Please Hold All My Calls. Seriously, All of Them.

Yesterday, for no special reason, my lovely wife called me. This was very sweet, and it was nice to hear her voice in a non "some teacher called me and someone is sick/in trouble" setting. Unfortunately, this call once again reminded me of one of my greater, and more peculiar failing. I absolutely, positively suck at talking on the phone.

Now I've mentioned being antisocial before, but that isn't what's going on here. Rather, there is something about trying to hold a conversation on the telephone that simply escapes me. As a result, every phone conversation I have without a specific agenda is full of awkward pauses and stilted, half-started topics. You'd think I was talking to that hot chick I had a crush on in middle school. Okay, I suppose technically I am, but now I've been married to her for almost fourteen years, so you'd think my conversation skills would be a bit smoother.

What's funny is that it's only casual conversation I fail at. You get me on the phone for a reason and I'm golden. Even things that are supposed to be uncomfortable don't phase me at all. I went through three phone interviews with Microsoft, and the most uncomfortable I got was asking them to wait a moment until I found an empty meeting room. (What? I was off the clock and on my way out the door.) If we have business to conduct, even something as simple as "call and see how so and so is doing", then I'm golden. You should hear me order a pizza - it's closing in on high art. But just calling to catch up? Yeah, things are gonna get weird.

Perhaps I rely too heavily on visual cues during conversation, or on being able to pause and think out my response. I mean, if I'm sitting across from someone, I never fail to find some random topic that we can chat about. Hell, right here on this blog I manage to pump out a page a day five days a week nearly without fail. You call me up just to catch up though, you'll find I don't have a thing to say, and I'm at a loss as to why that is. I can chat online. I can chat in person. I cannot chat on the phone.

On the bright side, my rollover minutes on my cell phone are quickly approaching legendary status.

I Suppose It Could Have Been Vienna

I want to start by saying thanks to those who participated on Friday. My tracking results have actually only further confused me, but that's okay. I have been reassured that at least one person reads this each day, and that's enough to keep me writing it.

Now, onto more pressing matters. Last night something occurred that has left me...unsettled. At approximately 8:45 PM, a woman called my house and asked to speak to me, using my first name. The name on caller ID was blocked, presumably via *67, so the name was "Private Number" (which I think is total bull%#$@, but that's a rant for another day). Since Roomba was doing its thing, my wife wasn't sure what she said and asked her to repeat it. The lady asked to talk to me again, and again she refers to me by my first name.

And then she hung up.

Okay, there are probably rational reasons for this, but here's the thing: with the exception of people I work with, I literally don't communicate regularly with anyone outside of my family. There are people online, but I either know them from school, or have remained relatively anonymous. So, assuming this person didn't get hit by a bus while they were talking to my wife, I'm forced to acknowledge this as being flavored with crazy. (Before any of you think this is a leap, remember that I grew up surrounded by as many flavors of crazy that one can hope for. We were the Baskin Robbins of basket cases.) So, now my mind is trying to come up with reasons for someone calling my home, asking for me and then hanging up on my wife, and here's what I've got so far:

Someone from my past is holding a grudge
Someone with a varied career history such as my own will invariably make enemies. It is this that makes me consider that perhaps one of my old enemies, or worse, one of their relatives, has resurfaces looking for revenge. I must admit that this is pretty far fetched. After all, I've always been nothing but professional, which means that in the past, particularly during my run as a ninja, I was pretty careful to leave no traces of my presence. Still, one must consider all possibilities.

I've picked up a stalker
Again, this is pretty damned far fetched, as in real life I show interest in women who are not my wife only to the extent that I'm being polite if they are between me and the coffee pot. Still, it is the internet age, and I suppose someone could have come across my Facebook picture a la six degrees of Kevin Bacon and upon the mere sight of my digitized pretty become smitten and began building a rich fantasy life around me. (Funny this about rich fantasy lives - no one ever has gas. Not many people realize that.) I suppose that through publicly available information, one might use my full name to acquire my phone number, thus making that awkward phone call only to figure out that I am spoken for. I'm hoping against this one, both because it's really creepy and, as a vegetarian, the idea of a surprise, boiled rabbit doesn't do much for me.

My wife called from the future
Okay, so I'm about to befall some catastrophe, and my lovely wife decides to go against all rules regarding communicating with those in the past and tries to warn me, but upon being forced to speak to her past self panics and hangs up the phone. This one works on a lot of levels. My wife probably wouldn't recognize her own voice, since it's always weird hearing your own voice. Also, my wife takes good care of me, and would probably shirk the temporal authorities to try and prevent some disaster I was/will be involved in. She's cool like that.

