Like So Many Things, This May Be George Michael's Fault

I have a confession to make. It's a confession that will probably surprise those of you who have known me since school days. It's nothing that I'm ashamed of or anything, but it's also not something I've ever really talked about with anyone.

I suffer from beard envy.

Oh I can grow a beard and all that. I've been able to do that since high school. It's just never the beard I want. I'm cursed with variations of Tony Stark beards (not inappropriate given the similarities in our personalities), meaning that I can grow a goatee or beard along my jawline, but my cheeks remain sadly barren.

(I'll pause here sympathetically to give those of you who are too juvenile to read the last sentence without giggling time to recover. Good? Onward then.)

The thing is, there are brutal limitations when this is what you're stuck with. First, you can't really get away with the stubble look. If I go a few days without shaving at all, I don't get the whole Adam Levine sexy vibe. I get the "hey, did you eat a cinnamon donut and just sort of smear it on parts of your face in a patchy mess" vibe. No one is handing out Sexiest Man of the Year awards for that one.

Adding insult to injury, I have to face men that are more gifted than myself in this area almost every day. On my own team I work with a man who can grow a full beard in a week, and not a weak (week) beard either. It's amazing. He even honored my request of growing full, Dickesonian mutton chops last year for Christmas. I wanted to put a top hat with holly in the band and a long scarf on him and send him around requesting alms for the poor, but hey, we wouldn't want to make things weird, right?

But even my teammate in his swarthiness can't compete with Redbeard. I don't know his real name. Hell, that might be his real name. He works on another team within my organization. I only see him in passing. When I do, it's breathtaking.

This man (this is an assumption - he may be a mythical beast of some sort) does not just grow a beard. He's aggressively bearded. Every time I see him, he has grown a different configuration of facial hair. Sideburns. Just a mustache. The Imperial. Handlebars. Mutton chops. The Van Dyke. A full beard that is so manly it would not be out of the question for the beard itself to don a flannel shirt and go wood chopping. He's a ginger topiary garden.

And it's not weeks between each either. It's days. I'm afraid to introduce myself to him because I would spend the entire conversation staring at his chin, watching it grow, until I got the obligatory "Hey, my eyes are up here".

I know I shouldn't get hung up on things like this of course. I mean, it's not like I can change the fact that my face has developed this way. Also, I don't think my lack of manly beardiness has really hindered me in any way. No one has ever asked me to grow a beard in an interview or anything. Besides, it's what's inside that counts, right?

And my spleen is still one sexy mother%#$*er.

I Would Also Accept Whimpering Until I Walk Away

My lovely wife recently discovered and began to binge watch The Good Wife, which means I've been getting all sorts of quality time in with Fallout 3 (yes, this is being written in October 2013 - I don't play games until I can get the game and all the DLC for under $30 because I have to save my money for more important things like child rearing and Doctor Who socks). This has been great, as I enjoy the game a lot, although I might be putting a little too much time in. I saw a bobby pin on the floor at work the other day and got all excited for a second.

The problem is that I realized the other day a huge flaw in the AI of those things that want me dead in the game, and like twerking, once I saw it I could not unsee it. You come across a group of baddies, and if you're me you prowl around until you have a good opening, and then you pick off the first one you can. So, I use a long range rifle to pop a cap into the noggin of the closest super mutant in the group, and what does he do?

He attacks me.

I have always accepted this as part of the game - a part of almost every first person shooter really. This dude and all his giant, green friends are now officially unhappy with me, justifiably I suppose, and they attack me. Here's the thing though: that includes the guy I just shot in the head (assuming it didn't finish the job). That guy, now sporting a rifle bullet somewhere in his massive cranium, comes running at me with whatever he's packing (usually a sledgehammer or gun - never a bag of frozen peas as his visage would suggest) and tries to return the favor. And it's true in all the games I've played. Zombies, robots, aliens, splicers, even regular people...each one takes a bullet and then gleefully attacks.

Now I don't have a lot of real world experience with gunfights, partially because I'm a lover not a fighter, and partially because my abnormally huge head would make a delightfully tempting target for even a novice sharpshooter. Still, I'm pretty sure that the response of your average individual upon receiving a bullet wound would not be to go into a feral rage and attack. I think it would more along the lines of cursing a few times, maybe laying down, seeking medical attention, or some combination thereof.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. I do enjoy the games immensely. Besides, what's the alternative? Listening to some guy in post-apocalyptic fetish armor mourning the fact that he's not going to see his family again, or wondering if he did enough with the time he had? That might be a little too real for the average gamer, including myself.

That said, I would put good money down to hear the words "Make sure my son gets my armored codpiece".

