actually friends yet. This includes the person's profile and their profile picture. So, what I have at this point is that she's married, she's catholic, and she chose as her profile picture a shot of herself in a bikini.
And I have no idea who I'm looking at.
This isn't a huge shock at first, because I have a lousy memory (not to mention I don't recall a lot of people coming to school in a bikini). So, I ask my wife (who went to school with me) if she knew who it was. She says yes, but it does nothing to jog my memory. Since I didn't remember this person, I ignored the request.
Now let me explain this a little, lest you think me callous. I know that for some people, these sites are a game. The whole goal is to see how many friends you can get. So, when I'm presented with an invite from someone I don't recall, and they have chosen a profile picture that would appear to be selected for maximizing the potential "yes" responses, at least among the male crowd (or the female gay crowd - don't want to leave anyone out), then I am suspect that I am being used as a pawn in the game, and homey don't play that. Besides, the bikini thing is a little awkward. If you don't believe me, then I'll change my profile picture to myself in a banana hammock and see how many of my current friends drop me like Fox dropping a program once they realize how good it is (Firefly canceling mother %#@$ers).
The real kicker here is that in writing this, I realized who the person is. We were in choir together (which is how I knew most people not in my immediate circle in high school). So now I kind of feel bad for ignoring the request.
But not as bad as potentially causing any of you to picture me in a banana hammock.
So, this weekend I get another friend invite. This one actually included an email spelling out that I went to high school with her, she graduated a year ahead of me, yadda yadda yadda, which people don't usually go to the trouble of doing (typically it's just the automatic "so and so want to add you as a friend"). So, I'm at this point curious as to who this is.
I follow the link (all on my iPhone, where I do the Facebook stuff), and I'm presented with the usual, extremely brief overview that is supplied when you're not actually friends yet. This includes the person's profile and their profile picture. So, what I have at this point is that she's married, she's catholic, and she chose as her profile picture a shot of herself in a bikini.
And I have no idea who I'm looking at.
This isn't a huge shock at first, because I have a lousy memory (not to mention I don't recall a lot of people coming to school in a bikini). So, I ask my wife (who went to school with me) if she knew who it was. She says yes, but it does nothing to jog my memory. Since I didn't remember this person, I ignored the request.
Now let me explain this a little, lest you think me callous. I know that for some people, these sites are a game. The whole goal is to see how many friends you can get. So, when I'm presented with an invite from someone I don't recall, and they have chosen a profile picture that would appear to be selected for maximizing the potential "yes" responses, at least among the male crowd (or the female gay crowd - don't want to leave anyone out), then I am suspect that I am being used as a pawn in the game, and homey don't play that. Besides, the bikini thing is a little awkward. If you don't believe me, then I'll change my profile picture to myself in a banana hammock and see how many of my current friends drop me like Fox dropping a program once they realize how good it is (Firefly canceling mother %#@$ers).
The real kicker here is that in writing this, I realized who the person is. We were in choir together (which is how I knew most people not in my immediate circle in high school). So now I kind of feel bad for ignoring the request.
But not as bad as potentially causing any of you to picture me in a banana hammock.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Lifestyles of the...Meh. Whatever.
Can someone tell me what is wrong with me that I almost never care about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Everyone else in the US of A seems to eat this #%@$ up, and I can't even make myself read the preview blurb that shows up under Google news headlines. Is it me? Am I overestimating how interested others are in this stuff?
Take for example the whole Brad-Angelina-Jennifer fiasco. You know how much I know about that? That Brad, Angelina, and Jennifer are involved, and that the prettiest among them is still Brad. It seems like every other day, I see another headline on these three. Jennifer said something. Now Brad's all huffy about it. Angelina wants to give up movies so she can built a real life "It's A Small World" ride in her living room, and she only has to adopt 15 more kids until it's complete.
Do. Not. Care.
It's not that I dislike these people - I don't know them, so how could I. (Side note - that is an inaccurate generality. Example: If you're the dude who farts in the cereal isle at the grocery store right before I go down it, causing my to step right into the eye of your funk in an effort to buy my kids Cheerios, I don't need to know you. I don't like you.) I enjoy their work for the most part. I just don't care about their home lives. It's simply none of my business.
Now of course there's a line there. What if I really enjoy someone's work, but it turns out that the person is a tremendous douche bag in real life? Do I boycott their work on the basis of my disapproval of their social skills? Is it irresponsible of me to simply not care what kind of person they are so long as their not being really destructive? Should I have stopped reading Ctrl-Alt-Del by now?
Beats me, but the question has zero effect on my apathy towards this kind of celebrity news. I note two kinds of celebrity news - someone did something that I can poke fun of (like letting naked pictures of themselves get onto the internet), or someone died. Yep, until People starts a section that's nothing but death and humiliation, I think I'll pass.
Actually, now that I've said that, I fear I've cursed some celebrity to die in a some ridiculous fashion while stark naked, the entire thing filmed and leaked on the internet immediately. I don't wish that on anyone, but I am a man of my word. I'd have to watch it.
Please, please let Hugh Hefner be safe tonight.
Take for example the whole Brad-Angelina-Jennifer fiasco. You know how much I know about that? That Brad, Angelina, and Jennifer are involved, and that the prettiest among them is still Brad. It seems like every other day, I see another headline on these three. Jennifer said something. Now Brad's all huffy about it. Angelina wants to give up movies so she can built a real life "It's A Small World" ride in her living room, and she only has to adopt 15 more kids until it's complete.
Do. Not. Care.
It's not that I dislike these people - I don't know them, so how could I. (Side note - that is an inaccurate generality. Example: If you're the dude who farts in the cereal isle at the grocery store right before I go down it, causing my to step right into the eye of your funk in an effort to buy my kids Cheerios, I don't need to know you. I don't like you.) I enjoy their work for the most part. I just don't care about their home lives. It's simply none of my business.
Now of course there's a line there. What if I really enjoy someone's work, but it turns out that the person is a tremendous douche bag in real life? Do I boycott their work on the basis of my disapproval of their social skills? Is it irresponsible of me to simply not care what kind of person they are so long as their not being really destructive? Should I have stopped reading Ctrl-Alt-Del by now?
Beats me, but the question has zero effect on my apathy towards this kind of celebrity news. I note two kinds of celebrity news - someone did something that I can poke fun of (like letting naked pictures of themselves get onto the internet), or someone died. Yep, until People starts a section that's nothing but death and humiliation, I think I'll pass.
Actually, now that I've said that, I fear I've cursed some celebrity to die in a some ridiculous fashion while stark naked, the entire thing filmed and leaked on the internet immediately. I don't wish that on anyone, but I am a man of my word. I'd have to watch it.
