If Cheney Had Ever Been President, The Sales Of These Would Have Been Legendary

My lovely wife went on a business trip this week to Washington D.C., and when she returned she came bearing gifts. The Princess scored a t-shirt, the Moose a snow globe (which he must enjoy because he has yet to try and throw it). As for myself, I got one of the strangest gifts I've ever received.

I got a Barack-In-A-Box.

This is exactly what it sounds like - a Jack-in-the-box where someone has replaced Jack with an effigy of our current President. You turn the knob, it plays "Hail to The Chief", and then out pops Barack. We were almost late to school today due to the meltdown of the Moose when I finally pried it from his hands and insisted he eat breakfast.

It fascinates me for a lot of reasons, the first being something that I'm not sure I've ever shared with anyone. I'm %#$@ing terrified of these things. For whatever reason, I hate being startled. This is why I shudder a bit each time one of my kids asks me to turn the knob on one of these things for them. This one is at least consistent in that it pops at the end of the song. The random ones are just mean. I guess I harbor a resentment against any toy that involves the threat of causing me to pee a little.

The other thing that intrigues me is the historical aspect of it. Not because it's Obama. I actually tried to order a Bush-In-The-Box one time online, but what they sent me wasn't what I was expecting. (I suppose I should have suspected something, but I figured the offer of free lube was to keep the little gears clean.) Anyway, it suddenly struck me that my kids, and my kids kids, would be aware of this person. While most of us go through our travels on this Earth and then leave mostly unannounced, this man will be a longstanding part of our History. Looking at my wife's pictures of Washington D.C. made me want to visit there for the same reason - to experience a place that has such a hold on our past and our future.

Of course some people might make the mistake of allowing such a revelation to make themselves feel insignificant. After all, I'm sure most of us like to think that our deeds will live on after we're gone. It's probably why so many people put pressure on their children to do well - those kids are possible the only lasting evidence of their time here.

I don't bother myself with such things, but then I remain confident that eventually the Pulitzer people will stumble upon my work here, thus ensuring my everlasting fame.

A Flu, By Any Other Name...

Since everyone still seems to be taking the swine flu thing seriously despite there being no evidence of those it has killed rising from their graves to feast on the flesh of the living, I figured I'd address one more bit here. Apparently, there are those who feel that the actual moniker "swine flu" is offensive. Yes, according to the associated press, an Israeli health official says the name is offensive to those of the Jewish and Muslim faith, and should thus be renamed. And what, do you suppose, has he proposed for the new name?

Mexican flu.

Okay, now as much as I enjoy people who go about looking for things to be arbitrarily offended by, I think this may be a bit off sides. Maybe there really is a subset of these religions groups that may be offended. I'm not sure why, as the offense seems to be based on the fact that they consider a pig a filthy animal, and filthy things tend to make us sick, so it seems like a logical thing to associate. As someone who's part Mexican (albeit a small part - don't go there) I'm going to go out on a limb here, however, and say that while some of the billion or so people who are Jewish or Muslim may be offended, you're going to get a higher percentage of Mexicans offended with the new name. Probably even the Jewish ones.

Besides, the suggested name is completely impractical. I mean, what do a lot of us think of when we think of illnesses from Mexico? Why, we think of the defeated Moctezuma II, who has been credited with making sure that tourists who forget to go with bottled water (or the much safer and more practical tequila) get a lot of reading done on their travels. So the suggested name may very well cause people to mistake stomach virus symptoms for the actual symptoms of swine flu. People with the swine flu wouldn't worry about it while some shmoe who picked up a bad egg salad sandwich would be terrified for his life. Hell, as many antibiotics as I'm on right now, I might be terrified for my life.

As it is, I will simply continue to not nuzzle pigs, and find out if a person can actually read War and Peace in a single day.

**UPDATE**
Apparently, it is now officially known as the H1N1 Virus, not so much for the sake of the religious groups, but rather to reduce the fear of eating bacon. The lesson: religious power can be finite, but never underestimate the power of bacon.

I'm Waiting For the Monkey Flu, Which Will Most Likely Be Adorable

It seems to me that when I take a new scary antibiotic, the natural turn of events would be me feeling better. For some reason, however, I always seem to get a few days in and get sicker. Today, I just want to curl up into a ball on a couch. Of course, as a programmer, it requires approximately the same physical effort to code as it does to sit on a couch and get my butt kicked at Metal Gear Solid Portable Ops on my PSP, so here I am a-coding. What's funny is that today I feel guilty about that because the powers that be have told us in no uncertain terms that if we are sick, we need to stay home. The reason?

Somebody caught the flu from a pig.

Yes, the whole world is up in arms over yet another flu named after an animal. First we all freaked out over the avian flu, and now we're all freaked out over the swine flu. I don't know who it is who's spending quality time with these animals and then not washing their mitts afterwards, but if I'm understanding the reports correctly, it seems like a lot of these potential pandemics would be lessened by some Lava and running water. Maybe just not getting all up in the livestock's grille would help.

I should take care not to make too light of the situation, however. I've read The Stand. A pandemic, as I understand it, would probably suck. I'm just not sure that some of the silliness I've now heard about (people being scared to eat pork, for example) is really warranted at this point. It's the flu. Yes, it kills a few people every year. Yes, it's a new flavor that we haven't seen before. But really, it's the flu. Hell, I have asthma and should by all right be terrified of this thing, but so far, it just looks like a nasty bug I can probably avoid by lots of hand washing.