So there you have it. My money is on the idea that my wife tried to call me from the future to tell me not to get on that train/not to sign that contract/not to wear those loose fitting pants that are prone to falling down on my national television debut. Assuming that this is an isolated incident and further information does not present itself, I think this is the most plausible explanation.

Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably send her a nice card or something.

Not So Much a Cry For Help - More of a Whimper Really

I have a hunk of code here that runs whenever someone reads DLOG that is supposed to tell me how name people are reading this thing. Well, that's what I thought anyway. It turns out that I have a hunk of code here that runs whenever someone arrives here, let's the page fully load, and has javascript enabled on their browser.

As such, I have no idea of how many people actually come to this site. I suppose it doesn't matter, since I'm not in it for profit or anything, but it would be nice to know. My fragile ego and all that - I'm sure you understand.

It is for this reason that I am asking each person who reads today's post to put in a comment. You don't have to be witty or relevant. Put in your favorite word. Put in a link to your own awesome website. Put in that picture you have on your cellphone of you going into leather shops and trying on clothing involving way too many straps.

On second though, let's keep the images out of this.

My goal is to get sort of a base that I can compare the analytical software on to find out how many hits per day it's not counting. I can then use this almost certainly wrong and somewhat arbitrary offset to convince myself that the work I'm doing here is reaching out to a wide audience, and that my deep and serious ruminations on such things as urinal placement, the decision not to change Luke Skywalker's last name and of course monkeys are really time well spent.

Come on people, you've got to help me believe.

The Low Down

So, I step into the men's room at work one day, and discover one of the two urinals populated. Since using another restroom would have required walking to the next building, an unrealistic option given my coffee intake of the day, I have no choice but to step up to the remaining urinal despite strong social mores against standing toe-to-toe with another fella. This meant that I was using the urinal that hung on the wall substantially lower than the other one, which got me wondering why there was such a height differential in the first place.

I mused (correctly, I might add) that the placement of the low urinal was for accessibility reasons. Furthermore, I decided that the parties being considered were probably the vertically challenged, as the well-hung are grossly underrepresented when such considerations are made (I've heard tell that Johnny Homes himself could nary walk into a public restroom without tearing up at the shame of having to use a full toilet for a minor transaction, but I digress). So now I'm standing there considering the process by which the good people in the Government decided that urinals should be hung "with an elongated rim at a maximum of 17 in (430 mm) above the floor".

Scientist (probably in a white lab coat holding a clipboard): Okay Tiny Pete, please step up to urinal number 2.
Tiny Pete: Don't call me that.
Scientist: Right. Sorry. So, whenever you're ready.
Tiny Pete: (Fires)
Scientist: Okay, we can clearly see an arch required to hit the target. I'm thinking that we're a good three inches too high on this one.
Tiny Pete: Doctor, I can't keep up pressure!
Scientist: Oh lord! We have a breach! Pete, stop!
Tiny Pete: It's too late, doctor! The seal is broken! There's no turning back!
Scientist: Gah! Why didn't they listen to me when I said to start low? Everyone, to high ground! Save your shoes!

I'm sure it went something like that. So now I've got this little vignette playing in my head. The chaos. The shrieks of horror. The scientists cursing themselves for not wearing goggles. It's all there. Fortunately, I managed to stifle a chuckle at all of this (snickering while standing next to another guy at the urinals is generally frowned upon, particularly by the other guy). Still, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during that particular process.

So long as we're not talking about the urinal wall.

And On the Eighth Day, God Said, "Dude, do you smell that?"

I tried to take the high road. I tried to stop appealing to the lowest common denominator (myself included) with potty humor. I tried to push DLOG into new, more meaningful territory.

But alas, the world has conspired against me.

Let's start with the Florida teenager who was suspended from riding the bus for three days for "causing a disturbance". Did he jump up and down, shouting fire? Was he armed? Did he destroy a planet with a moon-sized space station (hey, they didn't specify if the disturbance was force related or not)? Nope.

Dude was cutting muffins.

Yes, the boy was suspended for repeatedly shooting bunnies (an expression my daughter has happily adopted from her uncle), causing "a stench so bad it was difficult to breathe". While not personally present, I have heard tales of a band trip where an individual who shall go unnamed (as will his twin brother) would most likely have been taken from the bus and shot had such rules been enforced in my day, but I digress. Either way, I feel for the kid, and hope that each day driving him to school will teach his mother not to serve Thai cabbage omelets for breakfast anymore.

Now I knew about this story before, but I resisted because I want to show you, dear readers, that I can rise above such things. I threw away the research done (interesting fact: if you hold enough gas in, the pressure can get high enough to transfer into your bloodstream and eventually enter your lungs to be expelled with your breath) and tried to move on. Unfortunately, the Japanese forced my hand by coming up with something even more ridiculous.

