I recently received yet another one of those lists of questions meant to be forwarded to everyone you know. Ordinarily, I disregard these things, but this one had the benefit of coming right when I could not take another moment of my current task at work, so I filled it out. I now present the results for all of you, updated as I thought of more specific answers.
The Survey
1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Dad's friend from college. Last I knew, he was divorced and drank a lot. It's a lot to live up to, but I'll do what I can.
2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Two days ago, listening to the song where Evita dies, but in a manly way.
3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
I type for a living. This wasn't really a choice.
4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Veggie Bologna.
5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
One boy, one girl, and a developmentally challenged inner child.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Yes. We would be BFFs, dress alike and do each other's hair right up until I hit on my lovely wife, and then I would be forced to whip my own ass.
7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Oh no, I would never use sarcasm. (Actually, not as much as you might think.)
8.. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yes. I also have the tonsils of several other people, as well as a spleen and a three inch section of a colon. It's all on eBay.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Afraid of heights.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Captain Crunch, but only because I hate the skin on the roof of my mouth and feel the need to remove it occasionally.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Nope.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Not strong enough.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Tofutti Vanilla Almond Bark.
14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Sense of humor or lack thereof.
15. RED OR PINK?
Depends on the type of wound.
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I occasionally don't take things seriously when I probably should.
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Squirrels - they're small, quick and frequently fit between the tires.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
If they're still speaking to me, sure.
19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Brown.
20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
Donut.
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Jonathan Coulton.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Indian red - it's slightly offensive to some, but unique enough to want to keep around.
23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Baked goods, tots after bath time, the fear of of my opponents.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My lovely wife.
25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
My favorite babysitter? You betcha!
26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Cat juggling.
27. HAIR COLOR?
Dark brown.
28. EYE COLOR?
Brown.
29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Glasses.
30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Tofurkey.
31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Scary movies with happy endings, where the monster gets the girl.
32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Parts of a Tinkerbell movie I guess.
33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Black, brown and gold.
34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer.
35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Depends on the target.
36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Fruit pie.
37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
No idea.
38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
No idea.
39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Make Love the Bruce Campell Way.
40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
I'm a trackball user.
41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
Five minutes of Racheal Maddow before passing out.
42. FAVORITE SOUND?
Kid giggles.
43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles.
44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME???
Idaho.
45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I can disarm a man using nothing but dental floss and a spork. Not as useful as it sounds.
46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Sparrow Hospital, Lansing.
47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
President Obama. I sent him an email asking if I could be Secretary of Bathroom Humor. Haven't heard back yet.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Also, It's a Spoiler to Tell Someone When You're Cutting Muffins. They'll Figure It Out.
As previously discussed, we tend to watch all of our television after the original airing in our house. It's more convenient, we get less commercials, and frankly, we're busy and forget that we have a show we watch sometimes. Most of the time, this works out really well, but it presents one challenge that has become, well, challenging.
Yeah, I totally forgot that Lost was on last night.
Because everything is on the internet instantly, when I put off a show, that means I begin a dance whereby I try to avoid any information about what happened in said show until I've gotten to see it or myself. This means avoiding my usual news sites, staying out of particular topics on forums, etc., all in the name of avoiding spoilers. As someone who spends way too much time on the net, this can be a tricky thing to do.
The good news is that I've gotten good at it. Oh sure, my habit of not watching movies until they've been out on DVD for a year or so has led to many things being ruined for me (seriously, it was a sled?), but for the most part I know how to spot a troublesome site or story before it gets that far. I'm not sure how long a movie has to be out before it's not technically a spoiler anymore, but I accept that occasionally this will be the way things go.
Anyway, at least for today, and perhaps tomorrow as well depending on how busy I am, I will be selecting my links a little more carefully. I will a bit more wary about where I surf. Hopefully, I can keep from finding out too much about what happened on the show last night. Maybe I'll exclusively hang out on J.J. Abrams site.
After all, the show's been on for almost five years, and he's barely revealed anything about what's going on so far.
Yeah, I totally forgot that Lost was on last night.
Because everything is on the internet instantly, when I put off a show, that means I begin a dance whereby I try to avoid any information about what happened in said show until I've gotten to see it or myself. This means avoiding my usual news sites, staying out of particular topics on forums, etc., all in the name of avoiding spoilers. As someone who spends way too much time on the net, this can be a tricky thing to do.
The good news is that I've gotten good at it. Oh sure, my habit of not watching movies until they've been out on DVD for a year or so has led to many things being ruined for me (seriously, it was a sled?), but for the most part I know how to spot a troublesome site or story before it gets that far. I'm not sure how long a movie has to be out before it's not technically a spoiler anymore, but I accept that occasionally this will be the way things go.
Anyway, at least for today, and perhaps tomorrow as well depending on how busy I am, I will be selecting my links a little more carefully. I will a bit more wary about where I surf. Hopefully, I can keep from finding out too much about what happened on the show last night. Maybe I'll exclusively hang out on J.J. Abrams site.
After all, the show's been on for almost five years, and he's barely revealed anything about what's going on so far.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
My New Workout, or Why the Polka Could Be The New Tai Bo
Last night was a rousing success. Well, it was as much of a success as one can hope for anyway. The kids had fun, and that's all I was shooting for.
We arrived at music night, where the Princess took the stage and I perused the playlist, a habit hard learned from years of attending the hometown talent shows (if you do a quick count, you know how many more acts you have to live through, thus helping resist the urge to throw yourself on your sword when there are only two more squarely mediocre singing and dancing acts to go, and yes, if you're prepared then you brought your sword). I saw about six songs, figured I could keep the Moose still for that long. I began to assess how many other parents were alone and having to deal with a toddler-type sibling, hoping to maybe get an idea of how I would play it.
Just me, huh? Very well then.
We listened to three classes of first graders sing a callback type song, suprisingly on key, and then we sang back. I overcame my normal discomfort at singing in public and belted the tune back so my little girl would hear me, no small task for one as self-conscious as myself (I honestly don't sing for anyone but the Moose, and only do that because I know he won't judge me, or at least lacks the articulation to do so verbally). Then they announced the rest of the night would be the kids teaching us dances, I looked at the Moose, barely sitting still on my lap, and I knew what I had to do.
The only problem was that yesterday I made a normally good decision that turned out to be a bad decision. I decided that I would workout despite really not wanting to. At lunch, I went down to our little gym at work, and I lifted weights. At no point during that process did I stop to think to myself, "Hey, I wonder if during the Princess's music night I'm going to end up carrying a thirty pound toddler in one arm while prancing about an elementary school cafeteria".
Sometimes, I forget the most obvious questions to ask.
I knew that my little girl's happiness was at stake, and so I forced myself, through shaking arms and at times excruciating pain, to smile and sing and dance about. The Moose acted like the whole thing was for him, so he enjoyed it as well. In the end, I came away with two happy kids. Well, two happy kids, the inability to raise my arms above my waist, and a stitch in my left side that won't seem to go away.
Overall, I would call that a profitable exchange.
We arrived at music night, where the Princess took the stage and I perused the playlist, a habit hard learned from years of attending the hometown talent shows (if you do a quick count, you know how many more acts you have to live through, thus helping resist the urge to throw yourself on your sword when there are only two more squarely mediocre singing and dancing acts to go, and yes, if you're prepared then you brought your sword). I saw about six songs, figured I could keep the Moose still for that long. I began to assess how many other parents were alone and having to deal with a toddler-type sibling, hoping to maybe get an idea of how I would play it.
Just me, huh? Very well then.
We listened to three classes of first graders sing a callback type song, suprisingly on key, and then we sang back. I overcame my normal discomfort at singing in public and belted the tune back so my little girl would hear me, no small task for one as self-conscious as myself (I honestly don't sing for anyone but the Moose, and only do that because I know he won't judge me, or at least lacks the articulation to do so verbally). Then they announced the rest of the night would be the kids teaching us dances, I looked at the Moose, barely sitting still on my lap, and I knew what I had to do.
The only problem was that yesterday I made a normally good decision that turned out to be a bad decision. I decided that I would workout despite really not wanting to. At lunch, I went down to our little gym at work, and I lifted weights. At no point during that process did I stop to think to myself, "Hey, I wonder if during the Princess's music night I'm going to end up carrying a thirty pound toddler in one arm while prancing about an elementary school cafeteria".