Please, please let Hugh Hefner be safe tonight.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Hillary Would Have Made This So Much Easier
So, Lindsay Lohan, being a beacon for all things awkward lately, is now being jumped all over for referring to Obama as the the "first colored president". Apparently, this particular form of lingo is considered archaic amongst the Hollywood hipsters. Here's the funny thing about it though - what would you say?
I was trying to discuss this with the Princess that day after the election, and I asked her if she knew what it meant to say that someone was "African American". She responded that it was probably someone who spent half their time in Africa, and the other half in America. I paused, thought about it, and promptly abandoned the conversation at that point, realizing that my daughter (correctly) doesn't give a %#@$ what color someone's skin is, and doesn't even really think about it at all. I mean, her answer makes as much sense as anything else, and it's not what I meant at all.
All my life I've actually dealt with this issue. I know it sounds silly, but dammit, I have no idea what terminology is correct when referring to...what? Black people? People of color? African Americans? Have I now offended somebody? It's weird, especially in light of the fact that I'm really not racist in any meaningful way. (Note: I avoid saying outright that I am not racist, not because I believe that one race is superior than another, but because to simply say "I'm not racist" is a bit of a fallacy - as Avenue Q put it "Everyone's a little bit racist".)
Anyway, it's one of those things that actually causes me to avoid discussions where I have to refer to anyone of a specific ethnicity that cannot be directly referred to by country. This gives me the freedom to talk about Mexicans and Canadians for example, which is nice, although I don't have much to say on either subject. I can't refer to my own ethnicity, because, despite the appearance of being the standard white guy, I'm actually an American mutt, with blood that's known to be English, Scottish, Mexican, and a little touch of Macaque (great great great great grandpa was apparently a bit of a freak - let's not talk about that).
So yeah, while I question Lohan's choice of words, I can't judge her as quickly as so many others seem to be. It's an awkward thing to talk about, and it seems there are always people lurking about who are just dying to be offended by something. Maybe we can all get together and get legislation signed that tells us what the proper terminology is. Then, if someone's offended, we can just point them to that, and say something like, "Hey, I don't like it either, but it's the law".
Gods, I shudder to think how we're going to deal with the first albino, hermaphroditic, midget President - the politically correct contingency will implode under the strain.
I was trying to discuss this with the Princess that day after the election, and I asked her if she knew what it meant to say that someone was "African American". She responded that it was probably someone who spent half their time in Africa, and the other half in America. I paused, thought about it, and promptly abandoned the conversation at that point, realizing that my daughter (correctly) doesn't give a %#@$ what color someone's skin is, and doesn't even really think about it at all. I mean, her answer makes as much sense as anything else, and it's not what I meant at all.
All my life I've actually dealt with this issue. I know it sounds silly, but dammit, I have no idea what terminology is correct when referring to...what? Black people? People of color? African Americans? Have I now offended somebody? It's weird, especially in light of the fact that I'm really not racist in any meaningful way. (Note: I avoid saying outright that I am not racist, not because I believe that one race is superior than another, but because to simply say "I'm not racist" is a bit of a fallacy - as Avenue Q put it "Everyone's a little bit racist".)
Anyway, it's one of those things that actually causes me to avoid discussions where I have to refer to anyone of a specific ethnicity that cannot be directly referred to by country. This gives me the freedom to talk about Mexicans and Canadians for example, which is nice, although I don't have much to say on either subject. I can't refer to my own ethnicity, because, despite the appearance of being the standard white guy, I'm actually an American mutt, with blood that's known to be English, Scottish, Mexican, and a little touch of Macaque (great great great great grandpa was apparently a bit of a freak - let's not talk about that).
So yeah, while I question Lohan's choice of words, I can't judge her as quickly as so many others seem to be. It's an awkward thing to talk about, and it seems there are always people lurking about who are just dying to be offended by something. Maybe we can all get together and get legislation signed that tells us what the proper terminology is. Then, if someone's offended, we can just point them to that, and say something like, "Hey, I don't like it either, but it's the law".
Gods, I shudder to think how we're going to deal with the first albino, hermaphroditic, midget President - the politically correct contingency will implode under the strain.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
It's Like Raging Against the Machine, But From Your Parents' Basement
I would like to take today's post to address a topic that seems to be worsening lately. I see it all the time. In movie theaters. In chat rooms. In comic book and video game shops. Even on Slashdot. (Especially on Slashdot.)
Nerdrage.
A lot of people suffering from nerdrage don't even realize they have a problem. They simply feel that they are standing up for a set of standards that they believe in and feel they must defend, some ethical code that should prevent the use of characters or events that they once followed to be diluted in some fashion. So how can you, as a reader of DLOG, tell if you have succumbed to nerdrage? Lets try a few tests, shall we?
What is your immediate reaction to the following image?
Hmmm. Let's try another one. Here's the newly redesigned Starship Enterprise that will be featured in next year's new feature lenght film.
Finally, how does the following statement make you feel?
Each and every one of the Halo games sucked.
If you answered 3 to any of these questions, then you are absolutely in the grips of nerdrage. If you answered 2, you need to watch out - it's all too easy to slip over the edge from "thoughtful consumer" to "rabid, raving fanboy". If you bothered answering the questions at all, you might be surprised to find that you are, in fact, a nerd. Welcome to our fold.
Please people - be aware that nerdrage is a serious issue. Just because we can hide behind internet anonymity doesn't make it alright to rage against our fellow man. We can all be fans, and still respect someone else's opinions and visions of the works that we have enjoyed in the past. If we disapprove, it's as easy as not watching, reading, playing, or spending money on those works of which you disapprove, or simply turning the other cheek on those whose opinions differ from our own.
Unless of course someone tries to @%#$ up the Monkey Island series. Them we hunt down and painfully destroy.
Nerdrage.
A lot of people suffering from nerdrage don't even realize they have a problem. They simply feel that they are standing up for a set of standards that they believe in and feel they must defend, some ethical code that should prevent the use of characters or events that they once followed to be diluted in some fashion. So how can you, as a reader of DLOG, tell if you have succumbed to nerdrage? Lets try a few tests, shall we?
What is your immediate reaction to the following image?
- It's an interesting composition as well as an effective bit of foreshadowing to the events of the film.
- It's a disappointing reminder that the second trilogy did not live up to my expectations.
- GAAAH! GEORGE LUCAS RAPED MY CHILDHOOD! THAT KID WAS SO @&#%ING ANNOYING! JAR JAR BINKS IS THE DEVIL!
Hmmm. Let's try another one. Here's the newly redesigned Starship Enterprise that will be featured in next year's new feature lenght film.
- Interesting. It's kind of sleeker than I remember the Enterprise being.
