Steppin' Out

Date night has become something of a challenge these days. A big part
of this is the fact that I'm typically in charge of planning date
night, and as previously discussed, I have the romantic skills of a
rabid ferret. Nevertheless, I occasionally request Management's
company on an outing, and this last weekend such an event occurred.

The first issue of date night is that whatever activity we're going to
pursue pretty much has to be happening in Kalamazoo, as I have yet to
undertake the task of finding a local babysitter. This is kind of
ridiculous I admit, but as we've discussed before, I am the
quintessential paranoid parent, and the idea of leaving my kids to be
watched by some teenager would eliminate any benifits of going out
with my wife, as I would spend the entire time wondering if my house
was burning down or if my children were being instructed on the proper
method of preparing a hit of some illicit substance on the sitter's
behalf. Nope, it's off to the Grandparent's house if we're going to
attempt to go out and relax.

As such, we made the trek on Saturday so we could go out and enjoy
ourselves as couple. This led to a couple of interesting moments, the
first being the Princess' fashion advice. Before we left, she pulled
me aside and told me that I had to take out my earrings. Apparently,
not only did they not go with my outfit (I tried to disagree, but she
wasn't having it), but I was told that for a date I'm supposed to look
"handsome, not cool". I didn't realize at the time that these things
were mutually exclusive, but apparently they are. She told me I could
leave them in for now, but I had to take them out when I went on my
date. She even reassured Management that she had spoken to me about it
and that it was all taken care of.

So we went out, ate at our favorite Indian restaurant in Kalamazoo,
and just genreally hung out. It's funny, but when you have young
children, it can be a treat just to go shopping and be able to wander
a store aimlessly checking things out with no pressure from the kids.
Unfortunately, I did not do as well as I should have, and at one point
during dinner I requested that Management remind me that we needed to
buy diapers before going back to the in-laws for the evening, to which
she replied, "How romantic". At least we laughed about it, but still,
epic fail.

Despite my best attempts, we actually went out and had a nice time. I
really need to start interviewing locals so we can go out more often.
Of course I'll have to install cameras throughout the house and then
get a new phone so I can get online and check the camera's
periodically first. Plus, I'll have to find someone to run background
checks on potentials. And then there's the drug testing.

Yeah, maybe I'll just drive out the in-laws for a little longer.

I Never Really Trusted Casper For That Matter

I've been a fan of horror movies for as long as I can remember. There weren't many parental filters in the asylum I grew up in, so I was exposed to a fair amount of this stuff early on. As I grew into a teenager, it just got worse, and I would jump at the chance to watch anything that involved ghosts, goblins, or ghouls of some sort (never slasher movies though - it somehow sucks the fun out for me to watch something like that where, no matter how outlandish or unlikely, it was at least possible).

This has lead to one of my more interesting and ridiculous quirks - I don't believe in ghosts, but I'm afraid of them. I try to be as rational as possible when it comes to the world, and I think I'm fairly good at it. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I used to obsess about this stuff, poring over whatever the library had on monsters, unsolved mysteries, and especially "real life" ghost stories. Over and over I came coming up with the same unfortunate conclusion - it was all hokum.

I'm not saying that everyone who has ever claimed to have seen a ghost is lying about it (although I'm sure there's a good percentage of them that are). I think the human mind is an interesting and often scary thing, and people will see and believe all sorts of things that defy rational thought. I once had a friend tell me that if I woke up every day and said to myself, "If there is a God, show me a sign", then I would eventually see something that made me believe. I didn't doubt him, and I'm sure that his intentions were pure, but at the same time, I think if I woke up and said to myself, "If Burt Reynolds is the finest actor to ever walk upon the Earth, show me a sign", eventually I would see something that would make me believe that too, Stroker Ace notwithstanding.

So when I talk to my daughter about ghosts (she brought it up), I tell her the absolute truth - I'll believe in ghosts when I catch one in my teeth. I watch Ghost Hunters and I Google for photographs and videos, and while they often pass along a fair case of the wiggums, never have I seen anything I would rate as evidence. It only gets worse now, when everybody who has a cell phone is carrying a camera (okay, everybody but me, since mine didn't survive the rinse cycle). And it's not like there are less dead people than before. I've known quite a few people in my life, and I can honestly say that more of them are now dead than ever before.

Nevertheless, ghosts scare the bejeesus out of me. I hate watching ghost movies, and naturally do it every chance I get. It's not the "jump out and yell boo" things that get to me either - those just make me mad. It's the genuinely creepy stuff that kills me. What's worse is the latest trend of taking a scary as $%*& j-horror flick (Japanese Horror, for those who have better things to do than look this stuff up), and turn it into a scary as $%&* American horror movie. The Grudge and The Ring scared the crap out of me. Although in those cases, I think I'm only afraid of ghosts with hair issues - apparently there is a dearth of conditioning products in the afterlife.

Even now, I have a game at home - Fatal Frame 2 - whose central premise is being trapped in a village of ghosts looking for your sibling (you're looking for your sibling - I haven't played, so I don't know what the ghosts are looking for). I really want to play this game, and I really don't. I know I'll love it, but I also know that it will mean that every time I have to turn off the lights when going to bed, I'm going to go up the stairs too fast afterwards. It also isn't going to help the whole "Go see what that noise was" situation we've discussed previously.

Still, I'm going to keep doing it. I'll keep looking for a good photo, or video, too. That's the problem with this stuff - it defies disproving. It's easy to prove that something is real. It's much harder to prove that something doesn't exist. Besides, as long as the kids continue to believe that I'm not afraid of anything, I'm good.

Suckers.

Now How Do I Get a Sammich On Demand?

At various points I've discussed with people my views on the entertainment industry, and how it's going to change in the future. My view is that all entertainment will move to an on-demand type of scenario, with people just grabbing what they want when they want it. The opposing argument is that people take pride in ownership, and that having the physical copy of a movie or television show is a convenience that people won't give up. While I'm sure I would enjoy owning the latest, all digital, completely enhanced version of Star Wars more than the other fifteen version that preceded it, I'm thinking it would be enough just to watch (at least until they make a version where Luke doesn't sound like a whiny foof through the entire first movie - just get your damned power converters later).