Sometimes, I forget the most obvious questions to ask.
I knew that my little girl's happiness was at stake, and so I forced myself, through shaking arms and at times excruciating pain, to smile and sing and dance about. The Moose acted like the whole thing was for him, so he enjoyed it as well. In the end, I came away with two happy kids. Well, two happy kids, the inability to raise my arms above my waist, and a stitch in my left side that won't seem to go away.
Overall, I would call that a profitable exchange.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I've Never Even Been To St. Ives
Each day, I prep myself and two kids to skip out the door. I've gotten pretty good at it, but I have noticed one troubling trend. We seem to have an increasing number of bags going out the door with us every day.
Personally, I leave the house with three bags on the average day now. I have my briefcase, which contains my important work like my PSP, my iPhone headphones and cables, and the books I'm currently reading. I also have a backpack with gym clothes and a lunch bag. (I'm not telling you what I keep in there because I have to have some secrets, right?)
Okay, so that gets me through the day, but what of my offspring? Well, the Princess has a backpack, and this being Winter, she has to keep her snow pants and a pair of shoes in it. As a result, she has to carry her lunch bag separately. The Moose has a bag that his nebulizer travels in for emergency asthma attacks (which he has not had in a long, long time, thank goodness, but better safe and all that) as well as his own lunch bag.
So, during the long Winter months, that has us carrying out seven bags each day. This is...well, it's a lot. Today, however, we outdid ourselves. See, tonight is the chaos I alluded to yesterday, whereby I will pick up the Princess, pick up the Moose, go directly to dance class, and then promptly follow that with a school event. To facilitate this, I had to add on a dance bag, the diaper bag, and an extra lunch bag with PB&J bagels for the kids to eat for dinner. That puts us at ten bags today, ladies and gentleman. I haven't traveled with this much baggage since I went off Prozac and gave up family disputes.
I suppose at some point this will diminish. In the spring we'll shed some of the gear. Also, I should probably figure out a clever way to combine my two bags without allowing the funk of a workout to infect my electronics and reading materials. So eventually, we'll manage to get this under control.
For now, though, know that at least once each day, I truly have wicked sack.
Personally, I leave the house with three bags on the average day now. I have my briefcase, which contains my important work like my PSP, my iPhone headphones and cables, and the books I'm currently reading. I also have a backpack with gym clothes and a lunch bag. (I'm not telling you what I keep in there because I have to have some secrets, right?)
Okay, so that gets me through the day, but what of my offspring? Well, the Princess has a backpack, and this being Winter, she has to keep her snow pants and a pair of shoes in it. As a result, she has to carry her lunch bag separately. The Moose has a bag that his nebulizer travels in for emergency asthma attacks (which he has not had in a long, long time, thank goodness, but better safe and all that) as well as his own lunch bag.
So, during the long Winter months, that has us carrying out seven bags each day. This is...well, it's a lot. Today, however, we outdid ourselves. See, tonight is the chaos I alluded to yesterday, whereby I will pick up the Princess, pick up the Moose, go directly to dance class, and then promptly follow that with a school event. To facilitate this, I had to add on a dance bag, the diaper bag, and an extra lunch bag with PB&J bagels for the kids to eat for dinner. That puts us at ten bags today, ladies and gentleman. I haven't traveled with this much baggage since I went off Prozac and gave up family disputes.
I suppose at some point this will diminish. In the spring we'll shed some of the gear. Also, I should probably figure out a clever way to combine my two bags without allowing the funk of a workout to infect my electronics and reading materials. So eventually, we'll manage to get this under control.
For now, though, know that at least once each day, I truly have wicked sack.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Lure of Lazy
My lovely wife is away for a couple of days on business, leaving me the sole parental unit for our two lovely children. This means I'm in charge of all dressing, cooking, cleaning, school events...the whole thing. I'm okay with this, as I am a strict disciplinarian and the kids hang on each word I say as if their little lives depended on it.
At some point today, if you're real quiet, you may actually hear my wife laughing from Illinois.
Anyway, it really isn't a tremendous task. It's just a couple of days and our kids are well behaved, plus the Princess is always willing to step up and assist me when I request it, so long as the occasional bribe is offered. The thing is, I keep thinking of it as difficult for some reason, and that pushes me towards the lazy.
I'll give you an example. Tonight is macaroni and cheese night. Macaroni and cheese is the easiest thing in the world to prepare. Boil noodles. Throw a pat of margarine and a bag of cheese into now boiled noodles. Stir. Serve. Eat. Not exactly a big effort there.
Nonetheless, this morning I have repeatedly caught myself thinking, "Well, it's kind of a pain carrying everything in and cooking with the Moose running around, so maybe I should just order Chinese food for dinner tonight". (Seriously - I start planning things like what how we're going to handle dinner before breakfast is done. My mind is a strange place.) Deep down I know that there is no practical reason for it, but the idea keeps coming up. Maybe it's that tomorrow promises chaos (dance class followed by a school event), so I'm tempted to take the easy way out tonight to expedite a relaxing evening. Maybe I just dig on the egg fu young with brown rice. It's hard to say really.
Either way, I know I'm just being lazy really. That doesn't mean I won't end up ordering out of course. It just means I recognize why I'm doing it, and for me, that enough sometimes. Sadly, that's a long way from the way I used to work, when I never questioned my reasoning for taking any action so long as it was something I felt like doing. Besides, the desire for Chinese food is pretty innocuous as far as desires go.
When I can figure out why I occasionally feel the urge to cry out "Someday, you will all kneel before me" randomly at work, then I'll be making real progress.
At some point today, if you're real quiet, you may actually hear my wife laughing from Illinois.
Anyway, it really isn't a tremendous task. It's just a couple of days and our kids are well behaved, plus the Princess is always willing to step up and assist me when I request it, so long as the occasional bribe is offered. The thing is, I keep thinking of it as difficult for some reason, and that pushes me towards the lazy.
I'll give you an example. Tonight is macaroni and cheese night. Macaroni and cheese is the easiest thing in the world to prepare. Boil noodles. Throw a pat of margarine and a bag of cheese into now boiled noodles. Stir. Serve. Eat. Not exactly a big effort there.
Nonetheless, this morning I have repeatedly caught myself thinking, "Well, it's kind of a pain carrying everything in and cooking with the Moose running around, so maybe I should just order Chinese food for dinner tonight". (Seriously - I start planning things like what how we're going to handle dinner before breakfast is done. My mind is a strange place.) Deep down I know that there is no practical reason for it, but the idea keeps coming up. Maybe it's that tomorrow promises chaos (dance class followed by a school event), so I'm tempted to take the easy way out tonight to expedite a relaxing evening. Maybe I just dig on the egg fu young with brown rice. It's hard to say really.
Either way, I know I'm just being lazy really. That doesn't mean I won't end up ordering out of course. It just means I recognize why I'm doing it, and for me, that enough sometimes. Sadly, that's a long way from the way I used to work, when I never questioned my reasoning for taking any action so long as it was something I felt like doing. Besides, the desire for Chinese food is pretty innocuous as far as desires go.
When I can figure out why I occasionally feel the urge to cry out "Someday, you will all kneel before me" randomly at work, then I'll be making real progress.
Friday, January 23, 2009
I Find Myself Missing George Micheal
If you're not familiar with The Onion, then you've missed an important source of internet amusement. The Onion has proven themselves to be a reliable place to see the world of news, and the world in general, spoofed regularly and with great accuracy. I can not recommend the site enough.
Naturally, when I found that there was to be an Onion movie, I ran out and got it. It was...well, not as good. It was kind of a hodge podge of short bits glued together with a thin story line, and ended up feeling like a weak copy of the much funnier Amazon Women on the Moon or Kentucky Fried Movie. Don't get me wrong - there were things in there that were funny. It just was off balance a bit.
One bit they did that was pretty funny was a Britney Spears parody, where they had segments of these videos of her basically acting like a whore, and then cut to an interview where she explains that she's an innocent, all-American girl, and that people just misunderstand her lyrics. It was funny, but honestly I felt like they took the lyrics a bit too far.
Well, once again, The Onion has proven themselves to be far better at this stuff than I could ever have imagined. Britney has released a song that is so preposterously hussified that parents groups are actually wetting themselves over having such an easy target. The song is called If You Seek Amy. Say it to yourself a few times if you don't know why parents are upset, but not out loud at work. It's...well, frankly it's ridiculous.