Still, I suppose I should have stayed home. After all, who knows how far this thing could go? I mean, if it really is a serious virus that spreads like wildfire throughout the land, I should be at home stocking my shelves with water bottles and canned goods, right? Making sure I have enough supplies to get my family and I through a good month or so. Maybe I should even pick up a couple of axes and some boards for the windows and doors.

After all, we never really know when the big one is going to strike, and if this turns out the be the bug that brings forth the zombies, I should probably be prepared.

Everything's So Green

So, a few weeks ago I managed to stave off an epic sinus infection, which was nice, as I get a little tired of constant headaches (I can't watch Fox News for the same reason). Well, it seems that it's back, so after a less successful run of your standard high strength antibiotic, I'm now getting the big treatments. This is leaving me with the question of whether the treatments are scarier than the actual illness.

First, my doctor is once again recommending that I start irrigating my head. He first suggested that I use the Neti Pot, which is a little teapot looking job that you stick up your nose and, harnessing the power of gravity, then pour through your freaking head. If you thing this sounds strange, go watch the demo for a real treat. Not feeling like hanging around a bathroom and watching water come out my nose for extended periods of time, I was lucky enough to get an accelerated version in a squeeze bottle. Still, the sensation is the same as snorting water up your nose when your swimming. Now imagine doing that on purpose in the hopes of, and I'm quoting my doctor here, "knocking something loose". I don't know what we're putting the firehouse on here, but I can tell you I'm not looking either way.

In addition to getting to use my head as a lovely fountain twice daily, he has thrown on an antibiotic that I have never taken before. Now, I usually take those little slips that they put in with your prescriptions, briefly look over the harmful side effects, and then promptly forget about them. Well this time it came with this big honking warning about how my tendons may weaken and rupture. Okay, that sounds...bad. I read on to the section that covers "call your doctor if" type things, and I see such things as sleeplessness, diarrhea, changes in sensation due to nerve damage, hallucinations...and I remembered why I don't usually read these things in detail.

I'm sure it will all amount to nothing. It's a little harrowing that this is what's required to rid myself of a silly sinus infection, but so be it. I guess on the bright side, my history is such that I would most likely recognize a chemical based hallucination should one occur.

I'll listen to some extra Pink Floyd today, just in case.

Why, WikiPedia? Why Do You Do This To Me?

Last night while the Princess read one of my favorite kids books, How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?, something bizarre crossed my mind. In all the years I've been looking at dinosaur pictures, never once have I seen a picture that included a dinosaur's naughty bits. Not that I expect to see such a thing in a children's book, but what about all the museums and scientific literature? Why is there no mention of dino-junk?

At first I figured it was because all we have is bones to go on. Given just a skeleton, perhaps the scientific community was apprehensive to assume what a tyrannosaurus's little rex may look like. That doesn't hold water though, since they seem perfectly comfortable guessing what color they might have been (part of me still wonders if t-rex was not only vicious, but chartreuse and fabulous to boot).

Well, I decided to use my investigative skills to track down some answers. I realized that dinosaurs were basically giant reptiles, so I set about researching reptile reproduction (it's amazing, the things I do to entertain you people). This led to several shocking discoveries. I would warn those who are sensitive to such topics (or eating right now) that they may want to consider veering from this site for the remainder of my post. Go look at Cute Overload or something.

Okay, first, some reptiles don't even have proper junk. They have a cloaca, which is essentially a one-stop-shopping portal for all your excretory needs. All number one and number two comes out of this place, which is charming in and of itself, but the same vent is used for reproduction. As if this isn't gross enough (and it really, really is), when they bump these things together in mating season, it is referred to as a "cloacal kiss". You know, I remember biology being disgusting, but seriously, did this process need a name? I feel like I need to eat a whole pack of Tic Tacs just reading that.

So, now that I'm thoroughly icked out, I read on to discover that some reptiles are actually packing proper male junk that they keep hidden most of the time, thus again giving me hope that perhaps our t-rex had something to make up for those foofy arms of his (Seriously, what purpose did those serve? Waving at dinosaur sailors?). Then it goes on to say that other reptiles are not just packing a piece, but they've got what's called hemepenes. So they actually have a pair of pipers that they can swap between.

I...I don't even know what to say now. Now I've got these images in my head. Velociraptors pushing their bottoms together, accompanied by a loud kissing sound. A triceratops looking at his crotch and yelling "peek-a-boo" every time he makes his thing stick out. An allosaurus shifting from side to side, each time poking out one of his two winkies, while Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice" is playing in the background. Why, why did I have to look this up? Why couldn't I leave it alone? What possible good could come from having this knowledge, these images in my head?

And then I realized the obvious answer: so I could share it all with you.

I Prefer Dusty Cookies Anyway

In joining Facebook, you get a look at people you haven't seen in a while. This is sometimes a shock, as people unsurprisingly change over time. I, for example, continue to get more ruggedly good looking with each passing year. It's just a thing. Anyway, one day I added one of my old coworkers as a friend, we'll call him Pierre (which, incidentally, is the answer to the question "What does a Frenchman do in the desert?", but I digress), and upon looking at his photo, discovered that he had removed his mustache.