Well, for me it's begun. Management and I watch all television programs after the fact. So far, this has meant shelling out x dollars to rent a season of some program when it comes out on dvd. This runs a serious risk, as we have to avoid hearing spoilers for a good long time, but it pays off in the convenience of watching when we want, and not waiting for ridiculous amounts of time between episodes. The last
show I watched religiously when it was actually on was Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and man did it hurt to have them push a rerun when I was all excited for it.

So last night we were trying to figure out how to amuse ourselves, and it played out like it often has in the past. I go the video store, rent a couple of movies I think we could bear watching together, bring them home, and then we decide we don't feel like watching any of them. (This is why I don't know how Pirates of the Carribean ends, why I haven't seen a life size Optimus Prime, and why I've missed Hot Fuzz, which is currently sitting on the dining room table as far as I know.)

So, we determine that we will find a way to watch the current season of Lost, the last season of which we finished last week. It was pretty difficult. I went online, Googled 'Lost', found the link to watch full episodes, switched it to full screen, and then we watched a couple of episodes. There are maybe five commercials for the entire show, and no remote control, but other than that, it was awesome.

I was already hooked on my On Demand feature from Comcast, not for myself but for the wee ones. Being able to bring up Sesame Street or Zoboomafoo whenever I want rocks. Oh, and Good Eats for me (I'm a huge Alton Brown fan, and will even watch the episodes about cooking meat just to learn about the science and history behind some of the stuff we eat). Between that and the free movies, I actually get a lot of entertainment out of it. But now the actual computer is good for watching things beside Hugo, Cat of 1000 Faces (not that Hugo wasn't worth every dime I pay for broadband - somehow Management didn't appreciate the subtle genius behind it).

So I think this is the way things are going. The only thing we really need to beat now is the interfaces. Once we can duplicate the experience of wandering the video store, letting some box catch out eye and remind ourselves that we never say something we meant to, I think it all goes digital. You know, unless you live out in the sticks and can't have broadband, but I figure the cow-tipping makes up for any entertainment you guys are missing out on, with the possible exception of Hugo. Man that cat is funny.

So This Is the Soul of Wit?

Sorry about the brief/missing posts. I've been at home with a sick Moose the last two days. He's not big on me being at the computer without him, and he's not big on me typing when I'm at the computer with him. If anyone sees anything in the news that I'm going to be sorely disappointed for missing, please send me links that I might rant about it when I get the time.

Speak Softly Indeed

We begin today with a hunk of text that showed up in my inbox this morning, credited to Theodore Roosevelt during his presidency in 1907:

In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American...There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag...We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language...and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the
American people.

The text is actually from a letter written right before he passed away, in January, 1919, ten years after his presidency ended. The ceasefire that ended World War I had been declared a mere 2 months earlier, and the Treaty of Versailles would not be signed until June 28, five months after Roosevelt's passing. I'm telling you all of this because I think it brings an important bit of context to the above quote, something that is frequently lost in these emails. Well, that, and I like to think of DLOG as edutainment.

I find this a little disheartening, because the above quote, I think anyway, is the sort of intense thing that comes about as the result of a conflict, and, to my mind, sort of goes against some of the things I enjoy about being an American. It's understandable that during international conflict, there is concern that Americans who hail from the countries that we are conflicting with may find their allegiances
divided. I believe that the comment above was speaking to that - reminding those who came to this country seeking some kind of asylum or a better life for themselves and their families that their allegiances should be to this country first. I think he goes a bit far, but that's the idea anyway.

The thing is, America is about immigration. The English immigrated here seeking religious freedom (or better cheese - I wasn't big on history). History books don't talk about it that way, but I have yet to read a book on American history written by a native American. Now etymology isn't exactly one of my hobbies (comes from not knowing most of my biological ancestors), but I'm pretty sure anyone who looks back
far enough is going to find themselves a genuine non-English speaking immigrant in their past, even the Irish. Okay, technically they speak English, but have you ever heard people from Ireland talk to each other? It's close enough to a foreign language for me.

My point is that I hear a lot of people (mostly white people) talk about immigration as if it was something that had nothing to do with them, as if the earth itself had opened up and bore them, the only true Americans, which is totally ridiculous. America is supposed to be a melting pot. I'm not saying we need to open the borders and let anyone in who wants to be here, but I think it does everyone good to
embrace other cultures, especially those of our own people.

The other side of this is that the sentiment sits a little too closely to the mass hysteria that followed 9-11. I distinctly remember being in college at the time, and stopping at a local gas station to grab a soda pop. Outside there was a big sign that explained in no uncertain terms that the people running the shop were neither from Iraq or Afghanistan. There was a lot of news back then about people being
attacked because they were of middle eastern descent. At that moment, I was so ashamed of my country, of my people. I was ashamed because as soon as we found ourselves in conflict, we turned on anyone we viewed as 'not one of us'. I wonder how many of those who felt the need to treat middle easterners poorly had an ancestor who was similarly treated that way they didn't know about.

Anyway, off my soap box and back to work. For those that wonder, no I don't know all of this stuff off of the top of my head. Every mass email should be verified by the good people at Snopes (article in question here), and then details can be gathered at Wikipedia. The more
you know and all that.

Sorry Roger, You Tiger Now

Okay, since we were talking about my youth yesterday, let's cover something else of amusement. When I turned eighteen, I had determined that I was going to do three things that I was not able to do before then - buy cigarettes, go to the local strip club, and get a tattoo. Two of the three things turned out to be a terrible mistake (smoking for obvious reasons and the strip club because I was horrible uncomfortable the whole time, and now know to avoid those places as best as I can). The tattoos, on the other hand, I have absolutely no regrets about.

The first tattoo I got was the traditional shoulder tattoo, a small tiger with a Chinese pictograph below it. At the time I was under the impression that it was a letter 'E'. It was for "enigma" for various reasons - I'm a puzzle fanatic, I was at the time obsessed with unexplained occurrences (miracles, ghosts, UFOs, etc). Even worse was that when asked, I wouldn't say what it was for. (Get it? It's an enigma itself. Man, things seem a lot more clever when you're eighteen.) Apparently, this led to speculation that it was meant for someone, but alas, it was not so.