History Corner: Herbert King, Inventor of Time Travel

In the mid 1920's, a man by the name of Herbert King, inspired by the works of his heroes Einstein, Edison and Tesla, set about to develop the world's first working time machine. He did this in an effort to inspire his fellow man, and not at all to show up Mike Quinn, the pretty boy know-it-all who shared an office with him and insisted that King was "nice enough, but a bit of a kook" when he didn't think King could hear him, all while denying his obvious guilt in the repeated theft of the bologna sandwiches that King would bring in for lunch. For years, King spent all of his waking hours outside of the Brown & Moore Insurance Company working frantically to develop a device that would allow him to travel into the past.

In 1929, he succeeded.

Taking a moment to stop by the office, he announced that he would be testing his device that afternoon, and invited the entire office to bear witness to the event. His office mates gathered in his back yard, happy for the excuse to enjoy a warn June afternoon in Detroit, where they were presented with King's device. One of those present described the device as looking "kind of like a car, if you didn't know anything about how cars went together". With much bravado, King announced that he would be travelling precisely 100 years into the past, where he would collect a document to authenticate his journey and then return. As his amused coworkers looked on, King entered the machine, which made several rude noises before attaining a consistent humming sound. The machine then popped out of existence with an unsurprising popping noise.

Dutifully, his office mates "oohed" and "aahed" at the disappearance. Then they spent several minutes carefully inspecting the area where the device had previously been, wary not to step into the actual space should he return as promised. They discussed the ramifications for science as well as mankind, and overall were very impressed. After almost an hour, however, the initial excitement had dissipated, and discussions turned to whether they should return to the office, or wait and see if he returned as promised. Eventually it was decided that the group should convene to Eddie's Tavern to further celebrate King's accomplishment, whatever that may have been. Quinn left him a note stating as much, adding "Congratulations, Herbert. That was really something.".

Unfortunately for King, he had put a lot of though into how to move through time, but that was pretty much it. When he arrived at precisely the spot he had been 100 years in the past, just as he had predicted that he would, he discovered that the Earth had moved approximately 1.3 trillion kilometers through the universe, give or take a million. As such, his celebration on the successful creation of a time machine was short lived, as he had prepared the machine for a reasonably temperate climate, not deep space. On the bright side, he was technically the first astronaut as well, but that isn't really as impressive as time travel and all that.

While King's achievements are largely unknown in modern times, he is much celebrated in the future, where his machine has been recovered and corrected to take into account that our planet is moving along at a preposterous clip through space. I cannot say that his invention is widely used to benefit of all mankind, but only because I've been told not to in the manner that I would describe as "stern, with a hint of menace". Where the device currently resides, the Herbert King Space Station and Shopping Center will be established around 2657.

Throughout that particular quadrant of space, it will be known as not only the best but the only place to get a genuine Earth-style bologna sandwich.

She Only Lost Like Two Nights of Sleep. Three Max.

A while ago I had one of those parenting milestones I look forward to: my six year old son came home and told me about Bloody Mary. Being an aficionado of the urban legend genre, I had to correct several point of course, including the fact that it was all bull$#!*. Still it got me thinking: a couple of years ago, my daughter came to me with a story from a kid at school (this was maybe third grade) about the woods that sit between four of the schools in this town. 

The story? Someone saw a monster in the woods. Maybe two.

What a waste.

So being a responsible parent,  I used this opportunity to explain the nature of urban legends to my daughter, and in doing so told her what's really in those woods:

See, this is an old town. It was founded in the 1800s. And old towns, they tend to have a history, and not all of it is pretty. Well, around the turn of the 20th century, a handful of local kids disappeared. Not all at once. Every few weeks, a kid would turn up missing. No one had any idea what was happening, but needless to say people were pretty freaked out about the whole thing.

Eventually, a kid comes home and says that an old guy who lived in town had asked him to help find his dog. The guy says his dog took off after something in the woods, a squirrel or whatever. The kid follows the guy out into the woods looking for this dog, and after he gets about 20 or 30 feet into the woods, the guy's wife jumps out from behind a tree and tries to grab him. The kid managed to get loose and ran right home.

Well, people being the level headed group that they are, the parents immediately start telling everyone what happened, and before long you've got a full fledged angry mob. They trot out to the woods, break down the door of the cabin where the old couple live, and find the old woman. A quick search of the place find some of the clothes from the missing kids, and that's enough. Cabin burns, and the old lady gets hung from a tree.

The husband, seeing the burning cabin, turns himself in. He admits to taking the kids, but says he doesn't know what happened to them. His wife took them away or some such nonsense. He still gets tried for murder, and soon dies in prison.

Anyway, this was a long time ago, right? The thing is, that cabin? It was right in the middle of those woods behind the schools. And a couple of years ago during recess, two boys were approached by an old man asking for help with a lost dog. One of the kids, presumably the one who wasn't an idiot, says that his mom told him not to help people like that, but the other kid wants to find the dog. The first kid, feeling like something's not right, starts back to the school to get a teacher or something, but when he turns back, he notices that behind the old guy, there's this lady in the trees, and she's looking right at him.

And she's swaying in the breeze.