This is truly a shame, as he was one of the few men I've encountered who could actually wear a mustache well. Most men who try fail miserably. I'm not sure why. A lot of men can carry a goatee (or more properly a Van Dyke) or a full beard, but not so much a straight mustache. Generally, they fall into two categories: vintage porn star or weasel.

The first variety, the vintage porn star, is characterized by being a thick mustache. This kind of thing looks good on Tom Selleck, but on most other people looks distinctly late seventies, early eighties. Typically, I see one of these and picture the wearer in the back room of Studio 54 snorting coke off a hookers backside. Not the most flattering mental image when applied to anyone who isn't Neil Patrick Harris.

Even less flattering, however, is the weasel, which happens to be what I end up with when I attempt a mustache. This mustache, which is so admired on Johnny Depp, makes the rest of us look like used car salesmen. Seriously, last time I attempted this look, I ended up selling some dude a used 1985 Buick Lasabre (it wasn't actually my car - I always wonder how that turned out). Anyway, it isn't a good look for me, and I won't be returning to it any time soon.

Well, I suppose if I have to unload one of our cars I might, but other than that, no way.

Sometimes, Aim Is Not Enough

We're not going to talk about Earth Day being today, because let's be honest, Earth is getting plenty of PR. Don't believe me? Go ask someone over the age of four if they know what Earth is. Besides, now Earth has Disney working for it, so really, what more could I add?

No, instead I'm going to continue yesterday's conversation of awkward things men have to deal with in restrooms that our lady friends do not. Not that the women should all stop reading at this point - you've got fathers, husbands and sons who deal with these issues, and you should know about them, particularly this one, as we are occasionally reprimanded as a result of it. See when a woman approaches a numero uno situation, she is going to sit down. This has predictable results, i.e. you know where everything is headed at the penultimate moment. This means that you never have to face one of the strangest things that can happen to a man.

Once in a while, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, you fire in a completely random direction.

Seriously, it's terrifying. You're stepping up to do your business, and the next thing you know, your shooting a laser beam at a distinct forty-five degree angle to the left, and you have no idea why. You haven't changed your stance, your grip is the same as last time, there's no dramatic variance in pressure, but the result looks like your attempting the maneuver in a hurricane wind. If you're lucky, you quickly correct for the new trajectory and that's the end of it.

Sometimes, however, things go from bad to worse. Again, for reasons typically not apparent, your correction just leads to a radically new direction. A hard left shifts to some combination of right, down, or, in the truly worst case scenario, up. You find yourself squirming around trying to get things under control (for some reason, the idea of stopping typically never crosses the mind - it's too much like stopping to ask for directions perhaps, and besides, the seal's been broken and there's really no turning back that that point) until the mission is complete, hopefully with as little splash damage as possible.

If that isn't weird enough for you, there's the extra special case where you go to do your thing only to discover that the beam is split. Oddly enough, this is nowhere near as harrowing as the other cases. At that point you know you're screwed, so you just have to try and correct for the branch that would cause the most damage and commit to cleaning up afterward.

So yeah, when a man goes to rid himself of that last cup of coffee, there's a slight chance he's about to become the unwitting participant in a brief adventure. Be glad then, female readers, that when you go about your business, you can be fairly confident that the outcome is as predictable as the wardrobe of any movie shown after midnight on Cinemax (Wait, they have to take their clothes off why now?). Perhaps you might even be a little understanding when you find that a man in your life has strayed a bit.

On the bright side, we can still draw pictures in the snow, and that will never cease to be awesome.

You're Eyes Say It All

I was discussing men's restroom decorum with a coworker last week (a topic I think about more than I should). He expressed the opinion that there is never an acceptable topic to broach whilst two men are doing their business. I thought on this for a while, and have determined that, like most statements involving absolutes, it simply isn't accurate.

Admittedly, the topic came up because I was faced with a situation whereby another man and myself stepped up at the same time. I finished first, and had to resists the urge to look at this other person whom I had never met and say, "I won". In hindsight, I'm glad I resisted, as my declaration of victory could have been misunderstood, and I would hate to be responsible for another man questioning his manhood.

Anyway, now I'm trying to figure out just what is an appropriate topic of conversation when two men are performing a transaction. I mean, there are the obvious things, like, "Hey, that's mine. Don't pee on that.". Obviously, the invading of personal space could be discussed, particularly if someone is reaching under your stall. I could even see being able to call someone out if you suspect them of using a camera in the men's room, particularly if the flash keeps going off (pretty big giveaway, and a not uncommon rookie mistake).

But what of less confrontational situations? What if you hear gunshots, or feel an earthquake, but you'll probably be done before it really effect either of you? Do you let that go without comment? Or what happens if you find yourself in a stall without any toilet paper (which shouldn't ever happen, because the experienced man checks first)? Is it permissible to ask, or are you supposed to tough it out or MacGyver some solution out of toilet seat covers?

Just in case, I'm going to start carrying around one of those little packs of tissues in my pocket - one can never be to ready.

Turn Off, Tune Out, Drop In

My lovely wife has tuned me into turnoff week, which, it turns out, has nothing to do with dutch ovens (a major turn-off as I understand it), but rather, is a campaign to turn off your electronic media for a week. At first, I was all on board for this, but then I realized that it wasn't just referring to the television. I'm a hundred percent behind everyone turning their televisions off for a week, but make no mistake: you'll pry my computing machines out of my kung fu grip only after defeating me upon the fields of battle, and even then I'll do my damnedest to come back as a zombie and continue computing in between servings of brain.