I don't mind that she tried, it's that she did such a miserable job of it. This is the actual offensive line of the chorus:
Look hon, I know you've caught some flack in the recent past for being bat%#$@ insane, and that there are those who claim that you're not the brightest bulb, but this? This is just lazy. It's not even a damned sentence. These shenanigans only work if there is a legitimate use of the words you put together. If you need the attention so badly, then just come right out and say it.
Well, that or put a sex tape online like everyone else.
Naturally, when I found that there was to be an Onion movie, I ran out and got it. It was...well, not as good. It was kind of a hodge podge of short bits glued together with a thin story line, and ended up feeling like a weak copy of the much funnier Amazon Women on the Moon or Kentucky Fried Movie. Don't get me wrong - there were things in there that were funny. It just was off balance a bit.
One bit they did that was pretty funny was a Britney Spears parody, where they had segments of these videos of her basically acting like a whore, and then cut to an interview where she explains that she's an innocent, all-American girl, and that people just misunderstand her lyrics. It was funny, but honestly I felt like they took the lyrics a bit too far.
Well, once again, The Onion has proven themselves to be far better at this stuff than I could ever have imagined. Britney has released a song that is so preposterously hussified that parents groups are actually wetting themselves over having such an easy target. The song is called If You Seek Amy. Say it to yourself a few times if you don't know why parents are upset, but not out loud at work. It's...well, frankly it's ridiculous.
I don't mind that she tried, it's that she did such a miserable job of it. This is the actual offensive line of the chorus:
All of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy
Look hon, I know you've caught some flack in the recent past for being bat%#$@ insane, and that there are those who claim that you're not the brightest bulb, but this? This is just lazy. It's not even a damned sentence. These shenanigans only work if there is a legitimate use of the words you put together. If you need the attention so badly, then just come right out and say it.
Well, that or put a sex tape online like everyone else.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Plus Some of Them Slim Down Using Laxatives
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has released their list of contenders for the 2008 Academy Awards. While I normally take interest in the Oscars, somehow this year I find that interest severely lacking. Maybe it's that I just don't watch many movies (I'm thinking I could count them on one hand for 2008, including rentals). Whatever the case, I'm just not caring.
It doesn't help that the show itself has been painful to watch the last few times I've tried. Overblown musical numbers, unfunny banter, weepy acceptance speeches...yikes. If not for the dead reel, I can't really think of anything that would encourage me to tune in this time. I think that's really saying something - the only reason I would consider watching your multi-million dollar extravaganza is to find out who died last year. Not exactly a glowing advertisement.
Maybe my problem (other than my distaste for boring speeches) is that ever since Janet Jackson displayed her Tito on national television, the allure of "live" television has been all but destroyed. We know that whatever is going on is being delayed and censored now, so the whole anything-could-happen aspect of it is gone. It's just going to be boring speeches, and if anything good does happen unexpectedly, we'd have to watch it later on the internet anyway.
You know, I actually think that's it. When I look down deep into my soul (okay, it's not that deep), I realize that all these years I've watched the show on the off chance that someone who gets an upset stomach when they're nervous and may have partaken of one pre-show party cheese puff despite their lactose intolerance might accidentally squeak out a bit of embarrassing flatulence during a nervous laugh, a squeak that is just loud enough to get picked up by the microphone. I wonder, now that I think about it, if they even would bother censoring such a thing. After all, it's not technically obscene or anything, right? So that squeak might be allowed through onto national television, a tiny trumpet between the list of thanks that would make the whole thing worth while.
Huh. Maybe I'll end up watching after all.
It doesn't help that the show itself has been painful to watch the last few times I've tried. Overblown musical numbers, unfunny banter, weepy acceptance speeches...yikes. If not for the dead reel, I can't really think of anything that would encourage me to tune in this time. I think that's really saying something - the only reason I would consider watching your multi-million dollar extravaganza is to find out who died last year. Not exactly a glowing advertisement.
Maybe my problem (other than my distaste for boring speeches) is that ever since Janet Jackson displayed her Tito on national television, the allure of "live" television has been all but destroyed. We know that whatever is going on is being delayed and censored now, so the whole anything-could-happen aspect of it is gone. It's just going to be boring speeches, and if anything good does happen unexpectedly, we'd have to watch it later on the internet anyway.
You know, I actually think that's it. When I look down deep into my soul (okay, it's not that deep), I realize that all these years I've watched the show on the off chance that someone who gets an upset stomach when they're nervous and may have partaken of one pre-show party cheese puff despite their lactose intolerance might accidentally squeak out a bit of embarrassing flatulence during a nervous laugh, a squeak that is just loud enough to get picked up by the microphone. I wonder, now that I think about it, if they even would bother censoring such a thing. After all, it's not technically obscene or anything, right? So that squeak might be allowed through onto national television, a tiny trumpet between the list of thanks that would make the whole thing worth while.
Huh. Maybe I'll end up watching after all.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
As Long As Someone Is Indignant, the System Still Works
Inauguration day was yesterday, and after a day of inspiring speeches, Fox news stepped in and did its job. Unfortunately, that job is going through every word spoken by every person associated with yesterday's events until they could find something to be offended by. Lucky for them, the good Reverend Joseph Lowery put forth the following bit of silliness:
Fox called him out for the supposed racist overtones, and chastised Obama for...I don't know. Not standing up, slapping him across the face, and declaring "How dare you sir" before stomping off in a huff I guess. Honestly, even if you do take offense at his words (and I'm thinking that's a stretch), I think it's a bit silly calling Obama out on it.
What they probably don't realize is how hard this sort of thing is. Even if you ignore the fact that he borrowed from the "If it's brown flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow" (a sentiment I've never been comfortable with, particularly during asparagus season), it's truly difficult to come up with these little rhymes. Fortunately, I managed to get a hold of several versions he decided not to use, just to give you a taste:
You get the idea. There were more, but this is all I could get a hold of (and mark my words, many Bothans dies to get us this information). Putting together little rhymes based on some arbitrary aspect of a persons life is no small task. I guess he did the best he could, and either way, I'm not sure faulting Obama for it is entirely reasonable.
Keep your collective chins up though, Fox News flk...I'm sure Biden will come through for you eventually.
We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to give back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will embrace what is right.
Fox called him out for the supposed racist overtones, and chastised Obama for...I don't know. Not standing up, slapping him across the face, and declaring "How dare you sir" before stomping off in a huff I guess. Honestly, even if you do take offense at his words (and I'm thinking that's a stretch), I think it's a bit silly calling Obama out on it.
What they probably don't realize is how hard this sort of thing is. Even if you ignore the fact that he borrowed from the "If it's brown flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow" (a sentiment I've never been comfortable with, particularly during asparagus season), it's truly difficult to come up with these little rhymes. Fortunately, I managed to get a hold of several versions he decided not to use, just to give you a taste:
We ask you to help us work for that day when ...
...black packs much back (dropped due to copyright issue with Sir Mix-a-lot)
...yellow shares the Jello (dropped after realizing that not all Chinese bogart Jello, despite the practices of that guy who eats it all at the church pot lucks)
...white makes their butts un-tight (dropped for obvious reasons)
...latino can pass on the Beano (don't ask - there was an incident involving the rectory)
...a women, late, won't feel the need to tailgate (dropped after a terse conversation with his wife)
...strippers won't rely on tippers (dropped for the same reason)
...a heimy gent will share a dime unspent (dropped at Jessie Jackson's suggestion)
You get the idea. There were more, but this is all I could get a hold of (and mark my words, many Bothans dies to get us this information). Putting together little rhymes based on some arbitrary aspect of a persons life is no small task. I guess he did the best he could, and either way, I'm not sure faulting Obama for it is entirely reasonable.
Keep your collective chins up though, Fox News flk...I'm sure Biden will come through for you eventually.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Ooh...Somebody Needs a Nap
I'm really tired again, so forming coherent sentences is not my strong suit right now. In fact, it makes my head hurt. Lucky for me, I don't have in intellectually challenging job that requires clear-headedness. Wait...what is it I do again?
Ugh.
These are the days I wish I had pursued something less mentally challenging (and yes, I realize that in describing my career in these terms, I've just declared myself as being mentally challenged). I could have been lots of things, many of which would have been much easier to do when this tired.