Well the kid freaks and runs to the school at that point, but by the time he got back with the teacher, there was no one there. No old guy. No lady. And no kid.

And no one ever figured out what happened to him.

Tomb It May Concern

I think it's time to talk about something that I've avoided bringing up for a while now: I'm dying.

Oh, not from anything on particular. I'm simple wearing out at the same rate as any other reasonably healthy, uncommonly good-looking man my age is. Nothing is preventing my eventual and imminent demise. Thus, I'm dying.

Maybe I should have led with that.

Anyway, the thought of my own mortality brings up the concern of what's going to happen to my chocolate shell once the creamy filling has moved on (side note: I'm pretty sure discussing my physical presence in terms of chocolate will increase my attractiveness to my lovely wife - I'll report back on any findings). I've never really considered the whole visitation and burial thing with anything approaching seriousness, because I'm not going to be there, so, you know...whatever. It's not really for me, right?

The thing is that now that I have started thinking about it, I actually do have some serious opinions on it (Okay fine...as close to serious as I'm going to get on a blog that regularly deals with rude noises and proper simian appreciation). For example, I'm not really keen on the whole embalming thing. I really don't see the point in pulling all of my bodily fluids out just to replace them with something else. For one thing it's really gross just to think about. Plus embalming fluid smells nasty. Maybe if it was Diet Pepsi I would be more comfortable with it, but then I've been trying to replace all my bodily fluids with Diet Pepsi for years, so that just makes sense.

You may express concern that if I am not properly embalmed, then I won't be preserved correctly for the visitation. I would answer that by first pointing out once again that you're reading this on the internet, and as a one way medium I can't actually hear this concern that you're expressing. Stop talking to your computer. Pull yourself together. People are starting to stare.

As far as the visitation itself, I really don't want to be there. I know - it's about letting people say goodbye. Well, next time you see me, do me a favor: Just say goodbye then. That way, we can avoid the whole creepy "people standing over a thing that vaguely looks like me and is wearing my clothes" scene. I don't want people remembering me that way. Nobody (or "no body", as the case may be) ever looks the same as they did before. I want people to remember me the way I am now. This is even truer for those who haven't seen me in a long time. Still think of me looking the way I did in high school? Perfect! Way better than thinking of me as a purse-lipped wax figure pretending he's asleep.

Honestly, the idea that my family would spend a bunch of money buying a fancy box and having me pumped full of creepy chemicals just so people could look at the broken machine that was me just makes me sad. I'd much rather be put into the cheapest thing on hand (cardboard acceptable) and promptly toasted into unidentifiable char before anyone has to look at the ex-me. Go ahead and put the ash in a small, fancy box if that trips your trigger. People can look at that. Here, I think this one would work out nicely:

After all, if the believers are right, death is also bigger on the inside.

Super Friends...With Benefits

Ladies, I know you've all faced that moment when you first saw him. You were at a mall, a party or your college campus, just minding your own business, and then there he was. You were fascinated. You were entranced. Only one thought kept playing through your head.

"Wow, check out the guy in the superhero t-shirt."

Oh sure, it's easy to become all enamored with a fella donning a shirt declaring himself a standing member of the Justice League of America. Still, you might want to take a moment before declaring yourself a super fan. After all, there was a decision made when he made that purchase. So, just what does that decision mean about what kind of man he is...when it counts?

The Green Lantern
Incredible will power correlates to incredible lasting power. Be wary though - complete lack of fear combined with active imagination may lead to many awkward suggestions. Boundary setting is a must.

The Aquaman
Eager to please, but will overcompensate due to an inferiority complex. Best asset is lack of aversion to sleeping in a wet spot.

The Flash
Guess.

The Wonder Woman
Trust me on this one - you're not his type.

The Robin
Powerful and confident, but lack of experience is a sure thing. Expect to give a lot of instructions and do a lot of "rescuing" of your own.

The Superman
Rest assured, those who associate themselves with the big, blue boy scout will take care of things. That Kansan farm boy treatment, however, will have a distinctly vanilla flavor. Boredom may well ensue.

The Batman
Will never fail to get the job done, frequently amazing with his knowledge and ability. Willing to involve toys and gadgets when necessary. Don't be surprised by the lack of emotional connection though, and don't even think about cuddling afterwards. The Batman does not cuddle.

Know your heroes, girls - the night you save might be your own.

Side Note: Body Pillows Do Not Contain Actual Bodies

Those of you who either have kids or appreciate some of the better cartoon programs currently available (or both, as is my case) have undoubtedly noticed a disturbing trend. The rest of you should probably be warned: the pillow situation has officially gotten out of hand. While the majority of us think of our pillows as a device for resting our head, dark forces have been convincing our children that this is simply insufficient.

It started innocently enough with the Pillow Pet. It's a stuffed animal that fold out into a pillow. This seemed reasonable, and I'm not ashamed to admit that at least three of these things have found their way into my home, despite the lack of flying squirrel options available (seriously you guys, get the Rocky and Bullwinkle people on the phone - you are passing up a real opportunity here).