The thing is, I don't think that's wrong. I mean, my computers, including my phone, are so integrated into my life that I can't imagine just turning them off for a week. Ignoring the fact that I would have to take a week off of work (so it's not all bad), I use my computers to balance checkbooks, keep in contact with my friends and family, and keep track of damn near everything in my life. Could I go a week without it? Sure. Would it take a month to get caught up afterward? Possibly - we're not going to find out.

Okay, so let's compromise and say that for one week, I won't use my computers for entertainment purposes. Well, what do you mean by that? Don't watch television shows, funny videos or play video games? Okay, sure. Excepting of course playing the PSP while exercising, because that's pretty much the only thing that can get me on a stationary bike besides free pie, and then it has to have Cool Whip and all that and the whole thing turns counter productive. Not sure how beneficial it would be to give up playing video games only to simultaneously give up exercise as well.

So, that's it. I'll stop watching TV and movies for a week. I won't play video games unless they are fueling healthy exercise habits. That's as far as I'm willing to commit. I'm still going to Facebook, what with all my real life friends who are not part of my immediate family living in another location. I'm still tied to my email. I'm afraid that's just the reality of modern life. Asking some of us to go off the grid for a week is, to my mind anyway, a little unrealistic. Besides, if everyone committed to such a thing, no one would be reading Dangerously Low on Grog, and just thinking of the unmitigated joy and lightness that would be lost to such an action makes me sad inside.

You don't want me to be sad inside, do you?

Also, They're Harder To Break Than You Think

I know a few guys now who are getting ready to be first time fathers. As someone who went through this a long time ago, I can sympathize with the fact that, while everyone is jumping at the chance to give the soon-to-be mom advice (not all of which is appreciated - there's a reason you don't see a lot of buttons that say 'Tell me about your horrific birth experience!'), the soon-to-be-dad is left with jokes about not getting enough sleep and dirty diapers.

You're probably looking at books, or maybe shopping around online, to get some words of wisdom, and what do you get? Money advice. Start saving for college. Babies cost this much per month in diapers. You'll spend this much cash on a kid before his eighteenth birthday. Blah blah blah.

Few seem to appreciate the fact that for most guys, babies themselves are completely foreign objects, and frankly, it's scary as hell to think about being responsible for one of the little bologna loafs. Unlike you ladies, who may have played with baby dolls or helped out with younger siblings or cousins, us fellas spent our youths on more important things, like finishing that level in Super Mario Brothers in record time or figuring out how much soda pop must be consumed before one can belch loud enough to silence a wedding party. You know, practical life skills.

So now I will offer some encouragement to these fellas who find themselves facing their first baby by sharing the biggest parenting secret that I can offer:

Babies, for the most part, do not do a damned thing.

Seriously, they have like four, maybe five skills. They eat. They throw up. They sleep. They do terrible things to diapers. They cry in response to any one of the aforementioned things. They...no, actually, that pretty much covers it. Yes, they develop rapidly just like the books and magazines say, but rapidly is a very relative term. It's going to be weeks before the little one can smile, much less get into any real mayhem.

So for every fear you have of being the least prepared father in the world, I assure you that you have a reasonable buffer of time to figure out what's coming up next and prepare a plan of action. At first, you need to know how to change a diaper (you'll get plenty of practice, and yes it's supposed to be that color), maybe how to hold a bottle correctly, how to swaddle (wrap the baby up real tight in a blanket, burrito style - believe me, this one is important), and how to sit for hours at a time holding the little munchkin, occasionally making faces and reveling in the fact that you finally have someone who hasn't heard any of your jokes before. That's pretty much it for a while. Beyond that, sign up here for the newsletters. This will give you the warnings and knowledge you need for the next thing coming, and remove any of that pesky lack of of confidence you may currently be experiencing.

Oh, and take comfort in the fact that pretty much no matter what you do, you can find someone on the internet who's gonna make you look good by comparison:

An Open Letter To NASA

To Whom It May Concern,

As an unabashed nerd, I try to follow the happenings of NASA. I realize that while perhaps not the most pressing thing our Government is handling right now, there is great importance in what NASA does. The work you do inspires dreams, feeds our desire for continued exploration, and allows us to continue operating under the assumption that eventually man will be exploring space in tremendous star ships, just like Star Trek promised us.

Recently, NASA has received a lot of press over a poll to name the latest node of the International Space Station. I considered this a positive move, as those who are not as invested in the eventual development of the warp drive were now hearing about the latest work that NASA is doing. When Mr. Stephen Colbert began a write in campaign to get it named after himself, I realized that the clause allowing the agency to "ultimately select a name in accordance with the best interests of the agency" would most likely come into play, but again just enjoyed the fact that NASA was getting some good publicity.

When the news came down, then, that instead of a module, a treadmill would be named for Colbert, I was unsurprised. In fact, I found it to be a nice compromise. Then I got the point where the actual module name would be Tranquility, and I took pause. Reassuring myself that I was not mistaken, I wandered over to the official voting page and confirmed that the name that received the most votes of the NASA supplied options was, in fact, Serenity. So Colbert received the most votes on the write in, but of the supplied options, Serenity received 70% of the votes. Despite this, you went with Tranquility.