For example, I wanted to write professionally. Now, this woud require the formulation of sentences to be sure, but I wanted to write fiction. I could have used days like today to take advantage of my semi-delusional state. When better to play "what if" games and come up with my latest science fiction/horror/romantic comedy bestseller? (I would actually want to read a combined science fiction, horror, romantic comedy bestseller - something Like When Harry Met Sally, but with ghosts on a space ship. I'll have to work on that.)
I could have stayed on in my career as a winged vigilante. Few people realize the perks of such jobs. You pretty much set your own schedule, and the fact is that super villains are few and far between, so really most of the gig consists of wandering rooftops watching the local 7-11 for ruffians. You can find a nice roof and nap whenever you feel like it. Good times. Unfortunately, lack of a large inheritance brought an end to that. Vigilante work can be fun, but the pay blows egg water.
Finally, my other dream job would have worked out today as well. See, I had this plan to wander my way down to Florida and become a beach bum. Planned well, this is really a reasonable life style. You live near the ocean, so you can bathe regularly, eliminating one of the primary turn-offs of the homeless lifestyle. There's the occasional hurricane, so if you time things well you should be able to scavenge lots of nice stuff. I was even going to get a shopping cart with sand tires. I could be napping on a beach right now.
Unfortunately, the hobo gig doesn't lend itself real well to being a family man, so I chose a different path. This was for the best of course - even when tired I can see that. So I will knuckle down and try my best to write code, hoping that I don't muck it up too badly, propped up the entire time on caffeine.
Remind me to send the good people who make at Pepsi a thank you letter - I'm pretty sure I owe a large part of my career success to them.
Ugh.
These are the days I wish I had pursued something less mentally challenging (and yes, I realize that in describing my career in these terms, I've just declared myself as being mentally challenged). I could have been lots of things, many of which would have been much easier to do when this tired.
For example, I wanted to write professionally. Now, this woud require the formulation of sentences to be sure, but I wanted to write fiction. I could have used days like today to take advantage of my semi-delusional state. When better to play "what if" games and come up with my latest science fiction/horror/romantic comedy bestseller? (I would actually want to read a combined science fiction, horror, romantic comedy bestseller - something Like When Harry Met Sally, but with ghosts on a space ship. I'll have to work on that.)
I could have stayed on in my career as a winged vigilante. Few people realize the perks of such jobs. You pretty much set your own schedule, and the fact is that super villains are few and far between, so really most of the gig consists of wandering rooftops watching the local 7-11 for ruffians. You can find a nice roof and nap whenever you feel like it. Good times. Unfortunately, lack of a large inheritance brought an end to that. Vigilante work can be fun, but the pay blows egg water.
Finally, my other dream job would have worked out today as well. See, I had this plan to wander my way down to Florida and become a beach bum. Planned well, this is really a reasonable life style. You live near the ocean, so you can bathe regularly, eliminating one of the primary turn-offs of the homeless lifestyle. There's the occasional hurricane, so if you time things well you should be able to scavenge lots of nice stuff. I was even going to get a shopping cart with sand tires. I could be napping on a beach right now.
Unfortunately, the hobo gig doesn't lend itself real well to being a family man, so I chose a different path. This was for the best of course - even when tired I can see that. So I will knuckle down and try my best to write code, hoping that I don't muck it up too badly, propped up the entire time on caffeine.
Remind me to send the good people who make at Pepsi a thank you letter - I'm pretty sure I owe a large part of my career success to them.
Monday, January 19, 2009
In the Can, or Why I Haven't Scored a Lid In a While
Today, I must be brief, both because I'm at home watching two kids, and because I'm working on a keyboard where you have to hit the 'I' key like three times before it works. Infuriating to be sure. Also, there is an odor coming from the next room, and the Moose has a look of satisfaction that I know too well. I'll be right back...
Ah, the joys of parenting.
Anyway, this weekend I took a Christmas gift card, and I bought myself a new electric can opener(thanks, Bob). I already had one of course. It had a knife sharpener and a bottle opener and all, and if it had opened cans without me standing over it swearing repeatedly (the secret to any advanced technology - trust me, I have a degree), I would have kept it. Seriously, if you're going to make a product with features, maybe make sure it can perform its primary objective first.
What's ridiculous is that I didn't realize how much grief it was causing me until I used the new one to open a can of mushrooms. I didn't even need a can of mushrooms - I just had to see it work. It slid through that lid like butter, and with terrific joy that I had not anticipated I removed the old one and placed it firmly into the garbage. I may have done a little dance. I'm not committing to that, but it could have happened.
I guess what's interesting to me is that I realized that this stupid machine had been causing me all of this suffering, but I had learned to live with it. I knew I had to replace it eventually, but when I wasn't using it, it just didn't seem like that big a deal. It makes me wonder what else I have around me that I could fix or replace that would lead to a similar reduction in my overall stress.
I may start with this %#$@ing keyboard.;
Ah, the joys of parenting.
Anyway, this weekend I took a Christmas gift card, and I bought myself a new electric can opener(thanks, Bob). I already had one of course. It had a knife sharpener and a bottle opener and all, and if it had opened cans without me standing over it swearing repeatedly (the secret to any advanced technology - trust me, I have a degree), I would have kept it. Seriously, if you're going to make a product with features, maybe make sure it can perform its primary objective first.
What's ridiculous is that I didn't realize how much grief it was causing me until I used the new one to open a can of mushrooms. I didn't even need a can of mushrooms - I just had to see it work. It slid through that lid like butter, and with terrific joy that I had not anticipated I removed the old one and placed it firmly into the garbage. I may have done a little dance. I'm not committing to that, but it could have happened.
I guess what's interesting to me is that I realized that this stupid machine had been causing me all of this suffering, but I had learned to live with it. I knew I had to replace it eventually, but when I wasn't using it, it just didn't seem like that big a deal. It makes me wonder what else I have around me that I could fix or replace that would lead to a similar reduction in my overall stress.
I may start with this %#$@ing keyboard.;
Friday, January 16, 2009
Did...Did Your Cheese Just Move?
The following post, I will be discussing something that is absolutely not safe for lunch. Actually, if you have a sensitive stomach of any kind, skip it. Or if you're pregnant, and may suddenly have a sensitive stomach (you know who you are). Or if you're just a big sissy.
So, now that I've eliminated all but the hard core, let's discuss a food product I've just discovered. It's a cheese. I don't generally eat cheese, what with me being the brand of vegetarian that avoids dairy and meat (I will succumb to a cheese pizza, but only if it's really, really free). Well this particular cheese, casa marzu is Italian. It notable for its softness, as well as the fact that it is riddled with live insect larvae.
Still with me? Shocking. I'm a little ashamed of you to be honest.
Anyway, apparently Italy wanted to challenge the Scottish (who have a diet largely based on dares) and come up with something truly putrid to eat. So they take a perfectly nice piece of pecorino, a hard cheese made of sheep's milk, and they put it out where a particular bug referred to as the cheese skipper (apparenly more efficient than the cheese professor or the cheese Mary Ann) can land on it and lay their eggs. The eggs hatch, the larvae (which can launch themselves 15 cm - ick) do their thing until the cheese is soft to the point of being runny, and then people eat it.
Why?
Because people are stupid. Well, there's more to it. Honestly, it's probably because someone thinks it's an aphrodisiac. Seriously. What's even sadder is that it's &#%$ing illegal. People are going out and hunting down bug-riddled cheese on the black &$%#ing market in an effort to get their freak on. This brings us right back to my original point, that being that people are stupid.
It's not like they don't have energy drinks in Italy.
So, now that I've eliminated all but the hard core, let's discuss a food product I've just discovered. It's a cheese. I don't generally eat cheese, what with me being the brand of vegetarian that avoids dairy and meat (I will succumb to a cheese pizza, but only if it's really, really free). Well this particular cheese, casa marzu is Italian. It notable for its softness, as well as the fact that it is riddled with live insect larvae.
Still with me? Shocking. I'm a little ashamed of you to be honest.
Anyway, apparently Italy wanted to challenge the Scottish (who have a diet largely based on dares) and come up with something truly putrid to eat. So they take a perfectly nice piece of pecorino, a hard cheese made of sheep's milk, and they put it out where a particular bug referred to as the cheese skipper (apparenly more efficient than the cheese professor or the cheese Mary Ann) can land on it and lay their eggs. The eggs hatch, the larvae (which can launch themselves 15 cm - ick) do their thing until the cheese is soft to the point of being runny, and then people eat it.
