When They Feel Better, I Guess They Can Climb The Plants And Visit The Giant

Having already discussed the medical marijuana proposal faced by Michigan voters in a couple of weeks, I had every intention of letting the topic go. I said my piece, I'm sure that all of you, knowing my keen intellect and dedication to the betterment of mankind in general, were all swayed by my eloquence and will make right decision when the time comes. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of continuing to read what others have to say on the topic, which lead me to this gem.

Ignoring everything else in the editorial, (which is the usual "if we give it to anyone then the kids will get it too), they state the following measure: "one marijuana plant can yield 28,000 joints in one year". Okay, having done independent research on this (no, I'm not citing my sources - trust me), I'm calling shenanigans on this little factoid. I don't know who's rolling joints for these people, but they are claiming that these plants (12 per person who is given an ID card from a doctor who confirms medical necessity) are somehow able to grow and thrive despite the fact that the person growing them is cutting off enough of the plant to roll over 76 joints a day.

Now look, I'm not a farmer. I've never grown marijuana. I've never grown a damned thing, but what little I do know about growing plants and general biology says that constantly cutting off leaves and whatnot (especially the whatnot - heh) would probably be detrimental to the health of said plant. Nonetheless, these people want me to believe that these magnificent green thumbs who apply for the ability to alleviate pain and whatnot with medical marijuana will be able to do so despite their severe illnesses. Heck, if that's true, we should let them do it based purely on the advances that we will get in the farming industries. Think of what they could do with corn or wheat! These people could feed the world!

Now, I'm sure the group responsible for this number didn't make it up out of thin air (political groups never do), but all the same I'm saying it ain't so. This thing stinks of inflation that make my tires jealous. Of course, I can't find out where the numbers come from because the group who is cited in the article (Drug Free Schools Coalition) doesn't have a web site. In fact, I can't find anything about them on the internet other than they are often cited as a source for such things. Personally, that makes me skeptical, but that's just how I am I guess. Use your own judgment, but take it from me, it would take more than a pot of soil and a bottle of Miracle Grow to pull this one off. So take these claims with a grain of salt.

Try one of these maybe:

Dark Dreams: The Doll

First: the official soundtrack.

After much searching and saving and waiting, our family had finally bought a house. It was a little strange, because it was sort of a fifties style ranch house, which is not something we initially wanted, but I think we're both just happy to have a place. We walk into the entryway, and the most notable thing about the place is that to the left is a doorway in the wall that forms a hallway and leads to the living area, a wall that is wood paneling on the bottom half and frosted glass on the top half.

My lovely wife carries a box into the living area, and calls to me. "Looks like they left something behind when they moved." I come around to see what she's talking about, and sitting on the floor is a doll. Like many dolls, it's not particularly childlike in it's dimensions, looking more like a small woman rather than a little girl. It's also gray, and it's skin is shriveled up. Strands of brittle gray are mixed in with the blond hair on it's head. It's lips have also shriveled, exposing little teeth behind them. It's eyelids are sunken inward, opened slightly to expose blackness where it's eyes should have been.

So, yeah, the previous tenants had left a little tiny corpse behind. A little tiny corpse in a blue dress. Charming.

I realize that my lovely wife has left to get another box. I look at the doll for a minute, then follow her out. Coming back in, I hear her say, "Well, you're going to have to get rid of it. I don't want the kids playing with this thing.". I ask why I have to do it, really not wanting anything to do with the ugly little bugger, and she gives me that look that tells me that there isn't any good reason for it being my job, but if I insist on arguing about it she'll find one. I sigh and go back into the room.

When I come around the corner, I stop because the doll isn't where it was before. I get a little irritated, wondering why, if she was going to pick it up anyway, my lovely wife didn't just throw it out. I look around and see that it's now sitting in the corner of the room. Its arms are down at its side now, and its little head is turned to the spot I'm standing in, tilted sideways as if considering me. I hesitate, finally realizing that something isn't right about all of this, and then walk over to and and reach down to pick it up.

And it raises its little head, and reaches for me too.

Oh Internet, Is There Anything You Can't Do?

Ah, the internet. Will you ever cease to amaze me? Every time I think we've run out of things to make new web sites about, the internet steps in and proves that people are even more wonderfully weird than I could have ever imagined. I'm just glad a have a group of forumites decent enough to hunt down the goods, that I may pass them along to you.

Take this site for example. Whether your for or against the potential Palin Presidency (ooh, there's that chill I get every time I say that), you have to admire the sheer detail of this thing. What's more impressive to me is the promise to update it until November 4th. At first I took that as an empty promise, but then I click this morning, and there's an annoying drip on the desk that, when clicked, brings none other than Joe "Not Event Registered To Vote?" Plumber, winner of last night's debate. Nice.

As if silly views of current events wasn't enough, how about the internet's constant stream of news that I might have otherwise missed? A granny get's mugged, then surprises assailants by turning out to be a former cross-country champion. A Cambodian couple's divorce ends in separating their property, literally. Or my personal favorite, the dude who tried to pay for his fast food with weed. Have it your way indeed.