- The lower hull is too small. Look how much space is left behind the nacelle pylons on the TV version. The neck, I'll admit, may just be due to the angle, or could really be a result of the shortened aft section, which is why I am waiting for the trailer before I really decide whether I hate it or not. So far, I'm leaning towards liking it, again, because of the angle of the shot. But the rear of the lower hull, where the shuttle bay should be, just looks too short even at the angle seen in the preview.
- It's clear that these guys don't care about Star Trek. This movie isn't even attempting to be cannon. And they're not including Shatner. WHAT THE #%$* IS THAT? MAKING A TREK MOVIE ABOUT TOS WITHOUT THE SHAT? %#$@ YOU J.J. "SHOULD HAVE STOPPED AT ALIAS PIECE OF #%$@" ABRAMS. YOU GO TO HELL! YOU GO TO HELL AND YOU DIE!
Finally, how does the following statement make you feel?
Each and every one of the Halo games sucked.
- Well, while not the most innovative games, they did prove that a quality first person shooter could succeed on a console.
- I actually quite enjoyed those games, and find them to stand equal to any other first person shooter game out there.
- You're a fag, and you and your entire fag family should die in a fire.
If you answered 3 to any of these questions, then you are absolutely in the grips of nerdrage. If you answered 2, you need to watch out - it's all too easy to slip over the edge from "thoughtful consumer" to "rabid, raving fanboy". If you bothered answering the questions at all, you might be surprised to find that you are, in fact, a nerd. Welcome to our fold.
Please people - be aware that nerdrage is a serious issue. Just because we can hide behind internet anonymity doesn't make it alright to rage against our fellow man. We can all be fans, and still respect someone else's opinions and visions of the works that we have enjoyed in the past. If we disapprove, it's as easy as not watching, reading, playing, or spending money on those works of which you disapprove, or simply turning the other cheek on those whose opinions differ from our own.
Unless of course someone tries to @%#$ up the Monkey Island series. Them we hunt down and painfully destroy.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
And I Thought the Cover of The Little Mermaid Was Scandalous
In my house, we don't watch a lot of television. The grown ups watch Lost, 24, and that's pretty much it. My lovely wife will also partake of Desperate Housewives, and the occasional reality show on Bravo, which I'll watch if I'm in the room. Myself, I'll sit through a Mythbusters if it happens to be on. That pretty well sums up the television viewing for the adults in our house.
For the kids, it's educational DVDs and the Disney channel. For the most part, this is fine. I get a little put off by some of the shows on Disney that involve kids occasionally being snotty, but at the same time, kids are occasionally snotty, so I accept it as reality that doesn't go too far. In fact, there's only one real problem I can see with the Disney channel.
The stars are constantly getting naked.
Oh, not on the channel itself ("Tonight, a very special Hannah Montana, guest starring Chris Hanson"). Elsewhere, however, the ladies of Disney seem to have issues with keeping dressed. Miley Cyrus is taking pictures of herself pouting at cameras in her underwear. Vanessa Hudgens had her own issues last year when she sent pictures to her High School Musical beau sans cheer leading outfit. Now, we've got a Cheetah Girl who was apparently so fast, her outfit couldn't keep up. Yikes.
Ignoring the societal implications of what this means to impressional young girls (or impressional old perverts), what the $%#$ are they putting in the water over at Disney that this is a common occurrence? I mean, these are people who live in the limelight all the time. Doesn't it seem like they would understand the whole "no video, no pictures, don't sign anything" mantra that keeps the average star or starlet from internet fame/humiliation? Or do they understand it completely, and are choosing to exercise the whole "no press is bad press" rule? I mean lets face it, there's a whole legion of thirteen year old boys out there who have suddenly become Disney channel fans.
Me, I'm guessing it's an extension of the whole Catholic School Girl syndrome. Teams of graduated mouseketeers are working tirelessly to keep your image squeaky clean, constantly monitoring every action of their property, i.e. you. What's going to happen the first moment that the ever-reaching eye of Big Brother is eluded? Shenanigans. It's human nature. The more you're told not to do something because it's bad for you, the more you want to do exactly that thing. It's not like this is a new thing. Just type in ex-Disney stars Britney Spears or Lindsey Lohan on a Google Image search (but not at work, and not if you've eaten recently).
Seriously, think about it and you'll realize that this is practically an epidemic of Magical Kingdom proportions, and that while it's a recently publicized thing, it's probably always been an issue. It's just that the invention of digital photography and the internet allows for making stupid mistakes a world wide phenomenon. Had these things come earlier, I'm sure you all would have been discussing the latest pictures of Annette and Cubby in leather masks and chains...and their little hats with the ears.
Wow...I just took that to a real weird place, didn't I?
For the kids, it's educational DVDs and the Disney channel. For the most part, this is fine. I get a little put off by some of the shows on Disney that involve kids occasionally being snotty, but at the same time, kids are occasionally snotty, so I accept it as reality that doesn't go too far. In fact, there's only one real problem I can see with the Disney channel.
The stars are constantly getting naked.
Oh, not on the channel itself ("Tonight, a very special Hannah Montana, guest starring Chris Hanson"). Elsewhere, however, the ladies of Disney seem to have issues with keeping dressed. Miley Cyrus is taking pictures of herself pouting at cameras in her underwear. Vanessa Hudgens had her own issues last year when she sent pictures to her High School Musical beau sans cheer leading outfit. Now, we've got a Cheetah Girl who was apparently so fast, her outfit couldn't keep up. Yikes.
Ignoring the societal implications of what this means to impressional young girls (or impressional old perverts), what the $%#$ are they putting in the water over at Disney that this is a common occurrence? I mean, these are people who live in the limelight all the time. Doesn't it seem like they would understand the whole "no video, no pictures, don't sign anything" mantra that keeps the average star or starlet from internet fame/humiliation? Or do they understand it completely, and are choosing to exercise the whole "no press is bad press" rule? I mean lets face it, there's a whole legion of thirteen year old boys out there who have suddenly become Disney channel fans.
Me, I'm guessing it's an extension of the whole Catholic School Girl syndrome. Teams of graduated mouseketeers are working tirelessly to keep your image squeaky clean, constantly monitoring every action of their property, i.e. you. What's going to happen the first moment that the ever-reaching eye of Big Brother is eluded? Shenanigans. It's human nature. The more you're told not to do something because it's bad for you, the more you want to do exactly that thing. It's not like this is a new thing. Just type in ex-Disney stars Britney Spears or Lindsey Lohan on a Google Image search (but not at work, and not if you've eaten recently).
Seriously, think about it and you'll realize that this is practically an epidemic of Magical Kingdom proportions, and that while it's a recently publicized thing, it's probably always been an issue. It's just that the invention of digital photography and the internet allows for making stupid mistakes a world wide phenomenon. Had these things come earlier, I'm sure you all would have been discussing the latest pictures of Annette and Cubby in leather masks and chains...and their little hats with the ears.