Dear God, what have you done?

Look, having a bit of fun with Mr. Colbert was all well and good, but I don't believe that you understand the wrath that you may have incurred by thumbing your nose at the legion of Joss Whedon fans that voted on this. These people are not your garden variety nerds. Whedon fans (or 'Whedonites' as they are sometimes referred to) are not like the docile Trekkies of yore. These people are rabid. They've been burned by bureaucratic decisions before, and man they are just looking for someone to take down. What with Fox being too powerful (and temporarily culling their favor with Dollhouse), this puts you guys on the short list.

Look, all I'm saying is watch your backs. Hopefully, the new Star Trek movie will be popular enough to bring about a renewed interest in space exploration, but if not, then you may have inadvertently just alienated the current generation of science fiction aficionados, and these people have long memories (at least with regards to anything other than becoming invested in television shows offered by the Fox network). We need them on our side.

Now, quit reading blogs and get back to work on that warp drive.

Sincerely,
The staff at Dangerously Low On Grog

I Guess You Could Call It a Pot Problem

So, rereading yesterday's post has made it readily apparent that I need to relax a bit. As such, I must now look for ways of cutting stress out of my life. I believe that I will start with an old standby - cutting way back on my coffee intake. Hopefully this will help bring my level of crazy back down to a reasonable point.

Speaking of coffee, we've had a shake up at the office. We have one of those vendors who comes by and dumps off boxes of whatever industrial brand coffee that they're pushing this week. Ordinarily I don't notice such things beyond having to figure out how to break into the latest packaging to get to the sweet, life giving grounds that can be found therein. This time I noticed it because the previous brand had been Grandpa...something, and had featured a drawing of a creepy old guy standing in front of what looked like a steampunk version of a Starbucks machine. I distinctly remember thinking to myself that it was a peculiar drawing, and that this Grandpa character seemed like someone I would avoid taking candy from, but creepy old people do make fine coffee, so what the heck.

Then one day creepy grandpa was replaced by a much more sterile looking package named like a subdivision. You know...Highland Parks or Deer Run Estate or something like that. I snickered momentarily at the name, paused for a moment out of respect for Grandpa Whatshisname, and went to bust open the new package. Unfortunately, my penchant for overthinking slogans kicked in when I read the following words :

Taste a world of flavors inside your cup

I see that and all I can think is "Woah woah woah...I'm looking for precisely one flavor in my cup - coffee. You can keep whatever other flavors you had in mind to yourself.". Seriously, what the hell does that mean anyway? "Mmm. Is it me or does the coffee have a hint of mint with a light, Spam-like finish today?" You all know that I've been burned by experimenting with flavors that do not go together naturally, so this set off some serious red flags.

Of course, I got over it when I remembered that if it's free and caffeinated, it can taste like sewer rat for all I care. The important thing is not nodding off at my desk. But everyone is relatively healthy, bedtimes are all fairly regular now, and I can probably afford to cut back on my minimum-pot-a-day habit. Perhaps this will be a good first step towards me learning how to relax again.

If not, at least I'll be able to answer my doctor's inquiry of how many cups of coffee I drink a day without needing a conversion chart.

No Really, My Eye Always Twitches Like That When I'm Having Fun

Well, another holiday ended yesterday with me tired, stressed, and sporting a zit so big on my forehead that if it grows even one iota larger I shall be forced to change my name to Zaphod. Charming. I don't know why I fall for this every time. I get all excited about some coming holiday, completely forgetting that it is no longer for me. Not that I begrudge my kids taking pleasure from the festivities. It's just that my nature right now dictates that at no moment may I relax, lest something horrific should occur.

I'm not sure exactly where this comes from. It's most likely a result of the fact that up until my kids were born, my definition of responsibility was making sure rent money rated above beer money. Even given that definition, I wasn't what you would call responsible.

Sadly, I've gone the other way now. I seem to spend holiday festivities completely stressed out. The kids are having fun coloring eggs, and I'm frantically trying to make sure nothing gets stained, broken, cut, smashed, thrown or some combination therein. I do my best to put on my happy face, and I'm pretty sure I'm convincing, but internally I know that any lack of vigilance on my part will mean a ruined couch or a trip to the emergency room (I'm not sure how many lives Paas has claimed, but realistically it's probably a low number).

The problem is that it's so easy to go the other way. Take visiting my in-laws. I used to just sit down and relax, confidant that somewhere someone was keeping my spawn safe from harm. Then I realized that if everyone does that, the children will be left to their own devices, which in my head always leads to a bloody end (to this day I don't know if my extensive horror movie studies have left me better or worse prepared for parenthood, although I can say for certain they left me better prepared for diaper changing duty). Now, I bounce from room to room making sure doors are closed, knives are pushed back on counters, and tracking the whereabouts of my two offspring. Add on that my habit of mentally adding each kid of a certain age or below into my checklist, feeling responsible to keep an eye of each of them, and you can see where I want a drink when I complete the hour-and-a-half drive home.

I'm sure as my kids get bigger, I'll learn to let this go. Already the Princess is old enough and smart enough to take care of herself to some extent, so when she wanders off, I can at least be confidant that she won't maim herself or another person, which is always nice. I just need to keep them both alive long enough to teach them the many ways that every single object in a house can, if improperly used, lead to a terrible and painful death, either directly or as punishment.