But alas, this was not enough. No, someone said "Hey, kids love pillow pets! What if we took a pillow pet, and put a nightlight inside of it?". It is a testament to the nefariousness of the creators that not one person in the room pointed out that putting an electrical device inside an object associated with being drooled upon might be a bad idea. And so was born the Dream Lites.

Dream Lites, they lack a certain subtlety though. Another bright young thing in the room asks the inevitable question. "Those are cool, but what if the pillow itself glowed from within as if it had recently been irradiated?" Ladies and gentlemen: Glow Pets.

Now, at this point the poor parent whose children frequent Nickelodeon or the Cartoon Network has bedrooms overflowing with pillows that perform a wide array of un-pillowlike functions. Of course, the kids have no problem with this, but the clutter becomes a bit much. What can we do, now, with these ridiculous products?

Congratulations, Stuffies. You've managed to give me a better reason to make sure the television is off than Honey Boo Boo.

DOMA Denied, Part 2

In which our author addresses the Supreme Court striking down the Defense of Marriage Act as applied to religious beliefs.

First, we should get something out on the table right now: I am not a religious individual. I'm not an atheist necessarily, but I probably lean more toward that that anything. The fact is I believe in things that can be proven, and this cannot, so there you go. At the same time, we live in a huge universe that holds all sorts of mysteries that we have thus far not fully explored or explained, so I leave room for anything. There could be a big dude with a white beard who planned all of this somewhere. There could also be a separate realm that consists entirely of sentient french toast creatures being ruled by the iron fist of the Grand Duke and Lady Butterworth. Reality can be a weird place. I keep my options open.

That said, what I do know of religion is mostly based in Christianity, what with the Peanuts Christmas Special and all, so when I hear that gay people getting married is an act against God and will lead to the eventual downfall of our country...well, I just don't get that. A quick glance over an American history book will give you a whole shopping list of things that we really ought to have been smitten for by now, right? I'm not a big fan of going dark here, but come on: hate crimes, aggressive land expansion, various military operations - surely some of this goes against the good book, yes? At the very least, we turned Christmas into the Star Wars Holiday Special, and if that wasn't just begging for a smiting, I don't know what is.

Of course, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this: God is taking some time off from us. I actually think that this is entirely likely. Consider the beginning of our country:

Pilgrims: Hey there God, we want to create a place where we can freely worship you the way that we think you ought to be worshiped.
God: Good on you. That sounds like a fine endeavor worthy of...
Pilgrims: Oh, and we're also going to be burning people alive on the off chance that they're witches. In your name of course.
God: Ooh, well...that sounds a little severe. I mean it seems like we could...
Founding fathers: Hey, God, over here! We were thinking that we'd actually found this entire nation upon the lessons the Bible teaches us about universal fairness and whatnot.
God: Oh. Well that sounds like a good idea.
Founding fathers: We are going to go on with the slave thing though. And they're not really people, so the rapes will probably continue. But they're not really animals, so it's not like it's bestiality, so we're cool, right?
God: You know what? I'm just going to go toy with silicon-based lifeforms somewhere on the other side of the universe. I'll check back on you later.

It would totally explain the lack of Evian turning into Merlot and whatnot. I mean, I've seen The Ten Commandments. Back then they were lousy with miracles. You couldn't wander a desert without running into a burning bush or amphibian-based plague. These days? Bupkis. So given that possibility, I could be barking up the wrong tree here, and when dad gets home there's going to be Hell to pay (heh).

Again, if that's the case though, the whole gay thing seems pretty low on the list. I'm pretty sure homosexuality was banned within a page or two of the bits about not eating shellfish or getting tattoos. I myself have not only been inked but have partaken in my youth of the vices that Red Lobster has to offer, so I'm thinking we're heavily into questionable stone throwing territory, yes?

Now obviously, the idea that God wandered off and has been ignoring us doesn't really jive with my understanding of his "mysterious ways", so it seems more likely that the quiet is more of a child rearing thing. As a parent, I had to set up a lot of rules with my kids when they were little. Don't touch that. Stay away from there. Get that out of your nose. Basically, we had to create and enforce a bunch of policies that were required to offset the fact that little kids, while delightful, are essentially self-destructive twits who would end up dead without our guidance.

Then they got older. They became less self-destructive. They're learning what it is to be part of society and how to work together to take care of themselves while helping others when they can. That leaves my lovely wife and myself in charge of the more fundamental lessons. Appreciate what you have whenever you can. Learn to like what you can about yourself and grow if you need to. Enjoy the moments you're given as they come. Try your best to love each other and other people, even when those people are different from you in ways you don't understand. Try and be peaceful and happy and fair and not worry so much about what other people are doing.