So anyway, years later I'm sitting at my desk working, when it strikes me that the Chinese don't actually have an alphabet like ours. Instead their written language is made up of pictographs, symbols that represent objects or ideas. These symbols are combined to make complex objects, and then strung together to make sentences. This may seem unwieldy, but apparently only around 6000 of these things are required for everyday use. How they get keyboards to work there frightens me to the point that I have never looked it up, but anyway, that's how it works.

With this realization came a second one - I have some sort of mysterious symbol on my arm, and I have no idea what it means. Have I been labeled in some way? Would Chinese people see my arm and wonder why I would advertise the fact that I was born as a woman? Even stranger than this though was the idea that it was something completely incoherent - for the last several years, I've been going around with "table lamp" permanently etched into my arm in purple.

I was fortunate that Management was working on a Master's Degree. (No I don't have to call her master. I'm not saying that I don't, I'm saying that I don't have to.) As discreetly as possible, I hunted down one of her fellow cell mates in the carrels (that's what they call cubicles for graduate students for some reason) who hailed from the land in question here. It was with great relief I discovered that the symbol on my arm is "kung" as in kung fu. He said it means the power you have, and said that with it positioned under the tiger, he took it to mean I have the power of a tiger. Not what I intended, but I suppose it could come in handy if I ever find myself in a situation where I have to kill and eat an elk.

I'm sure there are those of you who might wonder if any of this has ever led me to consider removing these things. Absolutely not. I view my tattoos the way I view my scarred hands, or the stretch marks on my upper arms. They are part of my history, a physical reminder of something I've been through, something that in one way or another, for better or worse, made me what I am today. Besides, I stand behind anything that makes for an amusing anecdote, and this qualifies.

There is also occasionally the question of more. To be honest, while Management has thus far put the kibosh on any further decorative mutilation (don't cringe too hard - I view ear piercings the same way), I still cling to the idea of wanting a power band around my left bicep with my children's name weaved into it. I have no idea if it will ever happen, but I cling to it anyway. Sometimes we have to have something that is totally our decision, even if it's about something stupid, just to maintain some measure of independence. On the other hand, I really like sleeping in a bed, so I guess we'll see what the future holds.

I Bet Fabio Is the Same Way

Let's step back for a moment, return to a time in the distant past when I was a young man still in high school. I had a certain style about me that I can not exactly describe with any accuracy. I wore odd clothes (baggy pirate shirts for example). I had long hair. I read and wrote poetry. I sang in musicals, sometimes as the leading man.

I describe this for you not to open myself up for mocking (like you needed an excuse anyway), but to point out that it all sort of painted this picture of a romantic (or a gay, depending if you were talking to a guy or girl at the moment). I mean seriously, the long hair and pirate shirts alone qualified me for the cover of a romance novel, with the obvious exception that at some point in my history one of my ancestors partook of a forbidden love involving a wookie, so my chest has enough hair to make a Norelco Bodygroom weep. What's worse was that I knew it. I don't think I was consciously cultivating this image, but at the same time I was a teenager, and I'm not sure I could have been said to being doing anything consciously. Either way, I took advantage of it to be sure.

I'm bringing it up because I have a confession that will probably come as a tremendous surprise to exactly no one - it was a complete fallacy. The fact is that I was probably the most self-centered individual in the entire school. My idea of a big date was renting a movie that most likely involved teenage girls being dissembled by some variety of mythological horror. There might be a sandwich first. Oh yeah, total Casanova material there.

The problem is that while I managed to learn calculus, physics, accounting (at least as far as my budget goes), computer programming, and a host of other skills, I have somehow not improved in this area. I have this weird deficit when it comes to interpersonal relationships. I suppose it's because despite my efforts thus far, I remain a fairly self-centered individual. It's hard for me to think about things in terms of other people.

Of all the failing I have, I would count this as my greatest, because I'm an extremely lucky man. I have an amazing wife. I managed to marry a girl who could be patient with me while I was still too immature to understand how the world worked. I managed to marry a girl who could help me stand up for myself when everything in me screamed to just allow people to keep rolling over me because it was so much easier than confrontation. I managed to marry a girl who is better at swearing than me, and that's really saying something.

Seriously, I'm always getting all this recognition from others about how I'm a great father or a good employee. I don't think that anyone realizes that without her, I'm none of it, and I never would have been. I was primed for a long career in the food service industry, maybe if I was lucky a brief stint in prison for possession of various illegal substances. She didn't just teach me that there were more important things in the world, she taught me how to appreciate them. She has, in every way, helped me cultivate every part of my personality that I can be said to be proud of.

So there it is. As a romantic, I'm a miserable failure, and the person who suffers is the person I owe all of my happiness to. Out of all the things that bring me joy in life, there are few that I can't trace back to her in one way or another - maybe just snack chips, which I don't believe she's involved with. I owe her so much, and I hope that someday I can become the kind of husband that she deserves.

The Monsters Are Everywhere You Know

So, in the last couple of weeks, I've had a few opportunities to watch a bunch of kids and their parents in party-like settings, and something really interesting struck me. I'm far more protective over my kids than a lot of parents are. I'm not judging the other parents necessarily. This is just an observation.

I don't even know where it stems from. For the most part, I'm a pretty laid back individual, so this intense paranoia about my kids seems a little out of character for me. I don't think it's anything from my childhood or anything, but as discussed, I do have weird gaps in my memory, so I suppose there's a change I was kept in a pit moisturizing in an effort to avoid another attack of the hose. Who knows?

Regardless, I have this need to always know where my kids are, and I don't mean the general vicinity, I mean the actual physical location. I went to the father daughter dance, and was struck by how many kids were allowed to run off with their friends while their dads chatted with each other over cookies and punch. It wasn't as if these guys didn't care, they just weren't concerned about it. Clearly, they believed that their kids were safe here.

I, on the other hand, played the usual game. While waiting in line for the pictures (the first thing we did), I identified all of the exits to the building. I scanned the crowd for anyone who did not seem to be attached to a child, and then scanned again for anyone who was attached to a child but showing more interest in another child who wasn't currently talking to them.