Wow...I just took that to a real weird place, didn't I?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Today, On a Very Special DLOG
Fair warning...today's post is not meant for the fellas. Instead, I want to address a serious topic with regards to women's health issues. I know it's not a popular topic, and I will completely understand if all the guys want to call it quits right here. In fact, I'll even give you something better to do to make up for leaving you out today. Here: The 7 unintentionally perverted toys that will ruin your children. Enjoy.
Now then, for the women, I would like to discuss the serious issue of chronic kidney disease, and how it can effect women's health in ways that haven't previously been considered. According to recent research, chronic kidney disease can be involved with various gynecological health issue that may not have been thought about before. Why am I talking about this here? Honestly, just to ensure that all the guys stopped reading at the first paragraph, maybe the second sentence of the second paragraph tops. If you really want to read about that stuff, follow the link above. Bob knows I don't want to talk about it.
Okay, so this weekend saw a combination of events that caused a reaction in me that, while not unheard of, is unusual. See, since election night I haven't gotten to catch up on my sleep at all, and have actually had a couple of rough nights on top of it. Throw in a couple of drinks (followed by a couple of drinks), and Saturday night found me in an emotionally unstable state. My lovely wife and I settled in to watch Sex and the City in our living room, and she snuggled up to me, and this is key, so she wasn't actually facing me in any way.
This last part, it seems, is the deciding factor to what I'm about to confess. At several points during the movie, I cried. It wasn't for any of the typically acceptable man reasons either. I had not been shot or received any kind of flesh wound. None of my immediate family had perished (although if action movies have taught me anything, it's that the loss of your immediate family is never met with tears, but rather a blind rage that leads to a complicated and bloody path of revenge fueled destruction). It wasn't even the loss of a pet (which, as a cat owner, is not actually a publicly acceptable excuse for man-tears).
Instead, I was crying for the reasons one might expect from such a film. My eyes watered when Carrie went all the way across to New York so Miranda wouldn't be sitting around alone on New Year's Eve. I actually had tears running down my face when Miranda and Steve met each other on the Brooklyn Bridge after determining that they did in fact want to be married and get over all of the problems they had been having. There were waterworks, too, when someone pooped their pants. (Okay, that time I was laughing, but it's bathroom humor. What do you want from me?)
What's fascinating is that I realized that, had we been sitting in a different way so that my lovely wife and I would have been facing each other, it wouldn't have happened. I'm not sure why. It's not like she's going to make fun of me, or call me a big sissy or anything (at least I don't think she would - she's still wonderfully unpredictable, and frankly I still haven't recovered from the dreaded wedgy of '99 indecent, of which nothing more will ever be said), but I'm sure I would have stifled the urge to cry had my face been visible. Bizarre.
I guess it's so ingrained in me that men aren't supposed to show emotion at stuff like that that even in the exhaustion and whiskey fueled state I was in, I glanced to make sure no one was looking before I discretely wiped my face on my sleeve. (What? That's what sweatshirts are for.) I mean, you always hear about how women want men who are sensitive, but as it was once explained to me, that doesn't mean women want a man who cries, they want a man who comforts them when they do. So even though I know that it wouldn't have bothered her, I still couldn't have cried if she would have been watching. Not sure what to make of that, or if there is a lesson in all of this for me, but there it is.
Now let's all hope the guys skipped this one - between not knowing how football is played and still not having seen 300, I'm already dangerously close to having my man card revoked.
Now then, for the women, I would like to discuss the serious issue of chronic kidney disease, and how it can effect women's health in ways that haven't previously been considered. According to recent research, chronic kidney disease can be involved with various gynecological health issue that may not have been thought about before. Why am I talking about this here? Honestly, just to ensure that all the guys stopped reading at the first paragraph, maybe the second sentence of the second paragraph tops. If you really want to read about that stuff, follow the link above. Bob knows I don't want to talk about it.
Okay, so this weekend saw a combination of events that caused a reaction in me that, while not unheard of, is unusual. See, since election night I haven't gotten to catch up on my sleep at all, and have actually had a couple of rough nights on top of it. Throw in a couple of drinks (followed by a couple of drinks), and Saturday night found me in an emotionally unstable state. My lovely wife and I settled in to watch Sex and the City in our living room, and she snuggled up to me, and this is key, so she wasn't actually facing me in any way.
This last part, it seems, is the deciding factor to what I'm about to confess. At several points during the movie, I cried. It wasn't for any of the typically acceptable man reasons either. I had not been shot or received any kind of flesh wound. None of my immediate family had perished (although if action movies have taught me anything, it's that the loss of your immediate family is never met with tears, but rather a blind rage that leads to a complicated and bloody path of revenge fueled destruction). It wasn't even the loss of a pet (which, as a cat owner, is not actually a publicly acceptable excuse for man-tears).
Instead, I was crying for the reasons one might expect from such a film. My eyes watered when Carrie went all the way across to New York so Miranda wouldn't be sitting around alone on New Year's Eve. I actually had tears running down my face when Miranda and Steve met each other on the Brooklyn Bridge after determining that they did in fact want to be married and get over all of the problems they had been having. There were waterworks, too, when someone pooped their pants. (Okay, that time I was laughing, but it's bathroom humor. What do you want from me?)
What's fascinating is that I realized that, had we been sitting in a different way so that my lovely wife and I would have been facing each other, it wouldn't have happened. I'm not sure why. It's not like she's going to make fun of me, or call me a big sissy or anything (at least I don't think she would - she's still wonderfully unpredictable, and frankly I still haven't recovered from the dreaded wedgy of '99 indecent, of which nothing more will ever be said), but I'm sure I would have stifled the urge to cry had my face been visible. Bizarre.
I guess it's so ingrained in me that men aren't supposed to show emotion at stuff like that that even in the exhaustion and whiskey fueled state I was in, I glanced to make sure no one was looking before I discretely wiped my face on my sleeve. (What? That's what sweatshirts are for.) I mean, you always hear about how women want men who are sensitive, but as it was once explained to me, that doesn't mean women want a man who cries, they want a man who comforts them when they do. So even though I know that it wouldn't have bothered her, I still couldn't have cried if she would have been watching. Not sure what to make of that, or if there is a lesson in all of this for me, but there it is.
Now let's all hope the guys skipped this one - between not knowing how football is played and still not having seen 300, I'm already dangerously close to having my man card revoked.
Friday, November 7, 2008
If You Were A Cheese, What Kind Would You Be?
This afternoon, I have to give an interview. I don't mean like a radio interview, I mean a "help decide whether or not someone gets a job" interview. I loathe doing this. Partially it's because I don't like the responsibility of having someone's fate in my hands, but more it's that I just don't ever know what to ask to find out if someone is actually capable of being a decent programmer.