Okay, I can probably put it in a nicer way than that, but you get the general idea.

Pumpkin, Can You Run Upstairs and Get Daddy His Machete?

The other day, one of my coworkers handed me this comic I chuckled heartily, and then moved on. It came back into my thoughts today, however, as I was pondering the most judicious use of a Barnes & Noble gift card, being torn between the ever practical The Zombie Survival Guide and the new and enticing Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. This thought process has led me to something that I shamefully had not considered previously.

What is the appropriate age to begin teaching my daughter the basics of survival during the pending zombie apocalypse?

Obviously, the coming apocalypse is a topic that is never far from my mind. I have long since resigned myself to the fact that it will be my responsibility to ensure the safety of my family, as my children are young and my lovely wife's squeamish nature makes it difficult to broach such subjects as the proper method of separating an undead terror intent on devouring her brains from its noggin (I don't think she's even seen Night of the Living Dead). It only exacerbates the situation that she doesn't play video games, and thus loses out on one of the most effective opportunities to mentally prepare herself and her reflexes for the inevitable day when we will be forced to take up arms and defend ourselves.

The Princess, on the other hand, has oft expressed interest in joining me in my games. Oh sure, as a responsible gamer dad I have to keep it E for everybody, so she ends up playing Lego Star Wars. Consider, however, the fact that we recently purchased her a Nintendo DS Lite along with Personal Trainer: Math to give her the opportunity to practice life skills while, say, sitting in the backseat on the way to school. Now ask yourself the following question: when the dead start rising, what's more practical, algebra or building up an reflex to aim for the head when being pursued by a ghoul? I'm not saying that she should stop practicing her math. The apocalypse may be years away, and I want to ensure her a successful academic career. I'm just saying it never hurts to include supplemental material. You know, include some life skills in there as well.

Add to this the fact that her taking of gymnastics is making her surprisingly strong, and I think that she will prove to be a useful ally to have by my side when the time comes. Hell, she can climb a rope anyway, something I'm not sure I can do myself right now (ugh...I've got to get this hand healed so I can return to my strength training). Not that I'm going to throw her out into a crowd of zombies to fend for herself. Obviously I'm still counting myself as the family's best defense. If I can start her training soon, however, she will be prepared to back me up, and in the tragic event that I fall in battle or, even worse, become infected myself and have to be taken out, she will have the knowledge to help keep her mom and brother safe.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to write a terse letter to the Children's Television Workshop for never covering this on Sesame Street.

It Happened During An Advanced Coding Session. It's...Complicated.

This weekend there is a good chance that I'm going to end up at my in-law's house for Easter. This means two things. First, I'll be eating a lot of junk, which I'm shamefully okay with (hey, I've been pretty good for a long time). Second, since my lovely wife insists on me wearing the bandages my doctor put on just for show (he said it's a red flag for me and others that my hand isn't quite fully healed yet), I'm going to get a lot of people asking me what I did to my hand. Since we've already discussed the fact that the true story blows, I've decided to work on better responses.

So, without further ado, I give you the new and improved responses to "What happened to your hand":

My lawyers have advised me not to comment on it.

You know that thing they do in movies where they fall like three stories and land on one knee and their fist on top of a car? That's way harder in real life.

Let's just say that one should do some research before trying something as advanced as a donkey punch. (If you don't know, do NOT Google that!)

Shoryuken.



Fist bump gone awry.

Homeowners association turf war.

I owe the Princess some money and she sent a couple of her friends to "remind" me.

You know, there are those who can take a pinky swear way too far.

I can't really talk about it. First rule.

It's kind of a funny story really. Apparently there's all sorts of training involved before you attempt to artificially inseminate a horse.

Yeah, that'll probably get me through the Easter egg hunt.

Next Time, I'll Just Go With "It's a Smile On a Dog"

The Princess spent the last few nights at her grandma and grandpa's house, and not surprisingly came back talking religion. See, her grandma, like many Americans, practices some flavor of Christianity. I tend towards the agnostic myself. So once in a while I'll find myself in these talks, which I don't shy away from if she feels like discussing it.

It started when I grabbed a couple of the Easter eggs she had colored at their house to throw into my lunch, and she asked me if she had remembered to leave the "church egg". I asked what made an egg a church egg, and she explained that one of the eggs had been decorated with a cross and maybe some other stuff. Then she started talking about how her aunt had been explaining about how Jesus was crucified, and how she listened but knew that "we don't believe in that".

The conversation veered wildly from there on out, her asking questions or making observations, and me explaining things the best I could. I explained that I do believe in part of it, as part of it is historical. Jesus was a dude who showed up, inspired some people, irritated some others, and eventually got executed for making the people in power angry. After a long side discussion on how people back then were a lot more brutal, thus the whole crucifixion thing, we got into identifying where the story of Jesus starts moving between history and (for those who are not religious) mythology.

I explained that, since there isn't anything like evidence of the miracles described, and since nothing like that happens now, I personally have to view those parts with scientific skepticism. She countered with the fact that paintings were done in lieu of photos because they didn't have cameras back then, and that there were paintings of those things - a fine point. I explained that those paintings are mostly interpretations, typically based on the stories in the Bible. This was easy, as she told me about the picture she saw of God and Adam ("Not, like, my uncle Adam. This was another guy." Heh.), and I pointed out that the story is that Adam was the first person ever, and the picture depicts God giving him life, which couldn't have been painted at the time because there was no one else around to paint it.