Yes, in an effort to make things more pleasant aboard the international space station, the Japanese have invented "stink-free underwear". Once I calmed myself from the hysteria that unfortunately occurs upon reading such a headline in an actual news source, I went on to read the rest of the story. They've created underwear that they claim were "designed to kill bacteria, absorb water, insulate the body and dry quickly". They even go so far as to brag "He can wear his trunks (underwear) more than a week". They don't bother giving credit to the poor canary that gave his life discovering the seven day barrier on these things. Either way, I'm sure Stephen Colbert will be relieved to know that the new room named after him will not bear the brunt of Japanese butt funk.

One thing I know for sure: the Japanese economy won't suffer a version made for the ladies. (Link not safe for sanity.)

Cancer? Never heard of it.

In this weeks, school newsletter, it was announced that several teachers will be part in the Relay for Life "to help raise awareness and money for cancer". Ignoring the grammatically questionable decisions in the sentence (one may wonder if cancer really needs the money), what gets to me is that I see this all the time. Some body is doing some thing to "raise awareness" of cancer.

Here's the thing: I think we're all pretty much aware of cancer by now.

I'm not sure who it is that cancer has on its PR team, but they've done a bang up job. Seriously, just today a Google News search on "cancer" brings up 108,979 results. In comparison, "Miley Cyrus" only finds 5,005 results, and I feel like I can't turn around without hearing %#$@ about her. (Side note: best result was "Miley Cyrus in no rush to have kids". Was this really a burning question?) So clearly cancer is getting the press it needs.

Maybe the concern is that cancer is being underrepresented in movies and television, so I did a keyword search on The Internet Movie Database, and lo and behold, we get 1690 titles that have in one way or another to do with cancer. A search on "death" yields 14,998 results, which is a lot more to be sure, but let's face it, it's less than ten times as many results, and death kills way more people than cancer.

As such, I think we can all take a deep breath and assume that no more needs to be done to make people aware of cancer. By all means, take action to raise money to fight it, support those afflicted by it, but rest assured that at this point we're all well aware of its presence. Maybe bring attention to those afflictions that don't get as much press. How about Cotard delusion, or alien hand syndrome? I'm thinking not a lot of people are aware of those. And let's not forget that right here at DLOG, we attempted to bring to light the suffering caused by FOH syndrome

People need your help - those pectoral implants aren't cheap you know.

We Do Have Trouble At Bathtime, What With the Kid Walking on Water

I recently got an email subscription to a parenting website, and I have to say that after one month, I'm pretty well disgusted with the whole thing. It's not the site itself - I like the content they provide. Instead it's that they make the mistake every web site in the world seems to make. They allow comments from random yahoos, and random yahoos tend to be total morons. (Yes, we allow comments here at DLOG, but let's face it, we cater to a better class of people. Well, that and I can delete comments, which is why there's never spam in the comments section.)

So the article I'm reading as about basic things you can do to help your two year old work on their numbers. The gist of the one paragraph is that many two year olds may count up to ten, but they are probably just reciting as opposed to actually understanding one to ten. So, there it is - the average two year old doesn't fully understand the counting beyond "one" and "more than one".

Then the comments start in. I've actually used this site before, and stopped going because the comments section has an effect on my anger issues the way a lit match has an effect on a gas tank. Unlike most sites, where it's just people voicing idiot opinions (thus making them ignorable), on this site people use the comments section to brag. They're not trying to be helpful or relevant, they just want to spout off about how their precious snowflake is better than other kids, thus adding to the already ridiculous competitive behavior among many parents.

But don't take my word for it. In relation to the paragraph I was talking about before, we get the following comment:

My daughter will be 3 in November and she's quite intelligent. She understands the difference between 1 and 20 and can count to twenty. I can put toys in front of her and she will count the amount of toys and I can tell her she can have 2 and she will push all but the two that she wants away.

She also knows her alphabet, all of her colors including chartreuse, aquamarine, vermilion and quite a few shapes including octagon, parallelogram and trapezoid. She speaks VERY well.

I admit, the context was parents disagreeing with the notion that their kids don't understand the numbers, as suggested in the articles. What bothers me is that the point of the article is to help people figure out how their kids figure things out. They want people to help their children by recognizing what's going on with their children. I may be way off here, but whether or not little Sally can identify sweater colors from a Lands End catalog is completely irrelevant to the topic at hand and not adding anything to the conversation.