Why?
Because people are stupid. Well, there's more to it. Honestly, it's probably because someone thinks it's an aphrodisiac. Seriously. What's even sadder is that it's &#%$ing illegal. People are going out and hunting down bug-riddled cheese on the black &$%#ing market in an effort to get their freak on. This brings us right back to my original point, that being that people are stupid.
It's not like they don't have energy drinks in Italy.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Maybe Tomorrow I'll Pack Gruel
Another morning of insanity today. Dumped cereal bowls, difficult questions, yet another attempt at discussing genetics, evolution, and where the first tree came from on the ride in (there are days I consider taking up religion for no other reason that the simplicity of saying "God did it"). No wonder I need another cup of coffee by the time I get here.
The choice event of the morning, however, was my lovely daughter complaining that her lunches never contain treats. Just so you don't think I'm torturing her, let me spell out the lunch I packed this morning. She has an ice water, yogurt, a banana, and a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with no crust. For her snacks she has an applesauce cup, an all-fruit fruit peel, and Fig Newtons. So yeah, not exactly a cup of brussel sprouts and a crust of bread.
She was hoping for a treat, and I had considered it (I still have some candy canes to unload), but I thought that there was plenty of sugar already in today's offering. The thing is, she went all pouty on my, giving me the "your a bad father because I don't get candy for lunch" treatment. What do I expect - she's a first grader? It's not like she's honed her debate skills and has prepared a chart showing how her productivity will increase given an increase in snack cake offerings.
What bothered me though was my initial reaction. See, I vowed that this year I would work on not losing my patience with the kids. I tend to have a short fuse, and since the few childhood memories I actually have consist in large part of my mother yelling at me for...well pretty much anything, I really want that to not be me. So when I started to get angry, I tried to rope it in and come up with a logical explanation of why she should not complain.
I pointed out that I didn't get any of that stuff when I was a kid. (Probably true - I don't actually remember lunches before high school, and that was all Zebra Cakes and nachos. God I miss that.) When that failed to get any traction, I suggested that if I stopped packing snacks for a couple of weeks, then she might appreciate what she has, but she just took that as a threat (it wasn't). So we just talked it out, she calmed down, and we rushed through the rest of the morning, having not penciled in 'drama' for our morning routine.
What really bothered me about the whole scene was that my initial reaction was to work the "starving kids in Africa" angle, which immediately filled me with guilt. I mean, all I've got is a kid who's making a play for a piece of candy, and due to years of training, my first reaction is to invoke a group of horribly impoverished people who are genuinely suffering so I can end the conversation quicky. It's like we need a national swear jar, except instead of obscenities, we should all have to put in a dollar whenever we bring up these starving Africans, and then once a month we actually send the money to kids in Africa.
Solving world hunger through lazy parenting - another brilliant idea brought to you by the makers of Dangerously Low On Grog.
The choice event of the morning, however, was my lovely daughter complaining that her lunches never contain treats. Just so you don't think I'm torturing her, let me spell out the lunch I packed this morning. She has an ice water, yogurt, a banana, and a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with no crust. For her snacks she has an applesauce cup, an all-fruit fruit peel, and Fig Newtons. So yeah, not exactly a cup of brussel sprouts and a crust of bread.
She was hoping for a treat, and I had considered it (I still have some candy canes to unload), but I thought that there was plenty of sugar already in today's offering. The thing is, she went all pouty on my, giving me the "your a bad father because I don't get candy for lunch" treatment. What do I expect - she's a first grader? It's not like she's honed her debate skills and has prepared a chart showing how her productivity will increase given an increase in snack cake offerings.
What bothered me though was my initial reaction. See, I vowed that this year I would work on not losing my patience with the kids. I tend to have a short fuse, and since the few childhood memories I actually have consist in large part of my mother yelling at me for...well pretty much anything, I really want that to not be me. So when I started to get angry, I tried to rope it in and come up with a logical explanation of why she should not complain.
I pointed out that I didn't get any of that stuff when I was a kid. (Probably true - I don't actually remember lunches before high school, and that was all Zebra Cakes and nachos. God I miss that.) When that failed to get any traction, I suggested that if I stopped packing snacks for a couple of weeks, then she might appreciate what she has, but she just took that as a threat (it wasn't). So we just talked it out, she calmed down, and we rushed through the rest of the morning, having not penciled in 'drama' for our morning routine.
What really bothered me about the whole scene was that my initial reaction was to work the "starving kids in Africa" angle, which immediately filled me with guilt. I mean, all I've got is a kid who's making a play for a piece of candy, and due to years of training, my first reaction is to invoke a group of horribly impoverished people who are genuinely suffering so I can end the conversation quicky. It's like we need a national swear jar, except instead of obscenities, we should all have to put in a dollar whenever we bring up these starving Africans, and then once a month we actually send the money to kids in Africa.
Solving world hunger through lazy parenting - another brilliant idea brought to you by the makers of Dangerously Low On Grog.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
In My Defence, the Shiny Blue Vest and Bow Tie Were Forced On Me
I have, in my time, received a fair number of what I consider backhanded compliments. You know...it's like a compliment, but some part of the way it is framed actually prevents it from being complimentary. My memory being what it is, I don't recall most of these, but one from a girl in high school has always stood out in my mind as a crowning achievement in backhanded compliments.
"You're so nice you must be gay."
This was not the first time someone had suggested I was gay in school, and each time it surprised me. I had never expressed any kind of interest in another fella, so I wasn't sure where this was coming from. To be honest, I wasn't even that nice. I think the above statement was more of a way to try and politely test me for gayness (remember kids, this was years before gaydar was perfected).
Oh sure, I was in musicals. I liked to dance. I wore rainbow, tie dyed pants.
Wait, what?
Only recently did I recall this last bit. In high school, I would shop out of this catalog where they sold...unusual clothing. Most of it was reasonably classy, but at some point I got the idea in my head that it was acceptable to buy a pair of white denim pants that had been tie dyed with bright bands of varying colors. I'm talking a full rainbow of trousers. Bright colors too. I'm pretty sure I was visible from space.
Now I'm not saying that this alone would cause someone to question my orientation, but I have to be honest with myself. Today I would no more consider the idea of wearing rainbow pantaloons than I would consider going out in my briefs and chaps and marching in a parade. Frankly, if I saw someone wearing these pants, there is a fine chance that I would promptly make an assumption about their extra-curricular studies, if you catch my meaning.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
So, yeah, given a short pondering of my high school days (an activity I actively avoid to be honest with you all), I realize that maybe I was sending some signals that I had not intended to. Interestingly, only girls ever made this assumption about me, i.e. not one guy ever approached me and asked if I was gay. To this day, I'm not sure whether this is offensive or not.
After all, just because you don't want to go to a party, it's still nice to recieve an invitation.
"You're so nice you must be gay."
This was not the first time someone had suggested I was gay in school, and each time it surprised me. I had never expressed any kind of interest in another fella, so I wasn't sure where this was coming from. To be honest, I wasn't even that nice. I think the above statement was more of a way to try and politely test me for gayness (remember kids, this was years before gaydar was perfected).
Oh sure, I was in musicals. I liked to dance. I wore rainbow, tie dyed pants.
Wait, what?
Only recently did I recall this last bit. In high school, I would shop out of this catalog where they sold...unusual clothing. Most of it was reasonably classy, but at some point I got the idea in my head that it was acceptable to buy a pair of white denim pants that had been tie dyed with bright bands of varying colors. I'm talking a full rainbow of trousers. Bright colors too. I'm pretty sure I was visible from space.
Now I'm not saying that this alone would cause someone to question my orientation, but I have to be honest with myself. Today I would no more consider the idea of wearing rainbow pantaloons than I would consider going out in my briefs and chaps and marching in a parade. Frankly, if I saw someone wearing these pants, there is a fine chance that I would promptly make an assumption about their extra-curricular studies, if you catch my meaning.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
So, yeah, given a short pondering of my high school days (an activity I actively avoid to be honest with you all), I realize that maybe I was sending some signals that I had not intended to. Interestingly, only girls ever made this assumption about me, i.e. not one guy ever approached me and asked if I was gay. To this day, I'm not sure whether this is offensive or not.