The conversation wandered to art (I correctly attributed the painting being discussed to Michelangelo and being part of the Sistine Chapel, which given my lousy knowledge of both art and history I'm quite proud of), the nature of artistic license, more about skepticism, discussion of the different religions and how they all have their own mythologies, and finally back to finishing her breakfast so we wouldn't be late. A lot to cover before getting out of our pajamas, really, but I love these conversations, not because I get to indoctrinate my kid with my weird ideas, but because I love to hear what questions she has. I continue to encourage her to find out all she can and think about these things for herself, and she seems to be doing a pretty good job for a six year old.

Besides, it gets me warmed up for the coming weekend and having to explain how we celebrate Spring with the story of the Easter bunny rising from the dead after three days, coming out of his cave, seeing his shadow and then hiding eggs and candy to let us know how many more weeks of winter we'll have. Man, religion is really confusing sometimes.

Besides, Does Anyone Really Want To Hear "Heart and Soul" Again?

Yesterday, as the nurse removed my cast and I looked upon my mangled hand with some dismay, it was everything I could do to resist asking if I would be able to play the piano after this. In the end I contained myself, which is probably for the best, since I can't play the piano now. In fact, it is a shame of mine that I have never taken enough interest in any instrument beyond my own voice to dedicate myself to learning how to play it.

Well that's all changed.

See, I was doing some poking around online and somehow stumbled upon the theramin. for those of you who don't know, the theramin is that thing that makes the absolutely awesome "ooo-wee-ooo" sounds of old science fiction and horror movies (and, of course, my cell phone's ringtone). I had always assumed that it was a keyboard-like thing, which in hindsight was kind of dumb because you rarely saw a keytar prior to the 1980s.



Okay, so here's where the whole thing moves from "Gee, it would be kind of neat to learn how to play one of those." to "Holy Jeebus how have I not purchased one of these things yet!?!". The theramin is one of the only instruments that is played entirely without making physical contact with it. Instead, you move your hands around the antenna to adjust pitch and volume. I repeat, IT PLAYS MUSIC FROM YOU WAVING YOUR &#%$ING HANDS AROUND IT! It's like being a Jedi, only instead of confusing stormtroopers you play the soundtrack to The Day the Earth Stood Still (the original, not the Keanu remake). Here's the more scientific description of the process from WikiPedia:

The theremin uses the heterodyne principle to generate an audio signal. The instrument's circuitry includes two radio frequency oscillators. One oscillator operates at a fixed frequency. The frequency of the other oscillator is controlled by the performer's distance from the pitch control antenna. The performer's hand acts as the grounded plate (the performer's body being the connection to ground) of a variable capacitor in an L-C (inductance-capacitance) circuit. The difference between the frequencies of the two oscillators at each moment allows the creation of a difference tone in the audio frequency range, resulting in audio signals that are amplified and sent to a loudspeaker.

Whatever. It plays music from you waving your hands around it. Must have.



So now this is one more part of my dream office. I will add this to the existing list of things required for the perfect office: fake "castle brick wall" treatment, a few of those plasma balls (preferably in multiple colors), a Jacob's Ladder (the high-voltage travelling arc), and finally a theramin. This is going to be so sweet.

Of course my lovely wife will probably insist on keeping a desk and maybe some bookshelves in there as well, but hey, marriage is all about compromise, right?

There's a Fine Line Between Birthday Celebration and an Angry Mob Forming

This weekend I had occasion to be sitting in one of those chain restaurants that seems to thrive these days. It was one of those places where families gather to thrill at bizarre memorabilia hung on walls and peanut shells thrown haphazardly about on the floor, something I never really understood the appeal of until I realized that for the first time I left a meal not concerned about the splash damage my son had caused in the area surrounding his booster seat. Dinner was good, we got to visit family, and everything was overall swell, but I did get to witness one of the more bizarre rituals this country currently offers - this accosting of someone on their birthday.

I'm not sure when this started, but at some point in the last twenty years it was decided that upon discovering someone's birthday, the entire waitstaff at a restaurant must stop what their doing, surround the table where the poor sap is sitting, and bellow out some nominally clever birthday song while presenting them with a piece of cake or something. Now, I'm a huge fan of birthdays, and personally admit to being a tremendous attention whore when my own rolls around, and yet I find this entire process mortifying. The idea of being surrounded by strangers hollering off-key while an entire restaurant turns around to see what the commotion is (and figure out why they haven't gotten their drinks) is not one I associate with birthday fun, free dessert or not.

This actually amplifies the already awkward tradition of the birthday song. Personally, I always find it slightly uncomfortable to sit there while friend and/or family sings "Happy Birthday" to me. I mean, it's weird, right? It's not like someone singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" because I saved someone's cat. Basically, I managed to go another year without dying, and while that's surely a win in my book, I don't know that it warrants being sung to. Presents for sure, but being sung to I'm not sold on.

I guess I miss the way Bill Knapps handled it. Those lucky enough to be around when Bill Knapps was still in business, they did it right. A nice version of the genuine "Happy Birthday" song would briefly replace the music playing in the restaurant, all the incredibly old people eating there would pause briefly to look around and see who it was for, and they gave you a chocolate cake. Not one piece - the whole &#%$ing cake. It was quiet and dignified, and I don't recall anyone ever seeming horribly embarrassed by the process.