But that's the usual stuff. How about something really weird? Well, have a look at uspide down dogs. It's a website where people post pictures of their dogs. Upside down. The dogs I mean. Actually, the pictures are upside down too. So it's a website where people post pictures of their upside down dogs upside down. And people have the nerve to claim that there's no new ideas.

Oh, I suppose the internet is also good for the mass sharing of information allowing an unprecedented flow of knowledge that has changed the way humanity approaches many aspect of day to day lives, bringing people together across traditional social and societal boundaries and allowing us to share in the humanity of others in ways we had never previously dreamed of. Or whatever.

But dude...upside down dogs. That's solid gold, baby. Solid gold.

***Update***
Apparently, Joe is in fact a registered Republican. Unfortunately his name is spelled wrong, so there's a good chance he'll be blocked from casting a regular ballot on November 4th.

At Least I Was On Key

Last night, I stepped back and viewed the entire political situation through my 3-B glasses (that's three beers for those of you who missed Strange Brew). Today, I'm a calmer, more peaceful person, and will try to not let the shenanigans of others enrage me quite like they have in the last week or so. In that vein, I will now use Scott Kurtz as my muse, and share with you one of those wonderfully painful, horrific and yet highly amusing stories I occasionally like to put down here.

In high school I was a choir boy. I also liked to act, so I naturally found my way into the various musicals the school would put on. As a result, my junior year found me taking the lead in the school production of Guys and Dolls. I like to pretend that I achieved this through my singing and acting skills, and not my ability to grow a full beard which made me look appropriately sinister for the role of a professional gambler.

So, it's opening night. The gym/auditorium is pretty well packed with family members, faculty, students...the usual high school musical crowd. The show is going well. No major screw ups have occurred, the singing has been pretty good, yadda yadda yadda. Overall, this is a success thus far.

I leave the stage after a big number and proceed to the small room they have designated for the men to go change outfits in. I shut the door, and was suddenly reminded that before a big show, I probably shouldn't have opted for for my traditional weekend snack of a giant grinder from Mancino's. My stomach was growling painfully.

Fortunately, I remembered that our changing room was also one of the many mostly soundproof rooms set in the walls of the choir/band room of the high school. I quickly peeked out the door to ensure that no one was loitering in my area, and, quietly apologizing to whomever it was who was going to have to change after me, proceeded to rip several extraordinarily loud and boisterous farts in a row. Having alleviated my stomach issues, I continued to change my outfit. I took off the jacket I was wearing, and that's when I realized that I had made a grave error.

I was still wearing the wireless microphone.

The little red light indicating that I had forgotten to turn it off stared at me accusingly. I was frozen, mortified at the thought of my trumpeting being broadcast through the auditorium speakers, trying to remember if there had been any tell tale grunts or noises of relief either proceeding or following any of the bursts. I waited, listening for...I don't know what. I was picturing the crowd in hysterics, people gasping, old ladies fainting...all as the choir director frantically ran around trying to locate the source of the new instrumental number.

After a minute or two without indecent, I continued changing, still terrified of what I had to face when I left the room. It turned out that the thick concrete of the walls had stopped the signal from reaching the masses, and I was spared the humiliation of facing my classmates after carpet bombing a musical. So, let that me a lesson to you - always, always make sure your microphone is off as soon as you leave the stage. The life you save may be your own.

On the other hand, I was always left wondering, if the signal had gotten through, would I have been the one voted "Most Musical"?

I'm Thinking Maybe I Need A Time Out

Okay, so I'm a having a little trouble getting started today. The issue is that I try to keep DLOG a nice mix of sweet and sour - a little bit of political ranting here, a random bit of humor there, etc. As such, I feel like I should be offering the sugar bowl after yesterday's bit of anger.

Problem is that frankly, I don't feel better. Everything I try to write about today is angry. Not my typical "oh this will make for a funny rant" anger either. This is something darker, and not really like me. I think the point where I was addressing the inmate who was trying to claim that he's too fat to be humanely executed, and I found myself suggesting they put an apple in his mouth and throw him over a spit, I realized that maybe today, I should just skip the whole thing. (Be glad I deleted that one and started over...you're missing the really dark stuff.)

So yeah, I think today we're going for brevity. In lieu of the funny I should have brought, I'm linking you to yesterday's PvP, which contained a line that, last night as I tried to sleep, repeatedly popped into my head and made me laugh. These small laughs, like hugs from my babies or a moment watching the birds flock for the Fall, are the small pressure valves that keep me from popping on days like today.

The Thing Is I Really Don't Want To Pack Again

This weekend, it was put on me to try and discuss the upcoming election with family. This is not something I would ever consider doing on my own, and having made a feeble attempt at it, I know why. It's not that I don't believe that I'm making the right choice - I know I am. It's that our country is now so broken that there's pretty much no reason to discuss this stuff anymore.