Anyway, while I chew on that, I present to you:
Questions You Shouldn't Ask During An Interview
There. I think I have it all out of my system now. Wish me luck.
And hope that you never have your future employment in my hands.
Anyway, while I chew on that, I present to you:
Questions You Shouldn't Ask During An Interview
- What's under there?(Wait until they ask "Under where?". Giggle.)
- Who was the better Darrin Stephens? (Hint - it wasn't Dick Sargent, but that would be accepted, if not judged a bit. An answer of Will Farrel will immediately end the interview.)
- What's a buttfer?
- Do you like gladiator movies?
- If the team decided to dress up as an eighties hair band for Halloween, which band would you prefer, and who would you dress as in the band?(Hint: Poison = Fail. Bonus points for answering Def Leppard and being willing to commit to a full day of programming with their left arm hidden under their shirt.)
- So, who did you vote for last Tuesday. (Regardless of response, roll eyes.)
- XBox or Playstation? (Regardless of response roll eyes, unless they say PC. That's a win.)
- We're facing the task of taking an existing Windows based product and transforming it into a massively multi-user environment that will have to be installed across a server farm. Can you give me an example of a similar situation you've had to face, what pitfalls you ran into, and how you got around them? Please respond using an interpretive dance.
- If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?
- We have a strict code of conduct with regards to humor involving ethnic slurs. Can you give me an example of a situation where you encountered such humor? I've already heard that one. Do you know anything funnier?
There. I think I have it all out of my system now. Wish me luck.
And hope that you never have your future employment in my hands.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
So Today Was Good, But Willett's Still A Douche
I'm having trouble getting anything written today. It's a combination of being really busy and honestly, being in a really good mood. Maybe there's something to the whole "tortured soul artist" thing, but the happier I am, the harder it is to come up with a topic. Maybe it's because all of my rants would push me towards a bad mood, and I don't want to go there. Who knows?
I will say this - this week has seen some trouble with the morning routine. As discussed, I have the tots on a strict schedule in the mornings. Well, thanks once again to the douchebaggery of one William Willett, the kids are getting up early - about an hour early. So my morning routine, which partially relies on me getting up an hour before anyone else so I can get things set up, is falling apart right now.
The thing is, this morning it led to tremendous cuteness. The Moose was crying for me at 6:30, way too early, but I went and got him out of bed and asked if he wanted some cereal. He said yes, and I put him in his seat, gave him a sippy cup and a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. We were doing great, and then I committed the sin of pouring milk on the Cheerios. For reasons I totally don't understand, this set him off, crying like I had taken away his teddy bear.
Well, I couldn't make him stop, and I was getting very frustrated, when the Princess appears. She walks up to him and asks if he's alright, and he promptly stops. She steps behind his chair, and he starts again, so I ask her to come back over. He sees her - he stops. So I ask, "Do you want big sister to sit down and eat too?". Through teary eyes he responded in the affirmative, and so she sat and ate, and so did he. I have no idea why, but he needed her there.
The rest of the morning saw them playing together. She finished eating and read him books while he finished. They did blocks while I got dressed. The entire ride to day care she read him books while he looked on attentively. It's always amazing, the way they interact. It's so good having two kids who care so much about each other, and I'm a lucky guy to get to see that.
I will say this - this week has seen some trouble with the morning routine. As discussed, I have the tots on a strict schedule in the mornings. Well, thanks once again to the douchebaggery of one William Willett, the kids are getting up early - about an hour early. So my morning routine, which partially relies on me getting up an hour before anyone else so I can get things set up, is falling apart right now.
The thing is, this morning it led to tremendous cuteness. The Moose was crying for me at 6:30, way too early, but I went and got him out of bed and asked if he wanted some cereal. He said yes, and I put him in his seat, gave him a sippy cup and a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. We were doing great, and then I committed the sin of pouring milk on the Cheerios. For reasons I totally don't understand, this set him off, crying like I had taken away his teddy bear.
Well, I couldn't make him stop, and I was getting very frustrated, when the Princess appears. She walks up to him and asks if he's alright, and he promptly stops. She steps behind his chair, and he starts again, so I ask her to come back over. He sees her - he stops. So I ask, "Do you want big sister to sit down and eat too?". Through teary eyes he responded in the affirmative, and so she sat and ate, and so did he. I have no idea why, but he needed her there.
The rest of the morning saw them playing together. She finished eating and read him books while he finished. They did blocks while I got dressed. The entire ride to day care she read him books while he looked on attentively. It's always amazing, the way they interact. It's so good having two kids who care so much about each other, and I'm a lucky guy to get to see that.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
If Jack Bauer Were On Lost, They'd Have Been Off The Island In a Day
So, the election is over. America voted, and history was made. Hopefully, we can put our differences aside at some point and actually try and grow as a country instead of continuing the divisiveness that has plagued us for a long time now. I doubt it will happen soon, but I'm going to try and be hopeful. Either way, we can finally move on to other pressing matters.
24 is back.
Well, not entirely, but on November 23 there's a 2 hour movie coming out, and that was enough for me to break out my WWJBD (What Would Jack Bauer Do) bracelet today. To say I'm geeked is an understatement. I'm giddy. I may do a little dance later. I'll get back to you on that.
For the uninitiated, 24 is a show where America faces some terrorist threat, and in real time, Jack Bauer (played unerringly by the occasionally inebriated Kiefer Sutherland) manages to diffuse said threat in a 24 hour period. He does so by first always being right, and second by being a bad ass of epic proportions.
What's funny about 24 is that I love to watch it, and I love to root for Jack Bauer, even though he really stands for a lot of things I loathe. He does not hesitate to torture people for information (the highlight of the last season for me was when a dude wouldn't talk, so he shot the dude's wife in the leg, even though he was clearly friends with her). He's totally flippant about breaking laws that get in his way. He abandons all notions of personal rights if he thinks he can get information to stop whatever terrible thing is about to happen. Of course, it's watchable because he's (almost) always right, but still.
The thing about the show is that it's really well written. Everything Jack does has terrible consequences for him - he's essentially a man who has given up everyhting in his life to defend his country. He's lost his family. He's become a heroin addict. He always ends up an outlaw, hiding out until the doody hits the fan, and then he gets pulled in somehow to open yet another man size can of whoop ass on someone. So even though it's always preposterous, it's written well enough that I can't help but watch.
So yeah, the guy who couldn't give a damn what's on television tonight <i>finally</i> has something to look forward to. I seriously can't remember the last time there was scripted programming that really moved me to excitement of any kind, but 24 does that. If you've missed it, do yourself a favor and start catching up on the DVDs now. You'll be glad you did.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get into the spirit of things and go torture the &#%$ out of an analyst until they tell me whether or not I should be validating this data before the user can save it. Sweet.