I skimmed through five pages of this tripe. Sure, some people were just trying to get advice, or pointing out the inappropriateness of the others, but a lot of people are just using this as a soapbox to brag on their kids. Look, unless your kid took seven steps upon her birth and then declared herself chief of the world, let's try to keep these comments relevant, okay?

And if the birth did go down like that, you know the rule: pics or it didn't happen.

It's Only a Flesh Wound

Well it turns out that instead of a cast, all I need is a glorified splint for a couple of weeks. I even got use of another finger, so now only my pinky is out of the game, and frankly, it doesn't do much anyway. Of course my bone will always be angulated, so my knuckle will appear flattish for the rest of my life, but I can live with that. Besides, I wasn't going to give up programming for a career as a hand model any time in the near future anyway.

All of this did get me thinking about casts though. Why do people sign casts? It's not like we sign other kind of bandages. How would you react if I asked you to sign a Hello Kitty Band Aid (which I frequently found myself wearing until I insisted we start keeping standard bandages in the house)? What about something bigger? A catheter maybe? "Dude, sign my bag. Wait, let me warm it up for you first."

Ewwwwwww.

Anyway, other than being slowed down a little bit, I should heal up fine, but I am a little weirded out by the fact that I'll be permanently marked by such a small and insignificant happening in my life, but I suppose that's how life is, isn't it? You never really know which events will be part of who you are forever, and which have no importance beyond the moment that they end. You would think someone with badly thought out tattoos would know that by now, but what can I say? I'm a slow learner.

Maybe I should have been taking better notes, huh?

Boxer's Fracture Sounds Cooler Than It Is

About a week and a half ago, I tripped walking out of my kitchen, and in an attempt to catch myself, I planted my fist firmly into a tile floor, breaking and bending the metacarpal below my right pinky. Being a bad mother &%#$er, I ignored it for a week, noticed new bruising after the Moose kicked it on Saturday, and then went to the doctor. Tomorrow I get it cast. What slays me is that like most things in real life, this is a lousy story. Adding insult to injury (literally) is that when I tell the story to people, they look at me as if this is the story I made up to cover the real story.

Attention world: if I make up a story to hide how I got an injury, that story will be filled with all the awesomeness I can pack into it, and will most likely involve ninjas, robots, terrorists and me saving some group of otherwise defenseless creatures.

Also, You Never Tell Me I Look Nice Anymore

Due to a recent hand injury, I'm going to back down on the blog a bit. As such, we will be running with a new, ultra-short format for a while. Hopefully it will be enough to placate our regular readers until I heal.

Today, I wish to pass along some relationship advice. Ladies, sometimes men just don't want to talk right this minute, and frankly, repeating yourself just makes us withdraw further. Consider giving us some space instead. Believe me, there's nothing more frustrating than hearing the same things over and over again when we're not prepared to deal with it. "Why won't you talk to me? You act like I'm not even here. Why did you bury me in the cold, cold ground?"

Seriously, it's stuff like this that makes me not even want to answer the planchette sometimes.

Excuses in Rhyme

I'm taking off St. Patty's Day
'Cause I don't have a whole lot to say.
I have no green beer.
There's no whiskey round here.
But I do have potatoes. Hooray?

The Haunting of BVD

Last week I was discussing the impressionable nature of people and how that nature allows shows like Ghost Hunters to survive, and as usual my mind wandered in relation to it. I got to thinking about how they film a show like that. I mean, it's a bunch of guys (plus a token female or two now to add balance) sitting around a supposedly haunted location and...well, recording it. I mean, they record sound and video for hours I bet just to get the semi-spooky fifteen minutes they show us.

What this means is that there are hours of footage of these guys just hanging around this house or hotel or prison or whatever. Now, if you've followed this blog at all, you know right where my mind led at this point. We've got dudes, just hanging out. Yeah, they're on television, and they're professionals, but they're still dudes. I so want to get a hold of the outtakes that I know they're never going to put on television.

Grant: Okay, so far we're not picking up any activity. [Ghost name], are you here with us. Just give us some kind of sign.
Jason: (Looking slightly uncomfortable) Uhhh, yeah. If you're here, just let us know.
Grant: I don't know. I'm just not getting anything. Maybe we should check the attic again.
Jason: Wait, did you hear that?
Grant: (Sits silently, focusing in that very serious way he does)
Jason: Phhhrrrrrrrrt.
Grant: Oh man. (Waving arms in the air.) Dude, what did you eat?
Jason: Oooh, the spirits are angry here.
Grant: (Gasping) Christ. Whatever it is up Jason's ass, stay away from the light!