From what I've heard, those are the big lessons in the Big Book. Those are the universal truths. Those are the things that are fundamental to continue working on, much more so than a bunch of policies that probably made sense a few thousand years ago when humanity was a little rougher around the edges than we are now.

Well, that and the thing about coveting a neighbor's ox. Seriously, what's wrong with people? Just get your own frakkin ox.

DOMA Denied, Part 1

In which our author addresses the Supreme Court striking down the Defense of Marriage Act as applied to being an American. 

The Supreme Court of the United States, in a split decision, has determined that the Defense of Marriage Act is not constitutional. This is...not really that surprising. Frankly, it's kind of like the Supreme Court deciding that it's not a great idea to tell really racist jokes or fart in elevators: the real news is that someone had to be told. I really don't understand how this got through in the first place to be honest.

We allowed a bunch of politicians to deny a group of people rights based on personal beliefs, and called it "Defense of Marriage". Personally, I didn't feel like my marriage was under attack, but maybe I wasn't paying close enough attention. I suppose I could have been surrounded at all times by gay ninjas, surreptitiously trying to convince me that I should leave my wife for a dude. There was that one time someone recommended a Ryan Reynolds movie at the video store. It was Green Lantern. I guess that's kind of suspicious.

Still, I don't feel like anything serious was addressed in this attempt to defend marriage. Why not criminalize adultery, or publicly fund marriage counseling? Perhaps put a waiting period on divorce. Hell, they try to put all sorts of fascinating restrictions on abortions all the time, but I'm pretty sure I could get a divorce over lunch and still have time to grab McDonald's. Of course I would never consider such a thing, because I love my wife dearly and...well, come on. McDonald's? Blech.

As far as the claim that gay marriage is somehow weakening "traditional marriages", I've got to admit that I'm not sure what is meant by this expression. I mean, how traditional are we talking here? Are we going with the idea that I give my wife her own house, and in return she's in charge of "spinning, sewing, weaving, manufacture of clothing, fetching of water, baking of bread, and animal husbandry"? Hopefully not, because I can't afford a second place and she not into husbanding animals (that I know of - now that I think about it, I've never really brought it up). Or should I just be satisfied with expecting to come home to be handed a cocktail to sip on while she finishes up preparing the pot roast for dinner? And either way, what does this have to do with gay people? Do they not know how to make a martini?

I guess my point is that taking away rights from gay people really didn't defend anything, and what with it being a pretty clear violation of their rights, the news that it wasn't upheld isn't a big shock for me. I know that there are arguments for the law, and for better or worse I will address some of those in the near future, but really, they don't apply here. So long as we want to loudly declare that America stands for freedom, and I'm pretty sure most of us are still in that camp, we kind of need to get past our personal prejudices and be okay with those freedoms and rights applying to all of us.

*sigh* Yes, even furries.

Just One More Reason To Be Grateful For My Flowing Tresses

There are terrific opportunities to discuss current event today. Paula "Butter Face" Deen being in a pickle over racially insensitive comments (see what I did there?). A man, psychotic while pumped full of magic mushrooms, pulling off part of his own junk (although to be fair, his religion is not mentioned, so he may have just thought he found another mushroom). Miley Cyrus being...well, Miley Cyrus.

Instead, however, I will share one of those deeply personal glimpses into my own weirdness, as I have heard that sort of thing is good for a person.

Today, as I dropped my son off at summer camp (which is what they call day care in the summer), one of his teachers said "So, you'll be joining us for our zoo trip?" (my tagging along on zoo trips being an established thing, despite any promiscuous primate behavior). As one might expect, I responded "yes".

And here's where things get strange. As the word "yes" left my mouth, the following narrative blew through my brain in an effort to reach my lips:

I know that they're safe and all, but I'm always a little concerned when the kids are at the zoo. See, my father died in a accident at a zoo. Torn apart, right before our eyes, after falling into the monkey enclosure. Mom warned him not to climb up on the edge and taunt the monkeys like that, but my dad...he'd do anything to make us kids laugh, and he'd already rented the banana suit. Unfortunately, he lost his footing and...well anyways, I just like to go along and make sure everyone is being safe.

Seriously, all of that, in the space of the word "yes". I honestly think it might have gotten out save for the fact that my son, who is aware of the fact that my father is dead, was standing right there and would probably have been irreparably harmed, or at least left with an unnatural fear of monkeys. As such, I managed to stifle the flow, much to the benefit of us all.

Besides, everyone knows that dad was one of thousands who died in the collapse of a building caused by one super-powered alien punching a second super-powered alien through the walls, a fact that would probably lead to a compelling villain backstory in someone more fallicularly-challenged than myself.

It Takes a Village To Raise a City. Wait, What?

For the last few years, the village that I live in has been in the process of trying to become a city. Soon, we will have opportunity to vote on whether or not we proceed with this, probably because we're all sick of hearing about it. As a responsible adult, however, I should take my voting rights seriously, and the only way I know to approach this sort of thing is to weigh the pros and cons of such a thing. So, here we go:

Reasons to remain a village:

• Given enough time as a village, we may spawn the next Garrison Keillor.
• There's always a chance that a police officer, construction worker, biker, soldier, cowboy and terribly racist portrayal of a native American will join together for an impromptu musical number.
  