24 is back.
Well, not entirely, but on November 23 there's a 2 hour movie coming out, and that was enough for me to break out my WWJBD (What Would Jack Bauer Do) bracelet today. To say I'm geeked is an understatement. I'm giddy. I may do a little dance later. I'll get back to you on that.
For the uninitiated, 24 is a show where America faces some terrorist threat, and in real time, Jack Bauer (played unerringly by the occasionally inebriated Kiefer Sutherland) manages to diffuse said threat in a 24 hour period. He does so by first always being right, and second by being a bad ass of epic proportions.
What's funny about 24 is that I love to watch it, and I love to root for Jack Bauer, even though he really stands for a lot of things I loathe. He does not hesitate to torture people for information (the highlight of the last season for me was when a dude wouldn't talk, so he shot the dude's wife in the leg, even though he was clearly friends with her). He's totally flippant about breaking laws that get in his way. He abandons all notions of personal rights if he thinks he can get information to stop whatever terrible thing is about to happen. Of course, it's watchable because he's (almost) always right, but still.
The thing about the show is that it's really well written. Everything Jack does has terrible consequences for him - he's essentially a man who has given up everyhting in his life to defend his country. He's lost his family. He's become a heroin addict. He always ends up an outlaw, hiding out until the doody hits the fan, and then he gets pulled in somehow to open yet another man size can of whoop ass on someone. So even though it's always preposterous, it's written well enough that I can't help but watch.
So yeah, the guy who couldn't give a damn what's on television tonight <i>finally</i> has something to look forward to. I seriously can't remember the last time there was scripted programming that really moved me to excitement of any kind, but 24 does that. If you've missed it, do yourself a favor and start catching up on the DVDs now. You'll be glad you did.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get into the spirit of things and go torture the &#%$ out of an analyst until they tell me whether or not I should be validating this data before the user can save it. Sweet.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Why No One Asks Me What I Think We Should Have For Dinner
It's finished. I dropped off my beautiful children. I found my station (not a big challenge - it's a small town). I played God of War: Chains of Olympus while I stood in line for 45 minutes, carefully angling the PSP so the kids in line behind me couldn't see it (it's rated M for mature after all). Then I stepped up and exercised my ability to bend the laws of the land to my will.
The problem is now one of self control. Voting like this always leaves me a little mad with power. After all, I have just taken action that could change the path of the country forever. That's kind of a big deal.
At first I kept it under control. In my head as I drove back to work, I voted on the jokes coming from the radio, deciding which were worth retelling. Then I voted on which store signs needed to be updated.
By the time I got to work, it was getting harder to control. When I saw in my email that I was to be part of a new team, I promptly announced my candidacy for team leader, and then voted for myself. I've gone through every poll in my forum and voted on them, whether I cared or not. (I'm not even an artist, why would I have a Wacom tablet? Oh, who am I kidding? I totally want one anyway.)
When I voted my boss off the team for wearing navy blue and black together, I knew I had a problem. (In my defense - really? Navy blue with black? Tim Gunn Wept.) I went back to my desk, took a deep breath, and reminded myself that this is just part of living in a democracy, and that almost every American gets the same chance to vote that I did. This is not my power alone, so there's no need to let it go to my head.
Which reminds me - most of you guys are Americans. What are you doing sitting around reading blogs? Go vote! Go on now! Sheesh.
What would you guys do without me?
The problem is now one of self control. Voting like this always leaves me a little mad with power. After all, I have just taken action that could change the path of the country forever. That's kind of a big deal.
At first I kept it under control. In my head as I drove back to work, I voted on the jokes coming from the radio, deciding which were worth retelling. Then I voted on which store signs needed to be updated.
By the time I got to work, it was getting harder to control. When I saw in my email that I was to be part of a new team, I promptly announced my candidacy for team leader, and then voted for myself. I've gone through every poll in my forum and voted on them, whether I cared or not. (I'm not even an artist, why would I have a Wacom tablet? Oh, who am I kidding? I totally want one anyway.)
When I voted my boss off the team for wearing navy blue and black together, I knew I had a problem. (In my defense - really? Navy blue with black? Tim Gunn Wept.) I went back to my desk, took a deep breath, and reminded myself that this is just part of living in a democracy, and that almost every American gets the same chance to vote that I did. This is not my power alone, so there's no need to let it go to my head.
Which reminds me - most of you guys are Americans. What are you doing sitting around reading blogs? Go vote! Go on now! Sheesh.
What would you guys do without me?
Monday, November 3, 2008
Or Maybe It's a Hobbit - I Just Can't Tell
It feels like I should be talking about politics here, right? I mean, everyone else in the country is. Why not me? Because I'm kind of tired of it. I'm sure I'll go back to it tomorrow, but for today, we'll deal with something silly, which to my mind is more of what we need right now.
So, I live in a nice subdivision, and one of the things that comes with is extra signs along the roads reminding people that little kids play there, and they should slow down lest the run over one of them. I remember being impressed with these signs when I first looked at houses in this area. Well, now that I live here, we have one of these signs right next to our house, which is cool, but I get a better look at it now, and frankly, I'm not sure that I approve as much as before. Here's the sign in question:
Nice sentiment and all, I just have one question: what the #%$@ is that supposed to be a drawing of? I mean, it sort of looks like a kid, but what the hell is going on with its head? And if it's not a kid, then just what it is it?
Now, assuming that the text is accurate, that we are out to protect the "little people", I have a couple of theories. The first - my new home town is also home of the lollipop guild. You know what I'm talking about. The three tough looking Munchkins who came out and sang to Dorothy - those guys. I'm thinking one of them (the actors, obviously) got tired of the Hollywood lifestyle - the women, the parties, all that rot, so they resettled out here. Because of their celebrity status, the community wanted to make sure they were safe, so up went the signs.
This is, of course, not the only possibility, but the alternative is something I would rather not face. You guys know me by now. I try to be tolerant of all people, but there are some who I have a history with. Do I think that they deserve less protection? No, of course not. I'm just saying that given my history, I'm not sure that I want them living in my neighborhood. Still, look at the picture above, and compare it with the following photographic evidence:
If I find this to be the case, I'll do my best to turn the other cheek. I'll smile politely if I see one walking by. I'll compliment him on his lawn, and then stand around for five minutes while he sings his little song about how I should be edging my lawn propertly, waiting patiently for the "oompadee doo" letting me know he's finished. Whatever.
Mark my words though - the day one of them shows up to pick my daughter up for a date is the day we move.