After all, just because you don't want to go to a party, it's still nice to recieve an invitation.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
On the Dangers of Name Etymology
Having recently discovered that I get to be someone's strange uncle (woot!), I find myself once again on those websites that give the etymology and meaning behind names. I love this stuff, because it has almost no real application. Apparently, my surname means we hail from England (someone once claimed to have traced my family to the Mayflower - not sure if I believe that one, but there you go), and it's based on on the word for flame. Hopefully, saying someone was flaming back then meant something different.
Then I looked into the etymology of my first name, and I kind of wish I hadn't. Apparently, Roger means "famous with the spear". If that's not phallic enough for you, according to this site, it was also used as slang for a man's you-know-what from 1650-1870, and then was used to mean getting it on from 1711. I guess now we know why the pirates considered it jolly. Charming.
Anyway, what put me on this path was seeing a headline where a dude running for some Government position has the last name Weiner, which I consider to be one of the more unfortunate last names for obvious reasons. I decided to seek out where the pejorative use of wiener came from, and according to the same site, it's actually a shortened version of wienerwurst, which is a sausage. Due to the sausage shape, it too became a word to refer to a man's junk (just how many names do we need for this thing, anyway). Sure, they switched the 'i' and 'e', but we all read and pronounce it the same, and I'm sorry, but the headline "Weiner Running For Mayor" will always make me giggle no matter how old I get.
I keeps it real like that.
If this is accurate - and it's on the internet, so I have no reason to doubt it - that means that at some point, they were handing out surnames, and when they got to Hans, they said, "Dude, I think we're just going to name you after those sausages you're always eating", and Hans was all, "Whatever. Did you remember to grab some mustard on the way over?". (I don't speak a lot of German, but I understand that to those fluent in the language, they all sound like that.) From that point on, there were a group of people who were inextricably tied to sausages, as well as other, more saucy themes, through their names, and they have bravely gone forward, bringing generation after generation of Weiner into the world. Good for them.
I'd of changed it to Smith myself, but I guess that's what separates me from the Weiners.
Then I looked into the etymology of my first name, and I kind of wish I hadn't. Apparently, Roger means "famous with the spear". If that's not phallic enough for you, according to this site, it was also used as slang for a man's you-know-what from 1650-1870, and then was used to mean getting it on from 1711. I guess now we know why the pirates considered it jolly. Charming.
Anyway, what put me on this path was seeing a headline where a dude running for some Government position has the last name Weiner, which I consider to be one of the more unfortunate last names for obvious reasons. I decided to seek out where the pejorative use of wiener came from, and according to the same site, it's actually a shortened version of wienerwurst, which is a sausage. Due to the sausage shape, it too became a word to refer to a man's junk (just how many names do we need for this thing, anyway). Sure, they switched the 'i' and 'e', but we all read and pronounce it the same, and I'm sorry, but the headline "Weiner Running For Mayor" will always make me giggle no matter how old I get.
I keeps it real like that.
If this is accurate - and it's on the internet, so I have no reason to doubt it - that means that at some point, they were handing out surnames, and when they got to Hans, they said, "Dude, I think we're just going to name you after those sausages you're always eating", and Hans was all, "Whatever. Did you remember to grab some mustard on the way over?". (I don't speak a lot of German, but I understand that to those fluent in the language, they all sound like that.) From that point on, there were a group of people who were inextricably tied to sausages, as well as other, more saucy themes, through their names, and they have bravely gone forward, bringing generation after generation of Weiner into the world. Good for them.
I'd of changed it to Smith myself, but I guess that's what separates me from the Weiners.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Not What I Meant When I Said I Needed To Stay Up
On Friday, I had gone a week without a full night's sleep. It started with New Year's Eve, and just kind of carried on. I'd stay up a little late to hang out with my lovely wife, then I'd get up a little early to deal with snow covered sidewalks or whatever. After a week, I was dragging pretty badly.
Anyway, to get me through the day I picked up a Diet Pepsi Max, which is a Diet Pepsi (my soda pop of choice) with added pep. I drank it. I felt better. I made it through another afternoon without nodding off at my desk. All good, right?
Well, I look at the bottle, and it says "GINSENG + CAFFEINE" (it's all in caps presumably because that's more extreme), and I start to wonder why they put ginseng in it. I'm not an herbalist (not anymore anyway - heh), so I do what I always do and seek out information on Wikipedia. It turns out ginseng causes insomnia, which, when looked at from a "glass half full" standpoint, can be reworded to say "helps you stay awake". Not typically in the quantities they put into energy drinks, but whatever.
In gathering this information, however, I discover that ginseng is also used as an aphrodisiac and as a treatment for sexual dysfunction in men, and I'm thinking to myself that maybe at this point they should be putting a warning on the bottle. I mean, I just wanted to not fall asleep at my desk, but I would still like to reserve the right to stand should I need to without fear of awkwardness with my coworkers. Fortunately, again they don't put much in this stuff, but I can drink a lot of diet soda pop, so believe me when I tell you I'll be aware of it from now on.
The one thing that really cracked me up in all this though was the discussion of the study where they discovered that effect they say that in laboratory animals "both Asian and American forms of ginseng enhance libido and copulatory performance". All I can think of is these scientists feeding a bunch of this stuff to lab rats, and then showing them pictures of other lab rats and asking if they think the other rat is hot. I don't even want to consider how they determine the answer, or for that matter how they gauge "copulatory performance".
Do they even make cigarettes for rats?
Anyway, to get me through the day I picked up a Diet Pepsi Max, which is a Diet Pepsi (my soda pop of choice) with added pep. I drank it. I felt better. I made it through another afternoon without nodding off at my desk. All good, right?
Well, I look at the bottle, and it says "GINSENG + CAFFEINE" (it's all in caps presumably because that's more extreme), and I start to wonder why they put ginseng in it. I'm not an herbalist (not anymore anyway - heh), so I do what I always do and seek out information on Wikipedia. It turns out ginseng causes insomnia, which, when looked at from a "glass half full" standpoint, can be reworded to say "helps you stay awake". Not typically in the quantities they put into energy drinks, but whatever.
In gathering this information, however, I discover that ginseng is also used as an aphrodisiac and as a treatment for sexual dysfunction in men, and I'm thinking to myself that maybe at this point they should be putting a warning on the bottle. I mean, I just wanted to not fall asleep at my desk, but I would still like to reserve the right to stand should I need to without fear of awkwardness with my coworkers. Fortunately, again they don't put much in this stuff, but I can drink a lot of diet soda pop, so believe me when I tell you I'll be aware of it from now on.
The one thing that really cracked me up in all this though was the discussion of the study where they discovered that effect they say that in laboratory animals "both Asian and American forms of ginseng enhance libido and copulatory performance". All I can think of is these scientists feeding a bunch of this stuff to lab rats, and then showing them pictures of other lab rats and asking if they think the other rat is hot. I don't even want to consider how they determine the answer, or for that matter how they gauge "copulatory performance".
Do they even make cigarettes for rats?
Friday, January 9, 2009
One Of the Many Reasons I Don't Carry Cash
Sitting at my desk, staring at a hunk of code for what seemed like way too long, I decided that it would be in my best interest to get up and wander. Even now that my cube has moved to a place where I have a nice window with a view, watching snow on a cornfield can only serve as so much of a distraction. My job, not unlike my heroic deeds and romantic conquests in high school, occurs mostly in my mind, and once in a while the engine needs a chance to cool off.
Now having any reasonable excuse to go and bother one of my cohorts, I decided to participate in one of my favorite office diversions - snack food window shopping. This is where I wander over to the kitchen area and peruse the comestibles being offered in the vending machines. Of course, I'm on a diet of sorts, and I almost never carry cash, so there is no chance I'm actually going to buy anything. Rather, it's more the sport of selecting the item I would be most likely to purchase were I so inclined.
My new digs find me on the other side of the wall from the main eating area here, so it was a short jaunt to the local machine. Unfortunately, it was full of uninspired treats, your standard Fritos being the pick of the crop. Everything else was non-vegetarian (Pop Tarts, Rice Krispy Treats and all Hostess offerings) or, well, kind of yucky (Taco Doritos, while not Quest Dorito bad, are not good either). Not finding anything interesting, I made my way to the next building to see if they were faring better.
Apparently, the vendors like the other building more than us, for the machine there included the sublime Jalapeno Cheddar Cheetos, which are currently my second favorite snack chip (Habenero Doritos surpassing them both in flavor and in burn). So, as usual, the pick of the day was between those and Cheez It crackers, which also rock. Should they decide to start offering Jalapeno Cheez Its, I may actually have to start carrying cash.