• Becoming a city will result in a marked increase in promiscuous behavior for women between the ages of 30-45, who will then talk loudly about it over appletinis, ruining the atmosphere of the local pub.
• Mass confusion as mice on local farms try to figure out which part of the fable they are now in.
• So long as we're a village, I can always fall back on my original career plan: Idiot.

Reasons to become a city:

• Given enough time as a village, we may spawn the next Garrison Keillor.
  
• Cities are way more likely to spawn a winged vigilante.
• Cities are often associated with diversity, potentially irritating local racists.
• A better class of graffiti artists.
  
• City rhymes with 100% more rude words for body parts, which is important to people who enjoy limericks.

Ugh. This isn't helping at all. What's the voting equivalent of answering "C" for everything?

On the Proper Use of Demographics During Tragedy

The last week was understandably absorbed by the news of the Boston marathon bombing, and as details came to light about the perpetrators of the bombing, the common questions came up. Were the bombers Muslim? Are they foreigners? What role did that play? The news grabbed any detail they could find on the brothers Tsarnaev supposedly in an effort to glean a motive for this heinous act, and while I understand a need for answers, I suspect that the actual goal is always to help people bucket these people in such a way as to differentiate themselves from the monsters. As such, I propose that we ask a simpler question in these trying times.

What role did the fact they they were murderous douchebags play?

Really, I get that we need to put everyone in a bucket. It makes us feel safe. It helps us appreciate diversity while still clinging to pride in our respective heritages. The issue is that during times of great stress, this bucketing lends itself to incorrectly attributing behaviors to the wrong group of people.

Let me give you the example that sadly comes up the most often in the US: Muslims. According to Wikipedia, "As of 2010, over 1.6 billion or about 23.4% of the world population are Muslims.". Now, let's assume for the sake of argument that every member of Al-Queda falls under the "murderous douchebag" umbrella as well (which is probably unfair, because I bet a lot of them joined the group to impress a girl - don't ever underestimate the amount of historical stupidity that has occurred to impress a girl). That makes around fifteen to twenty thousand murderous douchebags out of 1.6 billion, or .0000125% of the Muslim population. I haven't taken statistics in a while, but that number doesn't seem to justify the always-rational "KILL THEM ALL" argument that comes up so often in the comments on news articles.

It works for other tragedies too. Depending on which phoney baloney source you look at, in 2010, around 39% of Americans owned a gun. In that same year, there were 11,078 homocides by firearm. Even if you assume each homocide was done by one person, that's around .000092% of the 120,410,759 gun owners that turned out to be killers.

Now, guess what percentage of the 11,078 were murderous doucehbags.

My point is this: If we're going to bucket people so we can all be glad that it isn't someone we relate to, then lets make sure the bucket is all inclusive. The best part is how exclusive this group is. Let's say you're cold, black heart is full of murderous rage. So long as you do your job, pay your taxes, occasionally let people merge on the highway, and just generally keep that %$#& to yourself, you're not in the group. Similarly, you want to park your SUV across four spots before making life Hell for a some kid at Starbucks making minimum wage because your Venti Hazelnut Macchiato wasn't hot enough, knock yourself out. It's only when you combine these two that you become part of the group, and then the rest of us, regardless of race, religion, or really any other personal affiliation, get to agree that you're the part of humanity that we find generally unpleasant and could well do without while being respectful of each other.

See, isn't that better?

Tiny Tim, You Stay Out Of This

Despite evidence to the contrary, eventually Winter will loosen its icy grip on your region of the world, and Spring will properly commence. Grass will grow. Flowers will bloom. Fields will fill with life, and with that life, we will find ourselves tempted to take part in an activity that I think is not often given proper consideration.

I speak, of course, of frolicking.

Being presented with this abundance of life, the temptation to frolic is neigh irresistible, but please, before loosing your children into nature's wonders, give pause, for it is well known that frolicking is a gateway activity. The fact is that children who frolic often begin to experiment with gallivanting  Once this takes place, it's almost guaranteed that parading is not far behind, and really, is that we want from our children? A nation of kids, just parading around like they're all that and a side of yam fries?

I say we do not.

Now I'm not telling you what to do in your own home. Who among us hasn't put the kids to bed only to engage in a little light frolicking? I'm just saying that we need to set a good example. Maybe don't kick those shoes off when presented with a field of daisies. Show a little restraint.

Some day, your children with thank you for it.

If He and Liam Neeson Met in a Sauna, It Would Be Like The End Of Return of the Jedi

[WARNING: The following post will be discussing human anatomy in frank, uncensored terms. If you are easily offended, you might want to skip this one. If you're easily titillated, wait until you're at home at least.]