So, I live in a nice subdivision, and one of the things that comes with is extra signs along the roads reminding people that little kids play there, and they should slow down lest the run over one of them. I remember being impressed with these signs when I first looked at houses in this area. Well, now that I live here, we have one of these signs right next to our house, which is cool, but I get a better look at it now, and frankly, I'm not sure that I approve as much as before. Here's the sign in question:
Nice sentiment and all, I just have one question: what the #%$@ is that supposed to be a drawing of? I mean, it sort of looks like a kid, but what the hell is going on with its head? And if it's not a kid, then just what it is it?
Now, assuming that the text is accurate, that we are out to protect the "little people", I have a couple of theories. The first - my new home town is also home of the lollipop guild. You know what I'm talking about. The three tough looking Munchkins who came out and sang to Dorothy - those guys. I'm thinking one of them (the actors, obviously) got tired of the Hollywood lifestyle - the women, the parties, all that rot, so they resettled out here. Because of their celebrity status, the community wanted to make sure they were safe, so up went the signs.
This is, of course, not the only possibility, but the alternative is something I would rather not face. You guys know me by now. I try to be tolerant of all people, but there are some who I have a history with. Do I think that they deserve less protection? No, of course not. I'm just saying that given my history, I'm not sure that I want them living in my neighborhood. Still, look at the picture above, and compare it with the following photographic evidence:
If I find this to be the case, I'll do my best to turn the other cheek. I'll smile politely if I see one walking by. I'll compliment him on his lawn, and then stand around for five minutes while he sings his little song about how I should be edging my lawn propertly, waiting patiently for the "oompadee doo" letting me know he's finished. Whatever.
Mark my words though - the day one of them shows up to pick my daughter up for a date is the day we move.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Dark Dreams: The Hunted
It's night and I'm standing next to the ruins of what used to be a castle somewhere in the English countryside. In the moonlight I can see gray rock walls crumbled, doors still standing in walls that no longer hold anything in, or anything out. I move slowly and carefully, knowing the attackers are everywhere now. The night is dark, and the few clouds in the sky move slowly, light in a deep blue sky, except in the far distance.
In the distance the clouds glow orange where London burns.
I creep along the walls, listening for sounds of life, hoping to find another survivor amongst the ruins. I hear movement, and slowly edge my way to an area where the remaining wall only comes up about four feet. On the other side I hear voices, and quietly I peer over the edge of the wall to see who's there.
They're short, maybe three feet tall. They're not wearing any clothes, and in the moonlight their skin looks brown and tough, like leather. One reaches it's clawed hand into what was once a man, pulling at something until it comes loose, bat's wings raising slightly with the effort, and then eating it. A walkie talkie on the body's belt crackles with static, and the other thing turns its horned head towards the sound. A broken voice comes whispering through:
"Can anyone hear me? Jesus, we were completely surrounded. It's just me left, and I...wait...what was that?"
There is a brief pause, and then the sound of tearing and screaming. Then the walkie talkie goes silent. One of the demons looks at the other and says, "Huh. It makes you wonder why he bothered with the radio."
The other demon shrugs and says, "Well, he didn't know."
Having seen that these are not the survivors I seek, I carefully move away from the ruins and begin to cross the countryside. I listen all the time, occasionally darting my eyes to the deep blue sky for fear of one of them dropping down from above. I move along, and as I come to the top of a hill, I see headlights moving in the distance. I want to rush down and wave for help, but something tells me not to, and instead I lay down against the ground, watching the headlights slow as the road gets closer to where I am.
The car stops in front of me, about 200 feet away from where I'm laying against the grass. A woman steps out of the car and walks to the side of the car I'm closer to, scanning the area as if looking for something. She's tall, with long black hair and a form fitting blue dress that looks like something out of the 1940s, and I think to myself that I would probably find her attractive if I believed that she was human.
Failing to find anything, she gets back into the car. I see her lean over to pick up a phone from the passenger side, somehow knowing she needs to report her progress, when she pauses. She raises her head, and she stares me right in the eyes.
And I know that I'm not going to escape after all.
In the distance the clouds glow orange where London burns.
I creep along the walls, listening for sounds of life, hoping to find another survivor amongst the ruins. I hear movement, and slowly edge my way to an area where the remaining wall only comes up about four feet. On the other side I hear voices, and quietly I peer over the edge of the wall to see who's there.
They're short, maybe three feet tall. They're not wearing any clothes, and in the moonlight their skin looks brown and tough, like leather. One reaches it's clawed hand into what was once a man, pulling at something until it comes loose, bat's wings raising slightly with the effort, and then eating it. A walkie talkie on the body's belt crackles with static, and the other thing turns its horned head towards the sound. A broken voice comes whispering through:
"Can anyone hear me? Jesus, we were completely surrounded. It's just me left, and I...wait...what was that?"
There is a brief pause, and then the sound of tearing and screaming. Then the walkie talkie goes silent. One of the demons looks at the other and says, "Huh. It makes you wonder why he bothered with the radio."
The other demon shrugs and says, "Well, he didn't know."
Having seen that these are not the survivors I seek, I carefully move away from the ruins and begin to cross the countryside. I listen all the time, occasionally darting my eyes to the deep blue sky for fear of one of them dropping down from above. I move along, and as I come to the top of a hill, I see headlights moving in the distance. I want to rush down and wave for help, but something tells me not to, and instead I lay down against the ground, watching the headlights slow as the road gets closer to where I am.
The car stops in front of me, about 200 feet away from where I'm laying against the grass. A woman steps out of the car and walks to the side of the car I'm closer to, scanning the area as if looking for something. She's tall, with long black hair and a form fitting blue dress that looks like something out of the 1940s, and I think to myself that I would probably find her attractive if I believed that she was human.
Failing to find anything, she gets back into the car. I see her lean over to pick up a phone from the passenger side, somehow knowing she needs to report her progress, when she pauses. She raises her head, and she stares me right in the eyes.
And I know that I'm not going to escape after all.
A Cut Above
It is now the night before Halloween, and I have what I consider to be a complete travesty in my house. Last weekend, we invited a set of neighborhood girls over to carve pumpkins, and just to be sure we bought and hollowed out a couple of extra ones. Well, two pumpkins have been sitting on my porch for nearly a week now, empty canvasses awaiting the hand of a pumpkin master to mangle their flesh into a glowing work of art.
I thought myself to be such a master at one point. I started out like everyone else, working my way up from a general veggie master to gourd master until deciding to specialize in the Americanized version and hone my skills upon the orange beast of the gourd world. Interesting tidbit - originally, turnips or rutabagas were carved in Europe, but I was not interested in the title of "rutabaga master" for reason I think are obvious.
Anyway, I'm getting geared up to put the kids to bed tonight (hopefully early) that I may pop corn, pour myself an adult beverage, and take to the blades. Then I went online. Now I realize that I am not the master I believed I was. Maybe I'm a padawan - that's more reasonable.