What's weird is that I have no idea why I do this, other than as an excuse to get up and walk around a bit. I mean, I don't really need the excuse, right? No one here cares where I'm going or what I'm on about, so long as the code is written on time. Still, I frequently find myself on the other side of the glass, admiring the brightly colored packages offering delectable tidbits promising to satisfy my current cravings, promises that I never give them a chance to fulfill.
In other news, apparently the longer I remain on a diet, the more colorful the anthropomorphism of junk food becomes. Should any of them begin to actually speak to me, I'll be sure to pass that information along to you fine folks, along with what we discussed and the accents affected. I can't be the only person in the world who assumes that the man on the Pringles can speaks with a clipped, British accent, right?
Yeah, maybe I better get back to the code - things are getting a little weird around here, even by my standards.
Now having any reasonable excuse to go and bother one of my cohorts, I decided to participate in one of my favorite office diversions - snack food window shopping. This is where I wander over to the kitchen area and peruse the comestibles being offered in the vending machines. Of course, I'm on a diet of sorts, and I almost never carry cash, so there is no chance I'm actually going to buy anything. Rather, it's more the sport of selecting the item I would be most likely to purchase were I so inclined.
My new digs find me on the other side of the wall from the main eating area here, so it was a short jaunt to the local machine. Unfortunately, it was full of uninspired treats, your standard Fritos being the pick of the crop. Everything else was non-vegetarian (Pop Tarts, Rice Krispy Treats and all Hostess offerings) or, well, kind of yucky (Taco Doritos, while not Quest Dorito bad, are not good either). Not finding anything interesting, I made my way to the next building to see if they were faring better.
Apparently, the vendors like the other building more than us, for the machine there included the sublime Jalapeno Cheddar Cheetos, which are currently my second favorite snack chip (Habenero Doritos surpassing them both in flavor and in burn). So, as usual, the pick of the day was between those and Cheez It crackers, which also rock. Should they decide to start offering Jalapeno Cheez Its, I may actually have to start carrying cash.
What's weird is that I have no idea why I do this, other than as an excuse to get up and walk around a bit. I mean, I don't really need the excuse, right? No one here cares where I'm going or what I'm on about, so long as the code is written on time. Still, I frequently find myself on the other side of the glass, admiring the brightly colored packages offering delectable tidbits promising to satisfy my current cravings, promises that I never give them a chance to fulfill.
In other news, apparently the longer I remain on a diet, the more colorful the anthropomorphism of junk food becomes. Should any of them begin to actually speak to me, I'll be sure to pass that information along to you fine folks, along with what we discussed and the accents affected. I can't be the only person in the world who assumes that the man on the Pringles can speaks with a clipped, British accent, right?
Yeah, maybe I better get back to the code - things are getting a little weird around here, even by my standards.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
No Shot at the Money
At long last the true victims of the current recession have come forth, pleading for funding. That's right folks, Hustler publisher Larry Flynt and Girls Gone Wild CEO Joe Francis are currently approaching Washington D.C. about a five billion dollar bailout for the apparently faltering porn industry. Yes, the sales of XXX DVDs are apparently down 22 percent, and dammit, people are hurting out there.
Now far be it from me to mock the financial troubles of others (he said, knowing perfectly well that's what he was about to do), but come on. A porn bailout? I wasn't thrilled with any of the other bailouts provided thus far, but this is truly bold, particularly for Mr. Francis, who so far as I can tell spends most of his budget on cheap alcohol and t-shirts, what with youthful naivete being free. (I'm going by the commercials that run at night here, having never actually felt the need to watch a Girls Gone Wild video.)
So what exactly is the argument here? Does the porn industry actually employ enough people to make a difference in the national economy? Beyond the crew and the stars, who would be benefiting from this? Camera suppliers? Plastic surgeons? Video rental stores? Animal wranglers?
What really strikes me as notable here is that the porn industry was the first real victim of the internet age. This brings up the question of how long before the RIAA requests a bailout, another industry that seems to be too slow to adapt to new business models built around, oh I don't know, people getting their products however the &#%$ they want to. Maybe they know better than to ask, but if anyone thinks that the government is going to cut these two a check they need a serious reality check. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that they're going to have trouble drumming up support on Washington.
Now far be it from me to mock the financial troubles of others (he said, knowing perfectly well that's what he was about to do), but come on. A porn bailout? I wasn't thrilled with any of the other bailouts provided thus far, but this is truly bold, particularly for Mr. Francis, who so far as I can tell spends most of his budget on cheap alcohol and t-shirts, what with youthful naivete being free. (I'm going by the commercials that run at night here, having never actually felt the need to watch a Girls Gone Wild video.)
So what exactly is the argument here? Does the porn industry actually employ enough people to make a difference in the national economy? Beyond the crew and the stars, who would be benefiting from this? Camera suppliers? Plastic surgeons? Video rental stores? Animal wranglers?
What really strikes me as notable here is that the porn industry was the first real victim of the internet age. This brings up the question of how long before the RIAA requests a bailout, another industry that seems to be too slow to adapt to new business models built around, oh I don't know, people getting their products however the &#%$ they want to. Maybe they know better than to ask, but if anyone thinks that the government is going to cut these two a check they need a serious reality check. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that they're going to have trouble drumming up support on Washington.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Dude, Do You Smell Something?
I have, in the past, discussed my admiration for the art form of bathroom graffiti, but I did not really discuss the more generic graffiti. Frankly, I usually just find it distracting. There are exceptions for those marks that seem truly inspired, such as the works of Banksy, but then there are those acts that are just vandalism, lacking any creativity or artistic merit.
An example of the latter case used to puzzle me frequently at my last job. I used to work in a building in a smallish city, and when you walked directly downtown, as I often did to lunch with my lovely wife, you would be driven past a power box that had scrawled across it a declaration that I would personally not like associated with me. In permanent black marker, someone had scrawled the following message:
"Wayne smells like potty."
Often I would walk by this public announcement of Wayne's particular aroma and wonder things. Does Wayne know this is here? If so, why has he not scribbled it out, or at least defended his honor with a "Do not" or "I'm a veterinarian, what do you expect?"? Mostly, I would wonder what would drive a person to make such a statement, particularly because it was written with a clarity and at such a height as to suggest that this was the work of an adult. Was it anger driven, written by someone who could no longer stand being in Wayne's presence due to the overwhelming stench of ammonia that surrounded him? Was it a prank meant to get a rise out of poor Wayne?
Why the hell would you write that in permanent marker upon a public utility box?
Of course, this will prove to be one of those mysteries that remains unsolved as, unlike Jenny (another person whose fame was probably undesired), no number was included in this particular declaration. Never will I know what fate befell Wayne and his detractor. Hopefully, they worked things out through love, understanding and judicious use of deodorant and laundry detergent.
On a side note, should anyone have an issue with me, I would prefer they take it up with me directly in a less public forum, like the internet.
An example of the latter case used to puzzle me frequently at my last job. I used to work in a building in a smallish city, and when you walked directly downtown, as I often did to lunch with my lovely wife, you would be driven past a power box that had scrawled across it a declaration that I would personally not like associated with me. In permanent black marker, someone had scrawled the following message:
"Wayne smells like potty."
Often I would walk by this public announcement of Wayne's particular aroma and wonder things. Does Wayne know this is here? If so, why has he not scribbled it out, or at least defended his honor with a "Do not" or "I'm a veterinarian, what do you expect?"? Mostly, I would wonder what would drive a person to make such a statement, particularly because it was written with a clarity and at such a height as to suggest that this was the work of an adult. Was it anger driven, written by someone who could no longer stand being in Wayne's presence due to the overwhelming stench of ammonia that surrounded him? Was it a prank meant to get a rise out of poor Wayne?
Why the hell would you write that in permanent marker upon a public utility box?
Of course, this will prove to be one of those mysteries that remains unsolved as, unlike Jenny (another person whose fame was probably undesired), no number was included in this particular declaration. Never will I know what fate befell Wayne and his detractor. Hopefully, they worked things out through love, understanding and judicious use of deodorant and laundry detergent.