[Sorry about using the word "titillated". Probably should have come after the warning.]

Jon Hamm is apparently sick and tired of everyone talking about his penis. Jon sat down with Rolling Stone and expressed his displeasure at the public attention his privates are getting. At the moment, his penis has yet to comment, but has promised to hold a press conference early next week. Seriously, I understand what he's saying. I would hate the idea of millions of people talking about how huge my penis is, which is easily the single most false statement I've ever made in the history of this blog.

I think that the big take away from this though is our obsession as a nation with the privates of public figures. I'm not sure if people know this, but there's a whole Internet full of naked people. I'm not sure why being famous makes it special. I remember the kerfuffle a decade ago when the world gained access to a picture of Brad Pitt's pendulum. You'd think they had gotten a picture of Bigfoot. I mean, I saw the picture, and based on the evidence he probably does have big feet, but that's not the point.

It's gotten to where I can't look at my newsfeed without the words "wardrobe malfunction" coming up anymore. It's not even interesting. I think there's actually a template at Entertainment Weekly that says "Disney Starlet [NAME] Turns Eighteen, Immediately Accidentally Exposes [Breasts/Naked Bottom/Hoo Hoo/All Of The Above]". If I worked for Disney, I'd be crazy gluing my undergarments on.

I guess my point is that we need to move on. Let these people breathe a little bit. Find some other sport to distract us so the famous can run outside in their bathrobes without fear of their co-stars making a cameo on the evening news. Let's collectively agree that we want to see something a little harder to catch on a camera.

Find me a picture of Jon Hamm looking like holy Hell so I can go back to enjoying Mad Men with my wife.

And No, I'm Not Trying To Compensate For Anything

Now that that pesky assault weapon ban has been removed from the gun control bill, I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief. After all, there are perfectly legitimate reasons for a civilian to need a gun that shoots 600 rounds per minute that don't end in headlines about "massacre" and "tragedy". I personally can't think of what those reasons might be, but that is undoubtedly due to the liberal media not covering stories of all the good that comes from such things.

Here's the thing though - since we can apparently all agree that the average yahoo should be able to own an assault rifle (discounting the 55% of Americans who favor such a ban), then I don't think it's unreasonable that we discuss taking things a touch further. I mean, the assault rifle was created for the military, but we've all agreed (again, excluding the aforementioned hippie contingent) that anyone should be able to get one, right? So why not other military equipment?

I guess what I'm saying is this: I want a tank.

There are all sorts of practical reasons for wanting my own tank, not least of which is the obvious awesome factor. I bet a tank never gets stuck in the snow. Seeing a tank bearing down in the rear view mirror would discourage those twits that drive 60 in the pass lane. Plus, how much cooler would the homecoming float be if it was built on the back of a tank? Besides, we let people drive Hummers around, and really those are just tanks that have been neutered so they don't chase the other cars around.

I'm sure there will be practical issues to owning a tank, like parking for example. Hey, I don't mind parking at the back of the lot to get groceries. Besides, if some tool with a pickup truck can take up four spaces to avoid getting a dink in his paint job, I'm sure people would overlook my needing a couple of spaces for my tank. (Side note: if you park your pickup truck like this, you have outed yourself as a poser who doesn't understand what a pickup truck is for. Please proceed to the nearest honky-tonk bar for the beating you so richly deserve.)

(DLOG Interactive: This is the part where you should turn on your speakers and open this link in another tab/window for the full effect. Trust me.)

You know, a lot of people like to think they know what the founding fathers were thinking when they despite the fact that it was over 250 years ago when people worried about things like keeping slaves in line and not getting dysentery, and I realize that the right to bear arms bit in the Constitution was written when firing said arms involved taking 25 or 30 seconds to load a single shot. Still, I can tell you this much: Benjamin Franklin would have wanted me to have a tank. Franklin said "All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are movable, and those that move.", and really, what better way to move than in a few tons of American-made steel? I can see it now, me and Ben cruising downtown in my custom painted tank (after a quick riding-dirty check, because I think we can all agree that Ben Franklin would be lining his coat pockets with hella sticky bud). Hatch open with mad bass pumping out. Fourteen custom red, white and blue rims spinning when we come to a stop. Ben poking out the top to return the salutes given by tearful patriots as we pass by (or hooting at the ladies, 'cause Ben was bold like that). You guys, we need to make this happen.

You write your representatives, and I'll start setting up the Kickstarter.

Taking a Stand

I've recently converted my fuzzy cell....sorry, "cubicle"...to a standing setup. What this means, for those not initiated to such shenanigans, is that all of my monitors, my keyboard and my track ball now sit about two feet above my desk surface. This allows me to stand all day while performing my many important duties at work, like looking at captioned cat pictures or judging people online.