Because these guys are the $#%@ing Jedi of carving.
First, let's look at the set of nercore pumpkins pointed to by my good friend. Some are pretty standard template fair, but other are a world of "holy cow". The Death Star? The Mario? The three dimensional Darth Vadar? Those are beautiful.
Impressed as I was, nothing could prepare me for what I found via Slashdot today. The man's name is Ray Villafane, and apparently he was part of a Food Network challenge for pumpkin carving where he whipped some hiney. Looking at his work, you can see why. I'm absolutely stunned at the level of detail he's put into this. Just to up the ante, he actually includes a brief tutorial on how he does one of them, but I think unless you are already an artist who can do realistic sculpture, it's best just to admire.
So...yeah. I though my Dr. Horrible pumpkin was going to be ambitious, but these people go above and beyond to create brief but stunning works of art. I'm sure there are those who would call this a waste, particularly when one considers the temporal nature of such work, but I couldn't disagree more. I love to see someone dedicate themselves so fully to something that, even if just for a few days, bring a little more fun into the world.
Happy Halloween Eve people. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to plan for.
I thought myself to be such a master at one point. I started out like everyone else, working my way up from a general veggie master to gourd master until deciding to specialize in the Americanized version and hone my skills upon the orange beast of the gourd world. Interesting tidbit - originally, turnips or rutabagas were carved in Europe, but I was not interested in the title of "rutabaga master" for reason I think are obvious.
Anyway, I'm getting geared up to put the kids to bed tonight (hopefully early) that I may pop corn, pour myself an adult beverage, and take to the blades. Then I went online. Now I realize that I am not the master I believed I was. Maybe I'm a padawan - that's more reasonable.
Because these guys are the $#%@ing Jedi of carving.
First, let's look at the set of nercore pumpkins pointed to by my good friend. Some are pretty standard template fair, but other are a world of "holy cow". The Death Star? The Mario? The three dimensional Darth Vadar? Those are beautiful.
Impressed as I was, nothing could prepare me for what I found via Slashdot today. The man's name is Ray Villafane, and apparently he was part of a Food Network challenge for pumpkin carving where he whipped some hiney. Looking at his work, you can see why. I'm absolutely stunned at the level of detail he's put into this. Just to up the ante, he actually includes a brief tutorial on how he does one of them, but I think unless you are already an artist who can do realistic sculpture, it's best just to admire.
So...yeah. I though my Dr. Horrible pumpkin was going to be ambitious, but these people go above and beyond to create brief but stunning works of art. I'm sure there are those who would call this a waste, particularly when one considers the temporal nature of such work, but I couldn't disagree more. I love to see someone dedicate themselves so fully to something that, even if just for a few days, bring a little more fun into the world.
Happy Halloween Eve people. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to plan for.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
To Look Into Her Eyes And Say, "Daddy Is A Big Liar"
Once upon a time, I was a big liar. I mean it was bad. I would lie to get out of trouble. I would lie to get my way. Hell, I would lie just for sport. The thing is, I was great at it. Rarely did anyone suspect the degree with which I bent the truth to do my bidding.
Then I moved out of my parents house and started growing up. The older I got, the more I realized that a)lying about things is wrong and b)lying about things is a huge pain in the tuckus. So I stopped. Just like that. It wasn't even like a habit I had to break. I just decided that if anyone asked something, well, I'd tell the truth to the best of my ability. It's easier, and I don't have to remember anything to cover my heiny later.
Then I had kids.
Now, here's the thing - I have the same policy with my kids. If my daughter asks me a question, I will answer honestly. I may not fill in all of the gory details but I tell her the truth. When she asked if I have a mom and dad, and why we don't see them, I told her the truth (now with only half the awkwardness). I believe the best thing I can do for my kids is treat them like little adults, assume they are not morons, and tell them the truth about the world so they are ready for it.
The problem is that I got railroaded into two lies, and now I'm facing one of them: Santa Claus. At first I fully protested for the aforementioned reasons. Unfortunately, I relented, and now I'm having to face the wrath of this decision. This morning, on the way to school, she said other kids in her class said that there was no Santa Claus, and asked me if there is or not. I went all political on her:
Then I deftly changed the subject and continued the drive to school, furious with myself the entire way. I have deliberately misled my daughter in a way that I told myself I never would. She is more ignorant that some of her peers because of something I did. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I have spent the entire morning hating myself for this.
The thing is, what do I do now? We're heading into the season, and I'm going to be reminded of this constantly. We're going to go to the mall for pictures on Santa's lap. She may even write Santa a letter this year (she's big on writing letters right now). Every one of these things is going to remind me that I'm a bad parent, that when she realizes that I've been lying, she'll never trust me completely ever again. I'm just not ready for that, and I have no one to blame but myself.
At least I have a few months before I have to deal with the whole "anthropomorphic rabbits distributing painted unfertilized fowl offspring" issue.
Then I moved out of my parents house and started growing up. The older I got, the more I realized that a)lying about things is wrong and b)lying about things is a huge pain in the tuckus. So I stopped. Just like that. It wasn't even like a habit I had to break. I just decided that if anyone asked something, well, I'd tell the truth to the best of my ability. It's easier, and I don't have to remember anything to cover my heiny later.
Then I had kids.
Now, here's the thing - I have the same policy with my kids. If my daughter asks me a question, I will answer honestly. I may not fill in all of the gory details but I tell her the truth. When she asked if I have a mom and dad, and why we don't see them, I told her the truth (now with only half the awkwardness). I believe the best thing I can do for my kids is treat them like little adults, assume they are not morons, and tell them the truth about the world so they are ready for it.
The problem is that I got railroaded into two lies, and now I'm facing one of them: Santa Claus. At first I fully protested for the aforementioned reasons. Unfortunately, I relented, and now I'm having to face the wrath of this decision. This morning, on the way to school, she said other kids in her class said that there was no Santa Claus, and asked me if there is or not. I went all political on her:
"What do you think?"
"I think there is a Santa."
"Well, there you go then."
Then I deftly changed the subject and continued the drive to school, furious with myself the entire way. I have deliberately misled my daughter in a way that I told myself I never would. She is more ignorant that some of her peers because of something I did. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I have spent the entire morning hating myself for this.
The thing is, what do I do now? We're heading into the season, and I'm going to be reminded of this constantly. We're going to go to the mall for pictures on Santa's lap. She may even write Santa a letter this year (she's big on writing letters right now). Every one of these things is going to remind me that I'm a bad parent, that when she realizes that I've been lying, she'll never trust me completely ever again. I'm just not ready for that, and I have no one to blame but myself.
At least I have a few months before I have to deal with the whole "anthropomorphic rabbits distributing painted unfertilized fowl offspring" issue.
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