Then the next day I went to a bizarre play-place (this area has a lot of children's entertainment - maybe Kalamazoo did too, but I didn't notice it). The Princess and I attended yet another birthday party, and this one was at a coffee house that had been almost entirely filled with tubes, netting, and ladders for kids to climb and run in, sort of like Chuck E. Cheese has but expanded and deeper. We walk in, make our introductions, and cut the kids loose. I then proceed to track the Princess as best I can through the netting and the tubes and whatnot.

In the meantime, the other parents (all mothers) have gathered around a table and are chatting about whatever it is they chat about. I was watching for my own, but when I glanced in their direction none of them ever seemed to look up. They were completely comfortable with their kid's safety here. So now I'm wondering if I'm paranoid and over-protective, or if they're just too comfortable with things. I suppose that there was only one exit to the place, but I could imagine how easy it would be to come in, scooping someone up, and walking out.

Either way, I have no intention of relinquishing my current tendencies. I'd rather be over-protective for no reason than to have something happen to one of my kids and spend the rest of my life questioning what I could have done differently. Besides, to paraphrase Nirvana, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.

As If the Threat of Chris Hanson Wasn't Enough

So, more shock and horror coming out of the news outlets lately, letting us know just how terrible the state of our nations youth is in. Surprisingly, this time it might not be the usual hyperboly for the sake of ratings (link is slightly NSFW with blurred cartoon naughty bits, but so worth it). According to the Centers for Disease Control, over one in four teenage girls in the US currently has a sexually transmitted disease. I'm not sure we can trust an organization that can't even figure out where its own center is (seriously, how many centers can you have?), but everyone else seems to be, so what the heck.

If accurate, this is obviously a tragedy for our nations youth, and speaks strongly to a failing policy. I'm not sure at what point we as a nation decided that it would be better to keep our kids ignorant, but I think this new study should be a wake up call. I don't have a teenager yet, which is nice, but I was at some point, a long, long time ago, a teenager myself, and as I recall, being told not to do something was a hit-or-miss policy at best. In fact, being told not to do something usually led to the though "well, gee, if it's important enough to tell me not to do it, there must be some reason that doing it is fun - maybe I should look into it".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating that we should start showing pron in schools. I just think that maybe a little more openness might pay off. Why do we have to assume that every bit of information going out to our kids will immediately be put to self-destructive ends? Isn't it possible that our kids could actually be thoughtful, intelligent beings that can process information, store it for later, and use it to make responsible decisions?

I've heard the arguments of course. Telling our kids about safe sex, that's the same as telling them that we're okay with them having sex. Well, if that's the case, let's stop talking about anything that we don't want our kids to do. For example, I would like to remove any references to wars from the history courses, as I think there are better ways to handle conflicts. Also, stop teaching slant rhyming (using words that are spelled the same but don't actually rhyme). "Wander" and "gander" do not rhyme, and Mother Goose was a hack for thinking that they did. Man that pisses me off.

Obviously, I'm kidding, but you hopefully get the point. Not teaching about a thing doesn't prevent it, and similarly, teaching about something doesn't necessarily suggest approval of the subject. Give the information, and then teach them how to use it intelligently.

Except slant rhyming. Seriously, "gander" and "wander". WTF is that?

Should We Really Be Outsourcing Tech-Writers?

Okay, I had all sorts of things to discuss today. In the last eight days, I've attended two birthday parties, a daddy-daughter dance, as well as a double surgery for the kids to get tubes in their ears. As you can image, all sorts of amusing things came out of these, but those will have to wait, as I have something that presented itself last evening that takes precedence for now.

I'm a geek, a programmer who typically enjoys what he does. In getting my degree, I focused a lot on usability and interface design, but at heart I'm a programmer. Management, on the other hand, is a hardcore usability geek. Naturally, when presented with an interface for software, we can't help but notice the quality of it from a usability point of view.

So, last night we finally sat down to do our taxes, hardly our favorite activity, but something that needs to be done. Last year we switched the program we used because every year we would get to the end and be told that something was wrong, and hunting down the problem was a pain in the arse. Well, last year went pretty well, so I picked up the same software this year, and we discovered that someone had seriously dropped the ball in the interface department, but in silly ways. The software works well. It's the screen text that blows.

For some inexplicable reason, someone decided that it would be a great idea to bold certain words in each sentence of screen text. The thing is, they didn't seem to concern themselves with which words to bold. Like (and I'm going from memory, so it's not exact) the sentence:

This applies to taxes you paid in the 2006 or 2007 tax years.

comes out:

This applies to income taxes you paid in the 2006 or 2007 tax years.

Dude...wait, what? What exactly are we emphasizing here. Seriously, think about trying to scan the page (which I believe is what most people do when facing a bunch of text - Management can correct me if I'm wrong). Should we not be emphasizing the years that apply? How about the fact that it's income tax, as opposed to property taxes? It got really bad when Management started reading them out loud, verbally emphasizing the words in bold. It was just bizarre, and ended in fits of giggles. Actually, that was kind of cool.

This was bad, but when we got to the State taxes, I saw my favorite bad usability bit. We accomplished some measure of work, and were presented with the success message "Progress!". Progress? Seriously? Why not just come right out and say "Hi. The following text is being written by someone who only recently learned English and appreciates the fact that this software is being produced in his glorious homeland of (obscure country name here)." Either way, "Progress!" will become my new favorite saying upon succeeding at something. I may get a t-shirt made.

On the bright side, all of this screen stupidity made our tax preparation more amusing than in prior years. I don't recall this much laughter before. So thanks, unnamed software producer, for making taxes something that brought me joy. You're a real American (and other, obscure country) hero.

But Look, I'm Famous

We seem to, if not as a species, at least as a country, put a great deal of value on celebrity. For some reason, being famous rocks, or so we all seem to think. I myself don't personally think of myself as being all that impressed by celebrities, but at the same time when I found myself sitting ten feet away from Johnny Knoxville at an airport, there was giddyness. I didn't bug him for an autograph or anything, but the thought crossed my mind.

I've been wondering about a particular breed of celebrity lately. Not the movie star or musician that well all know and admire, but a smaller player, someone you probably have seen repeatedly, but might not know on the street. I'm talking about news clip pictures for internet stories.