When I declared my intention to do this, some people questioned why I would purposely commit to being on my feet all day, with the obvious answer being health reasons. I'll leave it to the reader to search out the articles espousing the virtues of not sitting on your posterior all day (ironically, because I'm lazy). Trust me. Lots of people in lab coats who get paid more than me have said not to sit all day.

This is not actually the primary reason for my choice, however. No, for me it's about power. In the varied landscape of people one finds in an office environment, there are those who lack the common courtesy to recognize that the average programmer's desire for face-to-face contact is generally comparable to their desire for face-to-wolverine contact. Thus living in the cubicle labyrinth comes with the constant threat of someone wandering into your cubicle expecting a conversation. Since you were presumably working, you are presumably sitting when they arrive.

And now you're presumably having a conversation with a co-workers crotch.

Oh sure, you can correct your line of sight, but the damage has been done. Whatever question that needed addressing is now overshadowed by your suddenly gained knowledge. Did I need to know that the person talking dresses to the left? Or that the interloper is suffering from a degree of camel toe that leaves you questioning how she walked over here without whimpering in the first place?

This is no way to start a conversation.

Now, when I am forced to turn around and direct my ire at whomever was so presumptuous as to interrupt my thought processes, we stand on even ground. I look them in the eye, tell them what they need to know, and shoo them off quickly and without distraction. Then I turn back around and get back to the task at hand.

This status isn't going to update itself.

News Briefs: March 12, 2013

U.S. News

The recent filibuster by Rand Paul continues to draw attention to the US drone program. Unfortunately for Paul, most Americans misunderstood the usage of "drone", assuming that it was listening to someone talk for thirteen hours being protested. On the other side of the aisle, the Obama administration continues dodging specific questions about whether or not drones might legally be used on American soil, proving once again that integrity and conviction are no match for the opportunity to fly around a sweet remote controlled plane.

A New York city police officer has been convicted of a plot to eat women, which is ridiculously bad planning on his part because he hadn't even tried one yet. He might not even like them.

Local

I don't know where you live. I mean, how would that even work?

Entertainment

The Great Gatsby is set to open the Cannes Film Festival. Baz Luhrmann assured the press that the literary classic will be handled with the class and dignity it deserves before he dramatically turned and strode away to techno-driven orchestra music among a cavalcade of scantily-clad dancers, glitter and fireworks.

Health

The New York ban on sugary drinks is struck down in court, a decisive win for soda manufacturers, personal rights advocates, and designers of Macy's "Metro Husky" line of formal wear.

Pet frogs have been linked to a recent salmonella outbreak adding insult to injury for the poor kids who were licking the wrong amphibians to get high in the first place.

The European Union has officially banned all cosmetics that have been tested on animals much to the delight of animal rights advocates and those who agree that really, even a little blush makes a rabbit look like a whore.

Still Alive

In the long long ago, I was out on my first date ever when the young lady I was with asked me if I thought I used humor as a crutch. Being a boy of fourteen or fifteen at the time, my idea of self awareness was knowing that watching the girls doing jumping jacks in gym was not a great idea, so I was somewhat taken aback. As a result, I answered with the confidence and grace of Porky Pig getting tazered (undoubtedly one the reasons it was also a last date). That question has, however, stuck with me throughout my life.

The truth is that I use humor for a lot of things, but I don't think a crutch is the proper analogy.

I use humor as a shield. I have discovered that being funny means I don't have to give anything away. I can interact and be social, and people will come away thinking that they like me without actually knowing anything about me. I enjoy this.

It's not that I'm antisocial. I just like playing my cards close. I mean, you might like me right now, but if you knew how many trees I flipped off on the way to work today, you might feel differently. Goddamned trees, thinking they're so cool. "Check this out. I'm totally making energy out of sunlight right now. I'm not even thinking about it. Hey, you enjoying that oxygen over there? Yeah, I made that." Smug mother %#$@ers.

I digress.

More importantly, I use my humor as a sword. There are things that I will never say to someone, sometimes things that need to be said, in a serious manner. I'm just not confrontational like that. It's baked in from years of living in a social group built on the idea of complete honesty, so long as that honestly is in full agreement with everyone else's. Otherwise, keep it to yourself.

But you can joke about it.

I can be more honest in a joke than I ever would otherwise, and this is a thing of beauty. Not that everything I joke about is based in some sort of prophetic truth (although I stand by my wisdom in certain areas). I can, however, express truths in a way that people can take easier by making light of them. I can joke about my guilt over repeatedly telling my kids that there is no such things as monsters even though I regularly deal with lawyers  We can smile and choose for ourselves whether or not we want to read more into it. There's a power in that.

These are skills that get me through my life, and like any skills they have to be honed. I'm getting older, and I'm not always going to be able to count on my devilish good looks to get me through. Between that and the fact that I miss having a place to write, even an insignificant one, I think it's time to take this thing back out for a ride.

Welcome back kids. I have my shield. I have my sword.

Now let's see if we can't find ourselves some dragons.

Or not...

Things have slightly quieted. My brain has not.

More to come?