Of course given the average age of their patrons at the end, I imagine that the current practice would have led to more cases of cardiac arrest than deep fried bacon.

It Beats the Heck Out Of Those Che Shirts Anyway

One of the great perks of being a programmer is being able to dress however I want. Having grown up watching my dad put on a tie and suit every single day, I enjoy this freedom a little more than I probably should. In fact, today I went so far as to break out the favorite shirt.

Now, the interesting thing about my favorite shirt is that it is the one item of clothing that I own that my lovely wife actively loathes. As a happily married man, I ordinarily would promptly dispose of such an item, not due to any browbeating on her part, but rather because at some point you realize that you have exactly one woman to impress in this world (two in my case, as I also count my daughter's opinions when offered) and the wise man acts on that knowledge. In this one instance however I can not do such a thing. This is not a shirt I wear for others.

This is the one that's just for me.



Maybe it's the big brown eyes, or the fact that I fondly remember the ads as being not only brilliant, but the first time advertisers were clearly speaking directly to pot heads. (Don't believe me? Go watch the original ad again and have a look at that dude at the end.) Maybe it's the fact that it's unique and has that vintage look without being one of those goofy t-shirts that are made to look that way when you buy them new. Maybe I just love me some Taco Bell (and I really, really do).

Whatever the reason, this shirt holds a place in my heart that makes it so once in a while, I have to drag it out and wear it proudly. So for today, I will march around in my bright red shirt, Trekkie superstitions be damned. When the day is done, it will get laundered, folded, and carefully put back into the stack of shirts to await until the next time I'm feeling all sassy and need to bring it out again.

The only downside is that my packed lunch is going to kind of blow, because now I seriously could go for some Taco Bell.

At Least I Never Say "Nana Nana Boo Boo". Well, Almost Never.

Yesterday, while washing my hands in the restroom at work, I stuck my tongue out at myself in the mirror. This is not entirely uncommon, as I have a vast repertoire of funny faces that are considered inappropriate in most settings, and I refuse to let these skills lag (I am going to be an uncle soon after all). Anyway, I'm standing there sticking my tongue out at myself, when it suddenly strikes me what a disturbing appendage a tongue really is.

Seriously, try this. Get thee to a mirror, and stick your tongue out at yourself. Now, and this is key, try and hold it still. You can't do it. Not really anyway. You can point it out and pick a direction, but at that point it's doing its own thing. Try as I might, it continues it endless quivering and pulsating, presumably probing for something to taste. (Sorry for the last sentence causing anyone Googling for erotica to accidentally end up here. If it makes you feel any better, I once Googled "Dorito feet" because it sounded funny, and ended reading one of the most disturbing bits of fiction to grace the internet. Let us speak of this no more.)

What's odd is that the tongue is clearly controlled by the somatic nervous system, as I can stick it out in the first place. Great. But why his odd pulsating, and why can't I stop it? Have you ever thought about this before? Probably not, and this is why you sleep better than I do at night. It's like my tongue has its own agenda. It will follow basic orders, but unlike my arms or legs, once is has done so it feels free to continue probing in search of who knows what. Probably ice cream.

So like I said, next time your in the restroom, try it. Stick your tongue out at yourself (preferably when there aren't coworkers about). Try to hold it still, and wonder at the fact that most likely you will only succeed for a second or two before your tongue gets bored and starts wandering around looking for something delicious in the immediate area.

Actually, between this advice and a previous conversation on warm seats, I'm well on my way to attaining the "blog you think about most often when in the restroom" achievement. Nice.

I Guess I'm Still Bitter Because I Can't Have the Title "Superfly Codemaster"

Last night as I lied in bed waiting for the NyQuil to work it's magic (magic that, I might add, has left me a wee bit hungover), I watched a little news with my lovely wife. One of the stories covered was about this dude Baitullah Mehsud, a "Taliban warlord" who claimed responsibility for the recent attack in Lahore and even threatened the White House itself. Ordinarily, I would promptly disregard such a story after briefly labeling this fellow a kook, but then the newscaster mentioned that he was 35 years old, and this got me thinking.

I'm 34 now. I'm an acting lead developer for a large software company. I'm not even a real lead developer. Technically, I'm just a senior programmer with ambitions to become a lead developer.

Along comes this Cat Stevens looking dude who's only a year older than me, and he's a damned warlord. Sure he's a fanatical, murderous douche, but still. I mean, I like to think of myself as ambitious, but I just don't see any kind of one year plan where I can go from wannabe lead developer to warlord. So now I'm thinking that clearly this guy has a lot more drive than I do. Admittedly, he's got an accelerated career path partially due to his superiors occasionally being hunted down by the international military. Nevertheless, it's quite an accomplishment at such a young age.

So now I'm feeling all bad about myself over this. Perhaps it's simply due to poor title choice. I mean, there isn't a single career path I can take from here that sounds even one iota as hardcore as "warlord". The best I can hope for is "system architect" which is hardly intimidating. So yeah, there's a definite case of title envy here. I mean, what guy wouldn't want to have a business card that says "Bob Smith: Programmer, System Architect, International Warlord"?

Dude, you would totally beat out the other contractors for that website gig.