Seriously, I read a lot of news, and I do it all online. Go to Google, click the news link, and there's everything I could be interested in. They even put up select pictures next to groups of similar stories. The funny thing is, you don't realize how often they have stories about breast cancer until you realize that every other day, there's the same picture of the same naked woman holding her breast, theoretically performing an exam (as opposed to the thinly veiled grab at the viewers eyes that I suspect it is).

Who is this woman? Does she point out that it's her in pictures to her friends? Her family? "Hey, hey didja see it? No, just go to the news page. Yeah, that's me. No, I know you can't see my face, but you can totally recognize my boob. Hello? Grandma?"

Okay, in all fairness, she's probably a model for a stock photographer, so that's not so big a deal, but what about the poor schmuck on the street who happens to fit a profile that they are covering that day (side note - Firefox spell checker caught a mis-spelling of schmuck - that rocks). I always feel bad for the unsuspecting man or woman who got caught when they are once again covering the obesity epidemic. This is particularly sad when they get caught walking out of a burger joint or carrying a bag of donuts or something. It's not bad enough that you're fat, now your fat is newsworthy. How do you suppose they feel when they get home and see that? And do they eat the donuts anyway? I would.

At least they get their faces cut out of the pictures, so they can lie and say that it was someone else walking out of Happy Burger in a torn Leonard Skynard t-shirt that day. It's the known one's I pity. It's Manual Uribe, the Mexican man who tops out around 1235 pounds. (Do NOT Google that.) He's always getting his double-wide behind pasted next to stories about obesity. If that isn't bad enough, it's this picture of him where he's basically naked, his naughty bits covered by a bit of sheet. Why he even let someone take the picture is beyond me. Maybe he couldn't get up to stop them. Either way, now he's famous for it. Lucky him.

Given the data at hand, I think I'd prefer to live in my relative obscurity. Fortunately for me, the paparazzi doesn't frequent this area when covering near-genius computer geeks who are terribly good looking. We can only hope my luck doesn't run out. Well, we can hope for that and for my picture to never appear near an article with "explosive" and "diarrhea" in close context,

Actually, I Think I'd Rather Fade Away

So last night I'm reading with the Princess, taking turns so that every other page is her responsibility. We get through a few pages this way when she starts to get flustered, sits back on the couch and declares that this is too hard because she can't read. I did the dad thing, smiled and assured her that she will be able to read, and this is how. We work on it, and every day she'll know more words, until she can read as well as I can.

I just wish I felt as confident about my own development. Lately I've been drowning in the trappings of life in suburbia. It seems like I can't keep up with pile of responsibilities that are cropping up around me, and I'm not sure what to do about it. I'm constantly on the phone lately, arranging medical appointments, verifying the credentials of the people estimating the repairs on the fireplace, trying to fix utility billing issues, etc. Seriously, I spent over an hour on the phone just Tuesday morning, waiting on hold with various parties while simultaneously trying to do my job.

I've done my best to keep up, but I'm starting to falter. On Saturday I showed up at a birthday party with the Princess, introduced myself to the parents, but the gift on the table, and hung up her coat before I realized that I didn't recognize the name on the cake. Worse, I couldn't even remember whose birthday I was supposed to be going to. After a quick verification with Princess that she didn't know anyone named Lexie (or whatever it was), I checked the date and realized that I was a day early.

I recollected kid, coat and gift, and then went out to the car and had a minor breakdown. I wasn't concerned with embarrassing myself. I was in high school choir with a director who loved vocal jazz - public humiliation doesn't overly concern me anymore. (Did I mention shiny, blue, metallic vests with matching bow ties? Yeah, there's a reason we don't have pictures of me predating the mid-nineties.) No, it was that I could feel myself slipping, losing the tenuous grip I have on what's going on in my life, and worse, I couldn't figure out what to do to resolve it.

Then this morning I woke up and realized that I forgot to RSVP for the next birthday party on this coming Sunday. The request was to RSVP by yesterday, and I tried, but I got a machine, and it was one of those messages that don't say who you've reached, so I didn't leave a message. Naturally, I got mixed up in dinner, baths, medications, and the aforementioned reading, and I forgot to try again. So this morning I woke up, see the invite on the fridge, and there it was again - epic fail. I called and left a message this morning, so hopefully she'll still get to go and just be branded as someone with irresponsible parents. I wish I could dispute this, but right now I'm not feeling it.

The thing is, I can try to fix it, I just don't feel like there's any point at the moment. If it weren't for the fact that it's the kid's lives I'm messing up, I think I'd just drop it all and hide in the house for a while. Unfortunately, it's not an option. Have to order a corsage for the daddy-daughter dance on Saturday, prep for the kids surgery tomorrow, verify that the birthday things is sorted out, etc.

Maybe I need a personal assistant, preferably one that can make a decent martini and works for free. If you feel you're qualified, applications will be accepted through the contact link below.

Nerd Ho!

Okay, I was originally going to try and avoid the whole "I found this cool thing on the internet" type of post here, but the thing is, this is really my contact with the outside world, so if it doesn't go here, you may miss out on some high quality content out there. As such, today will be the first of these entries. At some point I'll have to start putting labels on these so you guys can parse out the stuff you don't want to read.

So today we discuss a newer art form that I'm guessing most of you are unfamiliar with: nerdcore hip hop, a.k.a. "geeksta rap". It is exactly what it sounds like. Someone decided that they wanted to be a rapper, but instead of focusing on gang violence and life in the hood, they would discuss Star Wars/Star Trek, computers and games. Needless to say, these are my kind of people.

The reason we're discussing this topic is that I have recently become hooked on the music of the man who coined the phrase "nerdcore hip hip", one MC Frontalot. Frontalot if first and foremost a rapper, and in my opinion, he's good. His music is reminiscent if Eminem, except I can't specifically recall Frontalot mentioning the need to kill anyone. (As a side note I'm actually a pretty big fan of Eminem, but I equate listening to his albums with watching a horror movie - it's something you have to be in the mood for, and I'm pretty sure it's not healthy to listen to often.)