You know this footage is out there somewhere. I don't care how professional you are - you put a bunch of guys in a house with nothing better to do that sit around listening for a sign of otherworldly life, one of them is cutting loose. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if one of the "voices" they caught during their EVP recordings was nothing but someone's kielbasa making a hasty exit, and they didn't fess up to it. "It sounds like it said 'fur blat', followed by a high pitched whining sound. Does that mean anything to you?"

Honestly, it's a testament to how professional they really are that they didn't giggle.

I Keep Saying "Bloody Mary", But No One Will Bring Me a Drink

So, inspired by the odd matchup of topics covered by today's PvP and XKCD, I thought I would talk about mirrors, and some of the more interesting superstitions and urbal legends that go with them. Now while I have previously confessed certain irrational fears, I am by no means superstitous. Rather, I'm fascinated by what these things mean in terms of how our minds work.

Take, for example, the old "breaking a mirror is seven years bad luck". According to some random yahoo on the internet (and somewhat verified by WikiPedia), this stems from the belief that your reflection in the mirror is actually a reflection of part of your soul. I'm not sure what part of my soul I'm supposed to be looking at, but it would seem my soul is in need of a shave. Either way, I love that this started because rather than assume that maybe the image we see of ourselves in water or a mirror is just a trick of reflecting light, people naturally had to put a supernatural spin on it.

Even more fun for me though is the topic of the comics. So you go into a darkened bathroom, look into the mirror, and say "Bloody Mary", or the even more ominous "Bloody Mary, I killed your baby", some number of times, and a vengeful spirit will pop out of the mirror and...I don't know. That part is always a little vague, and kind of a moot point anyway, since anyone who falls for such shenanigans will never make it that far. I've always enjoyed this particular yarn simply because it speaks to how amazingly impressionable one's mind can be. Deep down, we know nothing is in the mirror but our reflection. Still, you look long enough, and eventually you're going to see something that isn't right.

And that's awesome.

Seriously, I love that. I love that we are machines built to take in information through our eyes and process it, and just for fun we mess that system up. You can tell people over and over that you see a ghost in the mirror or something in the woods or the Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, and eventually you're going to get someone who says, "Yeah...yeah I see it!". People want to believe, and they see what they want.

Of course when I look in the mirror, all I see is myself, which is both narcissistic and creepy at the same time given my previous statement - I'll have to go and reflect on this.

It Seems...I Don't Know. Upside Down Perhaps.

This morning, having dealt with an extremely uncooperative toddler and busted my hand in a ridiculous fall, I was at wit's end and used the television to distract the Moose so I could get him dressed and brush his teeth in the seven minutes we had before we had to leave. I flipped on PBS Kids, where the Moose happily (and more important, quietly) watched Curious George. This was great, except I'm again really tired, and despite promising myself that I would stop over thinking children's television, thus avoiding the dark places it tend to lead me, I just couldn't help it today.

So, here's the thing - like half the episodes of Curious George deal with...I don't know, Curious George stuff. You know, he finds out about working in a kitchen (because apparently the New York health inspectors are cool with primates hanging around while you're making lasagna) or gardening or frogs or something. Normal stuff like you would expect from reading the books.

Then we have episodes like today's. The man in the yellow hat (who despite taking care of George has never earned the right to an actual name) is going to space to repair a satellite. I'm never sure what his actual job is, but whatever. Well, it turns out that the spaceship designers forgot to make the door open from the outside, so now they have to send George so he can open the door after the man's spacewalk. Umm...okay. Not sure I would want my life put in hands that were most likely flinging poo an hour ago, but whatever.

Okay, so now George and the man are out in space, and the time comes to leave the ship and do the repair. The man attempts to tether himself to the ship, and lo and behold, the thing that holds the tether to his suit breaks. Having now established that the people driving the space program are hacks, the decision comes through that always gets to me: Let the monkey do it.

They do this all the time. They find some situation where things go awry, and they need someone tiny to step up and fix it (apparently because someone washed all the spacesuits/aqua gear/portals in hot water). We lost a computer full of critical data at the bottom of the ocean? Send the monkey. We need someone to break into Langley and get the NOC list? Send the monkey. Someone has discovered a bomb in the President's colon, and we only have fifteen minutes to diffuse it? Send the monkey, and give him a pair of wire cutters.

You get the idea.

I guess my concern is that, even with my profound respect for monkeys, every episode I watch seems to hit a point where I'm talking to the television. "Dude, you're going to send a monkey?" If it was an emergency banana retrieval I would understand, but it seems to me in most of these cases they would be able to find someone a little more qualified. I suppose that once again, this is the reason you don't see me writing for Hollywood.

Not many kids would tune in to watch Curious George Watches a Midget Take Care Of Stuff.

A Very Short Story...

Cause I'm tired.