On a side note, should anyone have an issue with me, I would prefer they take it up with me directly in a less public forum, like the internet.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Potty Like a Rock Star
There comes a time in each person's life where they must embark on a quest of personal betterment. Some of these quests are undertaken as part of the growing process, something to assist us in becoming fulfilled individuals. Others are thrust upon us by others, improvements that will not only make our own lives easier, but help those around us live more comfortable lives. It is from this latter category that the work my son has begun has presented itself.
It is time, once again, for potty training.
Potty training is a mixed bag of emotions for me. On the one hand, success will mean no more diapers, wipes, and whatnot (and make no mistake, I am quite ready to be done with whatnot). On the other hand, it further signifies that my baby boy is growing up into a little man. Also, it means I'll be dealing with the cleanup of bodily fluids on a more regular basis, which is not among my favorite things (Likes: Long walks on the beach, country music, pie, and cleaning up when someone drops a deuce in their Fruit of the Looms - nope, not me. Well, I like pie, but not the rest.)
We decided that since the family was off for an extended time over the holidays, we would try something drastic at first. We covered an entire room in industriul plastic sheeting, couch and all, put the Moose in a pair of briefs, put a potty chair in the middle of the room, and then watched. This seemed like a good idea at first, but we quickly ran into a couple of snags. First, apparently a room covered in plastic is way more fun for running and jumping that a regular room, so the tape holding the plastic down quickly gave up its hold. Second, briefs don't contain a lot of action, which meant that the adult in the room was responsible for constantly watching the boy's nether regions for any sign of a breach that he may be put on the potty. Seriously, I spent so much time looking at little boy underwear I felt like I should be putting on one white glove and bidding on the deformed remains of famous circus freaks.
We gave that up and moved on to the more standard plastic coated underwear for the boy, and that worked out a lot better. Now I at least have a chance of recognizing that he's going before we get a full flood. So now we proceed, occasionally ask if he wants to sit on the potty, and other than that we just let him recognize when he's wet or whatever. This is actually a boon for me, because the only thing that keeps him sitting is watching Looney Tunes on my iPhone, so I get to pass that along in the process. The only catch thus far is that he confuses numbers one and two, so he'll say, "I'm poopy" when he's just wet, and then tell me he's wet only for me to discover that he's made a major transaction. Not a pleasant surprise, but all part of the process, so there you go.
The good news is that unlike many quests of personal betterment, this one has a definite end in sight. I'm personally guessing this end will be within months, if not weeks. Eventually he'll get it, we'll buy him some more real underwear (my little man is not growing up in a world of tighty whiteys - do they make boxers for two to three year olds?), and we can move on to spending our money on things other than gigantic packages of Huggies and a case of diaper wipes.
I'm going to go out on a limb and guess it'll probably go toward carpet cleaner for a while.
It is time, once again, for potty training.
Potty training is a mixed bag of emotions for me. On the one hand, success will mean no more diapers, wipes, and whatnot (and make no mistake, I am quite ready to be done with whatnot). On the other hand, it further signifies that my baby boy is growing up into a little man. Also, it means I'll be dealing with the cleanup of bodily fluids on a more regular basis, which is not among my favorite things (Likes: Long walks on the beach, country music, pie, and cleaning up when someone drops a deuce in their Fruit of the Looms - nope, not me. Well, I like pie, but not the rest.)
We decided that since the family was off for an extended time over the holidays, we would try something drastic at first. We covered an entire room in industriul plastic sheeting, couch and all, put the Moose in a pair of briefs, put a potty chair in the middle of the room, and then watched. This seemed like a good idea at first, but we quickly ran into a couple of snags. First, apparently a room covered in plastic is way more fun for running and jumping that a regular room, so the tape holding the plastic down quickly gave up its hold. Second, briefs don't contain a lot of action, which meant that the adult in the room was responsible for constantly watching the boy's nether regions for any sign of a breach that he may be put on the potty. Seriously, I spent so much time looking at little boy underwear I felt like I should be putting on one white glove and bidding on the deformed remains of famous circus freaks.
We gave that up and moved on to the more standard plastic coated underwear for the boy, and that worked out a lot better. Now I at least have a chance of recognizing that he's going before we get a full flood. So now we proceed, occasionally ask if he wants to sit on the potty, and other than that we just let him recognize when he's wet or whatever. This is actually a boon for me, because the only thing that keeps him sitting is watching Looney Tunes on my iPhone, so I get to pass that along in the process. The only catch thus far is that he confuses numbers one and two, so he'll say, "I'm poopy" when he's just wet, and then tell me he's wet only for me to discover that he's made a major transaction. Not a pleasant surprise, but all part of the process, so there you go.
The good news is that unlike many quests of personal betterment, this one has a definite end in sight. I'm personally guessing this end will be within months, if not weeks. Eventually he'll get it, we'll buy him some more real underwear (my little man is not growing up in a world of tighty whiteys - do they make boxers for two to three year olds?), and we can move on to spending our money on things other than gigantic packages of Huggies and a case of diaper wipes.
I'm going to go out on a limb and guess it'll probably go toward carpet cleaner for a while.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Okay, Maybe the Name Calling Was a Bit Much
Well, having received a tremendous amount of feedback from my last post (if you don't believe me, go ahead and read the two comments left there for yourself), I will proceed with our regularly schedule programming, sans changes of any kind. This means that I will talk about pretty much anything I want. Today I thought I would wrap up a holiday thought that's been rumbling around in my brain for awhile now.
So, we're all familiar with the whole Rudolph legend, right? Freaky reindeer has a glowing nose. Glowing nose naturally leads to ridicule from other reindeer, until global warming causes Christmas Eve to be foggy rather than snowy one year (reindeer have a huge carbon footprint, so it was bound to happen), and the new guy's illuminated proboscis proves more useful than previously considered, and he's a big hero guy. Great.
Here's the thing about that story. A big part of it is the vilifying of "all of the other reindeer", who are less than thrilled with hanging out with Rudolph and his glowing nose. These guys are made out to be the villians in the story, and I understand that poor Rudolph has no control over the situation, but stop and really think about this for a minute.
If I'm hanging out someplace, and a dude walks up with something glowing on his person, once I've established a lack of LEDs up his nose, I'm pretty much getting the hell away from him. Why? Well, lots of research (meaning video games and horror movies) have taught me that if somebody is glowing, there's a pretty good chance that person is radioactive. Playing reindeer games with radioactive folk is generally discouraged as a hobby. I'm pretty sure the surgeon general even put out a statement to that effect.
So yeah, I'm really not blaming the original eight for not wanting to expose themselves to that kind of thing. I'm all for tolerance of those with disabilities, but the risk of testicular cancer should not be included. I'm sure that someday Prancer would like to have little reindeer, not to mention that Santa is notorious for offering crummy health care, so the cost associated would sting a bit. Although I suppose for a reindeer with testicular cancer, the treatment would be under a buck.
Welcome to 2009, folks. Just because the year is new doesn't mean the jokes will be.
So, we're all familiar with the whole Rudolph legend, right? Freaky reindeer has a glowing nose. Glowing nose naturally leads to ridicule from other reindeer, until global warming causes Christmas Eve to be foggy rather than snowy one year (reindeer have a huge carbon footprint, so it was bound to happen), and the new guy's illuminated proboscis proves more useful than previously considered, and he's a big hero guy. Great.
Here's the thing about that story. A big part of it is the vilifying of "all of the other reindeer", who are less than thrilled with hanging out with Rudolph and his glowing nose. These guys are made out to be the villians in the story, and I understand that poor Rudolph has no control over the situation, but stop and really think about this for a minute.
If I'm hanging out someplace, and a dude walks up with something glowing on his person, once I've established a lack of LEDs up his nose, I'm pretty much getting the hell away from him. Why? Well, lots of research (meaning video games and horror movies) have taught me that if somebody is glowing, there's a pretty good chance that person is radioactive. Playing reindeer games with radioactive folk is generally discouraged as a hobby. I'm pretty sure the surgeon general even put out a statement to that effect.
So yeah, I'm really not blaming the original eight for not wanting to expose themselves to that kind of thing. I'm all for tolerance of those with disabilities, but the risk of testicular cancer should not be included. I'm sure that someday Prancer would like to have little reindeer, not to mention that Santa is notorious for offering crummy health care, so the cost associated would sting a bit. Although I suppose for a reindeer with testicular cancer, the treatment would be under a buck.
Welcome to 2009, folks. Just because the year is new doesn't mean the jokes will be.
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