Follow the link and skip over to the mp3 page, and you'll find some amazing stuff there. It's not for everyone of course - like myself, he has a pretty extensive vocabulary, but he doesn't let that stop him from using a four-letter word if that's what's called for. The music behind the raps vary, but is for the most part excellent (I particularly enjoyed the sampling on the remixed Nerdcore Hiphop (Yos Mix), which many will recognize as coming from Revenge of the Nerds).

The fact that he uses a combination of math, computer, and gaming references with equal skill meshes well with the topic ranges. From old school text adventure games to the wonders of aging, he covers a lot of ground. There's even one on there he was commissioned for to be included on a kids album discussing little red riding hood from differing points of view. I tested this one out the Princess this morning on the way in, and subsequently had to listen to it four times before she got to school.

So there you go. Check it out, download some music legally, and have a good time. Just don't blame me if these things get stuck in your head. Oh, and don't ask me to explain any of the computer references. I don't even get them all.

You're Eating What Now?

So, I'm sitting here eating my lunch, and it strikes me that if someone asked me what I was eating, I would hesitate. There's nothing wrong or gross about it (you'll find that when you eliminate meat and dairy from your diet, the number of foods that qualify as gross greatly diminish). Rather, it's the name itself. See, this morning I put together a hot lunch for me and the kids, cutting up veggie dogs and cooking them in a batch of baked beans, and I don't think I could look anyone in the eyes and say, "Why, I'm eating beanie weenie".

Oh sure, I could pick one of the other monikers that the meal goes by, but for me they are no better. Pork and beans is out for the obvious reason that it's misleading. Franks and beans are no good, first because it's short for frankfurters which are made in Frankfurt, Germany, which again isn't what I'm eating, and second because I work with a guy named Frank, and if there was a food product knows as a Roger, I would not want to be reminded of it, even though I'm sure it would be healthy and delicious.

The whole thing does make me wonder why we come us with such stupid names for things when they, like my lunch today, are targeted towards kids. I tend to treat my kids like small adults whenever possible. I know this isn't something everyone does for obvious reasons (making conversation with a small adult who just downloaded in his pants can be difficult, just to cite one example). Still, I don't feel the need to dumb things down for my kids.

I can recall being in a restaurant as a kid and wanting so badly to order from the adult menus. I always assumed it was because I wanted more food (fat kids are like that, so it's a safe assumption). Maybe that wasn't it at all though. Maybe I just didn't want to have to order a piggly wiggly or turkey lurkey. Maybe I understood that having to speak such stupidity to someone who was supposedly serving me was one of the ways that society let me know that I was less that a full person, that I was still far beneath everyone who got to ask for a damned burger basket instead of a "Cosmic Cheeseburger" meal.

There was even one occasion where my sister, who was younger than me at the time, refused to order by name. "I'll have the kid's chicken sandwich." The waitress innocently confirmed by asking if she meant the "Chicken Little", to which my sister, seriously unamused, replied, "No. I mean the kid's chicken sandwich". I think one of the parental units let the waitress know that yes, they were both referring to the same menu item, but it was quite a victory to see a kid refuse to put up with such foolishness.

So like I said, I try to avoid using childish names and whatnot when addressing my kids, no matter what we're talking about. I figure I'd rather have them know what's going on then have them remain ignorant of the complexities of our language. Well, that and I don't ever want to hear my daughter refer to anything as a hoo-hah or va-jay-jay. That's just wrong.

$&%# William Willett

Okay, this may seem a little harsh, but once again I'm suffering under the effects of the accursed Daylight Saving Time. Twice a year, we change what time it is in an effort to save on ye olde power bill. I spend months getting myself and, more importantly, my kids on a regular sleep schedule (I've given up on Management entirely), only to be undone in the name of saving on candles. Enter insult to injury; apparently it doesn't even work.

So, the theory is that we move the clocks around in summer so we get another hour of daylight in the afternoon, and an hour less of daylight in the morning. This is helpful, because all that daylight was really interfering with me trying to wake up in the morning, whereas the still-shining sun at night makes it so much easier to convince the kids that it's time for bed. One of my few childhood memories that don't involve hurting myself is lying in bed, looking out a window on a brightly lit yard. I don't recall my exact thoughts, but I'm pretty sure they were the childhood equivalent of "this is total bull&%$*".

Now, I will pause a moment to point out a bit of historical misconception here. Originally, I was going to title this "*%&$ Ben Franklin", but a bit of research (yes, I actually care enough to research this stuff before writing about it) proved that he was not as responsible for this temporal travesty as many would lead us to believe. Franklin actually did propose something like DST while he was in France, but it was a satire, not an actual suggestion. Since society at the time did not watch clocks the way they do now, it wasn't that big a deal.

No, the man to blame here is one William Willett. And do you know why he suggested it? Was it to save money on power, or increase productivity? No, it was because he felt people were sleeping in too late, and worse, he didn't like cutting his golf game short. That's right, our sleep schedules are now screwed up because some early rising, busybody, golf-loving freak decided that people were missing out on the morning. As a fairly early rising person myself, I can say with a certain authority that he should have minded his own damned business.

You know something else? William Willett is the great-great-grandfather of Chris Martin, husband of Gwyneth Paltrow and front man for the band Coldplay. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but now I won't be able to hear that Yellow song without thinking to myself "&$#% William Willett". So now he's screwed that up for me too.

So there you go - I'm not a big fan of Daylight Saving Time, and I'm not a big fan of William Willet. As far as I'm concerned, DST just leads to being tired and listening to boring stories about people thinking that they would get out of school soon only to realize that the clocks were wrong and they had another hour to go. (Just kidding there, Cadet. As Fun Size pointed out at the time, it was a good story, and you should tell it more often.)

Sometimes, I'm Afraid To Go To Sleep

Okay, so as anyone who has been married for any significant period of time will tell you, there are things that you won't really know about your spouse until you've been together for a while. As time goes on, these elements present themselves, and if you are observant, you will discover aspects of this person that you never would have guessed, some that defy explanation and are, shall we say, unnatural. I have made just such an observation, and at great personal risk, I will share it with you now.

In the past fourteen plus years, I have never, and I mean never, been present when my lovely wife has farted. Not once. Not a squeak. Not a slip. Not even an SBD. Nothing.