Yesterday, the Moose got his neck zipped up in his coat. As a result, they put this blue bandage on him. This morning, I was dressing him, and I stood him up to yank his pants up and realized that the bandage was rights where a bow tie would go, and that without a shirt he looked like this little Chippendale's dancer. Even better, with his little belly, he looked like a cross between Patrick Swayze and Chris Farley. This was very very funny to me (did I mention I'm tired), although I realize that it is very wrong.

Not nearly as wrong as when I told him to shake his booty though.

Blue Moo...Wait, That's No Moon

As is often the case, I will not get to see the Watchmen movie for some time, probably long after it comes out on DVD. Still, I have internet access, and having read the book, I don't particularly fear spoilers. As such, I've done a lot of reading on what people think about the movie. This has led to what must be one of the most amusing discoveries I've made about the American population in a long time.

America gets all freaked out about seeing at a man's winkee.

Seriously, I have heard more about Dr. Manhattan's glowing blue sidekick than all the other parts of the movie combined. People are seriously disturbed by the fact that he walks around naked through a lot of the movie. Forget that it makes perfect sense that a super being who is gradually becoming disassociated with humanity in general would cease caring about such things as proper fashion choices or any of the myriad other reasons we choose to clothe ourselves. It's not pornographic...it's just a naked guy.

What really disappointed me was how often I would hear these disgusted comments from people in the same breath as "How awesome was it that [insert female starlet] was naked", or even better, "I thought the excessive violence was overdone, but acceptable in the context". It's all good that a dude takes a meat cleaver to the head over and over or some girl gets naked, but having to see a man's junk is a traumatic event. Remember kids - violence and objectifying women is okay. Just don't go around looking at some guy's piece.



I guess what I don't understand is where the trauma is. I mean, it's a naked dude. So &#%$ing what. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that at least 50% of us have seen male genitalia, and given the fact that people seem to continue having children, that's probably a pretty low estimate. Seeing a penis on a movie screen is not going to cause a worldwide panic, lead to rioting in the streets, or cause anyone to catch "the gay".

Not even on IMAX, although I will defer that it might be a little intimidating seeing one that's roughly the size of a small car.

My Daughter: A New Hope

Yesterday, the Princess took the first step towards becoming the woman that I hope she one day will become. In a weekend full of events, where we bounced from birthday parties to daddy daughter dances and back again, yesterday's event was clearly the most important. It was one of those moment that all parents look forward to with eager anticipation, just waiting for the time when you know they are truly ready.

Yesterday, my little girl got to watch Star Wars for the first time.

In order to accommodate her bedtime, she actually got to start it with her mother while I took care of medicating the Moose. Once he got to bed, I joined them just in time to see Luke and Obi Wan entering the bar in Mos Eisley. My little girl was completely focused, asking a lot of questions which I let her mom answer. This was both because her mom explains things better, and because I didn't want to geek out completely and frighten my daughter.

This was harder than I thought. I bit my tongue when the camera showed the bloody arm on the floor, resisting the urge to point out that light sabers would supposedly cauterize the wound instantly, thus making the blood incongruous with currently accepted lore. When she questioned why Han Solo shot Greedo, my wife explained that Han owed Greedo's boss money, and that Greedo was there to collect the money or kill Han. I held back the urge to point out the importance of the fact the Han shot first.

It...it wasn't easy.

In the end I managed to keep my geeking out to a minimum, choosing only to point out the places in the movie that correlated to parts of Lego Star Wars that she had played (sorry, but the urge for a Star Wars/gaming crossover geeking was too much for me). She seemed to like the movie and was excited when I pointed out that there were two more of them. So it looks like we'll be having a couple more movie nights with mommy in the coming weeks, which I'm fine with.

In a few years, she'll be ready to advance to the big leagues, and Star Trek is all mine.

You're All Just Lucky That I Happen To Be a Terrific Guy

Got into a discussion today about separating an artist from his work, and now I'm all messed up about it. See, my take on the whole thing, typically, is that if you appreciate the work, let it end there. In fact, I make it a point to not know about the private lives of the people who entertain me for fear that they will do something to ruin my image of them, and thus all further works will be diluted by this knowledge. This is in fact why I am no longer a member of the Britney Spears fan club.

Sometimes, this pays off. Take Van Gogh for example. Some of his best works (The Starry Night for example) were painted during a time in his life where he was, for all intents and purposes, pretty unbearable to be around. This is a guy who dealt with serious depression, to the point where he cut off his own ear, and eventually ended up shooting himself. Should this knowledge detract from my appreciation of his work? I don't know.

On the other hand, sometimes the knowledge of the artists dark past is required to fully appreciate the work. I love the band The Dresden Dolls, but every song they write seems to be about two completely different topics. If not for my lovely wife looking into it (happy birthday, sweetie!), I would have missed a lot of meaning behind these songs.

The problem is that there are a lot of in-betweens here, and the fact is, I won't typically let who the artist is as a person to heavily sway my feelings about their works. Bil Keane may be the nicest guy in the world, but that doesn't change the fact that I find The Family Circus to be the least funny thing since the Spanish Inquisition. Besides, allowing the artists personality to overshadow their works can lead to truly important art being lost, unappreciated, in the annals of history.

It is for this very reason that the world refuses to acknowledge the works of what was undoubtadly history's greatest jazz dancer: Adolph Hitler.

News Briefs - Because News Speedos Never Seem To Cover Enough

Today I'll use my post to cover some news items I found worthwhile. This is just me passing along useful information, and not in any way indicative of a lack of inspiration or creativity on my part. Really.

First, we have word that in Japan, a robot that is being programmed to "love" is behaving erratically. Essentially, they taught it to display concern and empathy, and then let it's learning code run on that for a while. This led to the thing falling for a visiting intern, going so far as to block the door when the intern attempted to leave, forcing her to call for help and have someone shut it down. The people involved refer to this as a "minor setback", but I'm not sure why. If loving someone means anything other than locking them in a room so you can have them all to yourself, I missed that memo. In other news, apparently the cyborg army that will eventually attempt to overthrow humanity will be plagued with needy, psycho girlfriends. I'd prefer to go mono e mono with the terminator myself.

In gaming news, there is another Resident Evil game coming. For those who don't know, Resident Evil is the series where you face hordes of bloodthirsty zombies and various other dangerous mutations. What better way to celebrate the release of such a game than with a Capcom sponsored blood drive in Hollywood, CA? Those who donate can win prizes, including the new, red XBox 360 bundled with Resident Evil 5. I've heard of similar, but less successful, promotions in the past. Hopefully this will go better than what they attempted with the release of Walter Scott: Emergency Proctologist.

I was going to talk about the Californian woman who did her best impression of a clown car by having eight babies at once, but the article I chose failed me. The headline reads "'Octo-mom' straddles the line in reproduction debate". When I read the story, however, the sentence did not end with "and six more babies fell out". Needless to say, I did not feel the need to continue.

Finally, to prepare for the coming Star Trek prequel, Genki Wear is releasing a series of Star Trek themed colognes. There's Tiberius cologne, named for the famed James Tiberius Kirk, which encourages one to "Boldly Go", presumably where no man has gone before, like the ladies room. There's Pon Farr perfume, named for a Vulcan mating ritual involving a man becoming infatuated, violent, and then dying if they fail to mate (I wonder if the robot from before got a sample of that one). Finally, they have Red Shirt, sporting the words "Because tomorrow might never come".

Honestly, I can't top that one.

Accuracy, Perhaps to a Fault

If you've somehow managed to miss anything about it, the Watchmen movie comes out Friday. For those of you who aren't familiar, Watchmen is a "graphic novel", which is a term frequently used by comic book geeks to mean "a bunch of comics that were previously printed put together in a book so you can read the whole story at once", because "graphic novel" sounds like something an adult would read. (Before you start making angry comments, I do realize that there are legitimate graphic novels such as Maus, but being honest, they are a smallish subset.) Anyway, it's not just a graphic novel, it's hailed as the greatest graphic novel of all time, and even made Time magazines 100 best novels list.

What's interesting is that this particular movie runs a greater risk of nerd rage than any film to come before it. If this movie fails to deliver, fanboys around the world will unite against the films creator and...well, they'll probably just bitch about it on the internet really. Now I've read the book twice, and skimmed it recently to remind myself of it, and it is a good book. It's a fascinating look at the idea of superheroes written by Allen Moore, a man who acknowledges that the entire concept is inherently ridiculous, and the kind of people who would dress up and fight crime in such a way would be, by necessity, bent. It is, however, treated as a sacred text by the fans, and they will rage if not satisfied.

Where the irony lies is that I think the people making the movie will not fail these people, and as a result, I don't know that they will satisfy anyone else. It is, after all, a comic book. It was written to be a comic book. I've been watching the clips online, and the fact is they clearly took the comic book and simply moved it to the big screen. I'm sure some changes were required, but given the current technology, it looks like they just took the comic, and they put it, scene for scene, into a movie. For people like me who have read it, it is, to say the least, fascinating to see it moving about like that. I'm just not sure how it's going to work for anyone else.