This isn't normal. According to the Internet (which means it absolutely has to be true), the average person takes the barking spider for a walk between seven and fourteen times a day, totaling around a half-liter of gas expelled daily. Given the low end of that spectrum, that's somewhere around 35,770 air biscuits that have either been floated undetected or somehow stifled entirely (and I didn't think I would ever put that math minor to use).

Now coming from someone with my background, at first I saw this as an unnecessary amount of self control. I just figured that a Herculean clenching was preventing any kind of slip until I was well outside of the blast range, at which point she was free to sound the trumpets. I didn't know why she bothered, but didn't think much about it (this was obviously a long time ago, before I was so far into my husband training).

As time went on, however, I had to rethink this hypothesis. There was no uncomfortable shifting in the seat, no sudden need to check on something in the next room. Most telling, there was no residual funk in her car, which I naturally figured must be bearing the brunt of those pent up poots, as the car is the only place outside of the bathroom where a person is truly alone.

So, given that they weren't being deferred, I had to repostulate how this could be. Perhaps she had been in an accident as a child that she didn't want to talk about, leaving her with some sort of hidden axillary exhaust port that the rest of us lack. Maybe she knew of a herbal elixir that prevented that particular wind from breaking (although given the volume of complaints at the time, one would think such a remedy would be shared). Maybe she was a robot.

Well, time has revealed naught on this particular mystery. To this very day not one duck has been tread upon, and for the life of me I don't understand. Not that I long to sit in someone else's vapors - I get enough of that from the crop dusters at Meijer. No, my concern is far more personal, and far more serious than that. So I say to you now, gentle reader, that should I pass away suddenly in the night, should you stand over my coffin and wonder why the mortician failed to remove that strange look from my face, that look of combined horror, disgust, and a stifled giggle, you'll know that I had done something wrong, and have faced a punishment far worse than any before me.

Cause of death: asphyxiation by a dutch oven fourteen years in the making.

Are You Still Mad About the Whole Apple Thing?

I know that I said I was going to try to avoid politics and religion on here, but for today I need to make an exception. See, I realized something last night. I'm actively prejudiced against Hillary Clinton, and it's for the wrong reasons. Oh, it's not that she's a woman. I'd be perfectly happy seeing a woman president, and I like the idea that my daughter would grow up in a world where that's not a novelty. No, I'm prejudiced against her because she's a Clinton.

For some reason, I'm worried that the world is going to look at us as if we can't find leaders outside of a couple of families. Millions of people, and they can't find a president who isn't related to someone who's already been president. Given that one of these royal families has proven to be include those that I don't consider qualified to run a meeting, much less a country, I feel like a fresh start would be a good thing.

The problem with this logic is that I'm allowing it to cloud my judgement over who's actually qualified. See, I don't get to choose. We get a couple of people to pick from, and that's it. Heck, those of us that live in Michigan (and Florida for that matter) didn't even get to pick from those people. So this is the line up, and all I can do is hope for the person who can best lead us to rise up from among them.

Worse than this though was the recent discovery that there are in fact people who are prejudiced against her because she's a woman. I'm not stupid - I knew that there would be some of them out there, and like most people who are prejudiced against a group of people for their gender or race, I just figured it the way I always do. It's either the brutally ignorant, who I don't worry about too much as long as their not in charge of my kids or anything, or it's people too old to change their beliefs in the face of logic and I just have to wait for them to pass the reigns to the new crowd.

This bit of ignorance on my part was eliminated, as many of other have been in the past, while listening to NPR. They were covering he latest primaries on Tuesday, and they were interviewing people on who they were going to vote for and why. They got to a group of youths attending a Christian college in Texas, and a couple of them, including a woman, expressed that they were voting Republican, but if they were voting Democrat they would vote for Obama, because the teachings of the Bible tell us that men should be our leaders.

Now, a quick aside so that no one thinks this is about to become a rant against those who practice religion. I am an agnostic. I don't claim to know anything one way or another. I envy those who can take comfort in their faith, and I try not to judge people who do practice one faith or another as long as their not interfering with me and my family.

This particular group of people, however, are very disappointing to me. See, people like me, people who require a reason to believe in something, get pretty twitchy when something that is obvious to us is declared incorrect on the basis of religion. The idea that this group of people, people who are some flavor of the religion practiced by most of the country that I live in, can openly say something like this, is just sad as far as I'm concerned. It's why I could never, never join up. I don't want my daughter thinking that she is somehow less qualified than a man for anything because someone told her that a real old book said that's the way it is. We mock other countries for their views on women, their religions that demand that women dress or be treated a certain way, and then some of our own point out that we're no different.

This was enough to shock me out of my little prejudice and start looking at this whole thing anew. I'm not saying I support one or the other. I'm just going to try and be more objective from this point on and try to figure out what would be best for our country, ignoring race, gender, and family ties. I only wish everyone else could do the same.

AFTERWARD:

I just want everyone to know that this was not the topic I had intended. I was going to go with something wonderfully juvenile and crass, but decided not to out of respect for the fact that today is Management's birthday. Happy birthday, my love.

Tomorrow is not anyone's birthday who is affiliated with this blog, and thus we will be returning to wonderfully juvenile and crass. You know, for those that go for that sort of thing.

But the Station They Said to Listen to Plays Country Music

Out of bed at 6, five minute shower, and then out the door to shovel snow. We had a bit of a dumping on last night, and the snow on the driveway and sidewalk hit around a foot where it had drifted. It took me almost an hour to clear it all, much of that time spent wondering why they don't warn you about these things when buying a corner lot.

While shoveling, I remembered that I had to buy diapers on the way to day care, as they were out, and I had to deal with a book sale today for the Princess. Fortunately, when I got inside the kids were already up and getting breakfast with Management, so I just had to apply the typical rushing techniques with a little emphasis so we could leave early. I packed lunches, they ate breakfast, Management took care of the book sale - things were looking good.

Breakfast is finished, and I declared that I was picking out the outfits to avoid the frequent sartorial debate that occurs when I suggest an outfit for the Princess. I picked out clothes, drawing on all my Disney Channel based research to make sure I'm not dressing her like a nerd or anything, and then declare breakfast over. We all rush upstairs and get to dressing.