What's funny about this is that now I'm even more excited by it. I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more: the movie, or the internet lighting up like a Christmas tree once all of the geeks and non-geeks have had a chance to take in whatever it is they have made of the work. I can say that Moore's comics have been hit or miss in the move to film. V for Vendetta? Very good movie. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?

Let's just say that if offered the choice between watching that movie and getting kicked hard in the junk, I would advise one to consider the fact that getting kicked in the junk causes excruciating pain that only lasts a few minutes, as opposed to excruciating pain that lasts a couple of hours.

If I'm Wrong, I'll Be the First To Apologize to Mr. McFiddlebottom

Talking about Star Wars yesterday got me thinking about the original movie. This is typically a bad thing when talking about popular, sci-fi franchises. Specifically, I started questioning the whole Luke-lives-with-his-uncle-Owen part of the story.

Seriously, stop and consider this maneuver for a moment. The second worst despot in the history of the whole Jedi-Sith scene has effectively aided the now galactic Emperor in taking over, well, the galaxy I guess. (For those wondering, Vadar is the second worst because the Emperor, being both evil and upper management, is clearly worse.) This villain, who has now sold himself into the Sith lifestyle, has no idea that his children survived birth. So, you're one of the few Jedi who survived, and you have to figure out what to do with the adorable spawn of Vadar.

Obi Wan: So...what do we do with these two, eh?
Yoda: Look not at me. Too old to change diapers, I am.
Bail Organa: We can take one of them.
Obi Wan: Well, I sense she'll be strong and independent. Very princess like.
Bail Organa: Perfect. We'll raise her as our own daughter. Princess Leia Organa.
Obi Wan: Right. Then what do we do with him?
Yoda: (Yawning) Care not do I. See if his uncle can take him.
Obi Wan: What if Vadar comes looking for him?
Yoda: Of children Vadar knows not. Be fine the boy will.
Obi Wan: Okay, so we send him to Tatooine. What will we call him?
Yoda: (Clearly getting irritated) Call him Luke Skywalker.
Obi Wan: But master, that is his father's name. Surely we don't want...
Yoda: Look, long day I've had. Correct me no more, or the business end of my light saber will meet with your dark side. In fact, since care so much you do, you too will live on Tattooine. Watch the child you will. Try to guide him. I sense a tendency to become a whiny, teenage beeyotch in this one.

Maybe they were going for the whole hide-it-in-plain-sight theory, but doesn't it seem like at least not calling the kid Skywalker would have been a good move? Don't you think that, growing up, at least one person he met would be all, "Hey, isn't Skywalker the name of that dude who went bat&$#% insane and killed all those wannabe Jedi kids a few years back before turning into Darth Vadar?". Maybe Tatooine wasn't that big on current events. Either way, I would have called him something else, just to be sure, but maybe that's why George Lucas is a multimillionaire, and I write a free blog online.

After all, who would seriously believe that the ultimate hero needed to end the Galactic Empire and restore balance to the force would be Spanky McFiddlebottom?

The Real Reason I Refuse To Play World of Warcraft

Yesterday, the Princess wanted to play Lego Star Wars on my PSP, and I did what any loving father would do - I told her to wait until I finished the level I was on. I collected the requisite number of Lego studs (which are the little things that hold Lego pieces together and the games version of coins, not men in leather outfits made of Legos) to achieve True Jedi and finished the level. Then I set her up in Free Play mode on my game and, with the usual reluctance I get from handing my favorite toy to another, handed the game over.

She got right into it, playing one of the flying level almost to completion before requesting that I put her back into the standard "running around as a Star Wars character shooting things" type level. I finished the level up for her so any studs she collected would be added to my total, as I'm saving up to unlock some of the extra characters and extras. Then I put her into a regular level and handed it back.

She plays for a few more minutes, and then she starts bragging about how she's picking up so much money (a declaration I do not correct, as I don't really want to hear my six year old daughter talking about how many studs she's picked up). For the most part, I say something supportive like "Good job honey" while continuing whatever I was doing. Then, at one point she said it, and I found myself saying things like "Make sure you pick up the blue ones - they're worth more" or (while looking over her shoulder) "Hey, you can shoot those things for extra coins". I told myself that I was just helping her enjoy the game, which she clearly was, but a small part of me kept wondering if that was true.

I think I might be using my own daughter for gold farming.

So now I have to watch myself for signs of such activity. I'd hate to catch myself telling her she can do her homework later, and suggesting that she play the game instead just so I can unlock the stud multiplier. Of course, if I did unlock it, then any studs acquired while she was playing would be worth up to six times as much, and it's not like she's not having a good time, right?

Sorry sweetie, no Hannah Montana tonight - Ghost Anakin Skywalker isn't going to unlock himself.