Dressing is finished, and we move into toothbrushing. I grab my brush, apply paste, and then carry the Moose into their bathroom to get his set. He and I brush, him watching me for that glorious moment when we get to lean over the sink and spit. He has of course already swallowed his toothpaste (it's the toddler stuff that's made for just that reason), but he like to make the "ptoo" sound, and he does it well. The Princess joins us halfway through, and starts on her teeth while I brush her hair. She wails and gives me dirty looks in the mirror for pulling (really, I was trying to be careful). Headband back in, brushes rinsed, and we're off again.

I throw ice packs into lunch bags, and lunch bags into school bags. The Princess has been sidelined by Management to get a face washing, so the Moose gets his coat, hat and shoes on while I holler up that we have to go. Okay, Maybe I holler a couple of time. I tend to be a little freaky about being on time for things.

Out the door and off to the store. We stop to grab a complimentary donut hole for each of the kids, debate about who got a bigger one, exchange donut holes, and then grab diapers. Check out, get cash back for the book sale, and back to the car.

So now we're driving to day care, and it strikes me for the first time that the roads are really bad. In addition, I had yet to see a school bus, which I've trained myself to look for in the mornings in case of the snow day. So, I tune it the supplied radio station and wait for closing announcements. After about 30 seconds of country music, I feel my will to live pooling on the floor of the car beneath my seat. I call information and get connected to the school system, only to confirm that yes, school's out.

So now we're at home, and as I write this the room next to the office is serving it's purpose nicely - it's being destroyed by two tots in a flurry of toys and dress up clothes (I really can't recommend saving a room for letting them run loose highly enough). We've negotiated dress up clothes, lunch, and clean up arrangements, as well as a potential movie time if all goes well. I'm sipping a fresh pot of coffee, and I have nowhere to be.

Funny, I didn't think I liked snow days anymore.

It's Like an Orange on a Toothpick

Apparently, I have a big head. I'm not referring to my being egotistical (which I can be), but rather the actual physical dimensions of my cranium. This came up as part of a report I got a while ago on one of the Moose's checkups. When measuring his head, they said it was larger than normal for someone his age, and asked the question, "Does his father have a big head?". You can imagine my horror when I was informed that Management had replied in the affirmative.

I tend towards the self conscious, so internally this did not sit well, partially because there is that moment where the part of my brain that immediately converts everything into movie dialog kicks in. "Big head? We had to leave the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade because people kept trying to tie ropes to him thinking he was one of the balloons. Seriously - he has to step into his shirts. When we were in school and they would do a head count, exponents were involved." You get the idea.

So for a while, I was obsessed with the idea that I had this huge noggin. I'm picturing walking into a haberdashery to be met with gasps and frightened stares. I'm wondering why I haven't been asked to pay more for my haircuts. I'm afraid to go to a batting cage for fear of becoming permanently lodged in one of their loaner helmets.

Worse than the fact that I have this massive melon though is what I seem to lack. Despite the promises of Stan Lee, I don't seem to have any of the superpowers one would naturally associate with a ponderous pate such as my own. Why can't I read minds, or move things about the room by thinking about it? Darn it all, if I'm going to be cursed with a giant head, I should at least be able to see into the future or something. Once again, Marvel has lied to me.

Anyway, after going on about this for a few days (as well as referring to the Moose as "Heed" and quoting So I Married An Axe Murderer as nauseum), I was politely told to drop it. For the most part I have, although I still fear that one day I'm going to become famous, and they will produce bobble-head dolls in my likeness that are advertised as proportionally correct. I can only hope I get a cut of the profits.

Grown Ups Don't Play Video Games.

During a conversation about how the average Joe chooses to spend his free time, an unfortunate incident occurred. Items were being listed off, watch television, read books, watch movies, etc., when I offered playing video games. This was met with the title of this piece; "Grown ups don't play video games".

Internally, a sound went off in my head like someone violently removing the needle from a phonograph record. Grown ups don't play video games? Whaaa? Ignoring the fact that the party speaking these words knew perfectly well that I choose to spend a large part of my almost non-existent free time in exactly that fashion, the facts don't line up with the statement.

I admit, my perspective on this is skewed. I read comics (written for adults) about video games. I watch television programs (written for adults) about playing video games. Naturally, I assumed that the good people producing this media were not doing so just for my benefit, so naturally I have the preconceived notion that this is inaccurate.

The only thing I could do then was look it up. According to a poll back in 2006, 4 in 10 adults played video games either on a PC or a console. Okay, so 40% or so of adults were playing video games a couple of years ago anyway. So at least as of 2006, grown ups were playing video games.

A more recent study released late 2007 came up with 63% of the US population playing video games, with the majority of them being male, ages 18 to 34. Even accepting that I'm pushing the edge of this majority group, I'm still in there, and they are still "grown ups".

More important than these facts though are a couple of ideas that stem from them, the first being that this is a genuinely dangerous misconception. It's this idea, the idea that video games are meant for kids, that's leading disengaged, irresponsible parents to not bother checking the very accurate and purposeful ratings on the games their children are asking for and playing. All the time the media is playing on the idea that the evil video game industry is marketing adult-themed games to warp their children's fragile little minds, and it just isn't so. The games are written for the target audience, the above mentioned 18-34 year-old male. Trust me, I watch a lot of children's programming. Their not advertising this stuff on Nickelodeon.

Maybe a more important point, for me anyway, is that I am, in fact, a grown up now, and to paraphrase XKCD, it's my turn to decide what that means. If playing video games allows me to relieve stress or gives me a moment of joy, why should it matter to anyone else. Want to spend your time reading comics, climbing trees, or maybe playing with Legos? More power to you. If it makes us happy, and it's not hurting anyone else, then why should we have to concern ourselves with which activities are for adults and which are for kids? Maybe if more grown ups did the stuff that brought them joy as children instead of wondering if society at large would be judging them for it, they would be happier.

I don't know. Maybe I'm being a little sensitive over this one. Still, I consider myself a reasonably intelligent adult who is mature when the situation demands it (and immature whenever he can be). I don't see where my choices for entertainment are any better or worse than anyone else's.

Except furries. Those people are still *$&%ing freaks.