See, we all have these things we believe are important. We have a wide gamut of ideas and opinions that make up our personalities. Unfortunately, our current system forces us to put all of that aside and back one of two people, and because of how far the divisiveness in this country has gone, making that decision has turned into an emotional one. People make their decision, and somehow they seem to become immediately radical over that decision. It's not enough to discuss ideas anymore. There's no room for hope of us coming together anymore. We hate them and they hate us.

Game on.

Typically, I try to be an agent of hope, but I'm losing that edge now. It doesn't help that, from my point of view anyway, one of our countries great leaders has been irretrievably corrupted by this process. Seriously, eight years ago I wanted McCain to run. I wanted to see him battle Gore. I wanted to be genuinely torn about who to vote for.

Now, I see him as something different. I see him as someone who has allowed his messages and ideas to be corrupted in the name of securing a party ticket and winning. I see him standing by quietly while his people put ideas into American's heads that aren't just misdirection, they are often lies. Do I believe the Obama campaign is innocent of this? Please. I'm not an idiot. But the tone is different. Bending and spinning to appease the masses is one thing - I don't like it, but it's politics. Instigating hatred and anger, actively working to deepen trench that I honestly believe could be leading to the end of this country...well, it's just not something that I ever would have associated with McCain, and now that I do, I can't imaging supporting him, as a candidate or as a President.

I guess that's the scariest thing for me right now. I'm actually to the point where, having seen my own countrymen yelling out things like "kill him" and "bomb them" at Republican rallies, hearing stories of people openly yelling racial epithets at a camera man, or accepting ideas like Obama is a Muslim terrorist (he's a Christian Senator for God's sake), or even better, saying that he's an "arab" (born in the USA), I'm thinking about giving up. If this is what the people want, if this is the group that we're backing, and we want our decisions to be driven by fear and divisiveness, by actual,domestic terrorists, that's fine. You guys do what you have to do. But I'm done.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that after the campaign that he has run, if he wins, then that tone, for me, will define our country. We hate you, you hate us, and that's that. If this is the extent of the hope I can muster for our future, if that's really where I think we're headed, I will genuinely consider leaving. I don't want to be in a place where we're willing to overlook ignorance and threats of terrorism so long as it's from someone who's on our side. I don't want to be in a place where all we can see of each other is what divides us, forgetting that, for all our disagreements, we're still human and share more in common with each other than we imagine. And I really don't want to live in a place where my leader, the person I look to to embody all that is good and strong about our country, got his power by inciting hatred and anger, or allowing others to do it for him. That isn't what I thought my country was about.

I had kind of hoped that others felt the same way.

Dark Dreams: The Two Starcases

Picture a room about the size of a high school gymnasium. The walls, about 20 feet high, are all concrete painted a light gray. They are featureless save for a bank of small, embedded windows that go across the top, giving the impression that the majority of the room is underground. This sense is deepened by the fact that the only other features in the room are two staircases, also concrete, with the standard metal railings one would expect in an industrial setting. The staircases both go up to the same wall, one of the short walls of the rectangle, and both go down in the same direction, giving the entire space a near perfect symmetry. At the top of each stair case, against the long wall, is a single door, a large, metal thing painted the same shade as the rest of the room with the exception of polished steel handles and hinges.

Are you picturing it?

I'm standing at the top of one of the staircases. I don't know how I got there, but I know I was put there on purpose. I try the door next to me, and it's locked. Looking across the room, I can see the other staircase and the other door. They are about fifteen feet away from me, and for some reason, I'm sure that the other door is not locked. So I start down the stairs, and that's when I notice that the entire floor of the room is under about four feet of water. The entire room, expect for the staircases, is submerged.

The water is completely full of bodies. The bodies are the same gray as the walls except for the clothing and hair.

The water is not still. Instead, it churns slowly as if there is a source coming in from somewhere. I don't think the water is getting deeper, and I watch the staircases to make sure. Still, I know that if I want to get out, I will have to wade through the water. Through the bodies. I start to panic, and wonder why I'm being forced to do this. I start walking down the stairs towards the water, the entire time looking across the expanse of bodies, slowly shifting and sliding, each being gently moved along with the water.

I am about three steps away from the bottom of the stairs when I look across again at the other staircase. As my eyes trail back, I see that one of the bodies is face up, and his open eyes appear to be looking at me almost greedily. I stop, breathless, temporarily frozen by the gaze. I shake my head and tell myself to keep moving, telling myself that they are all dead. The eyes in the gray face staring at me roll back into the man's head, a small moan escapes his now gently smiling lips, and he shifts below the other bodies, engulfed by the water.

And I know that I was wrong. I know that not everything in this room, not everything in this water that I have no choice but to cross, is completely dead. Those that aren't...well, they don't intend to let me reach the other side.

Yes, I Know It Didn't Happen, But You Still Shouldn't Have Said That

I should have known I was getting seriously sick when my dreams turned on me. Most of the time, I dream, but it's inconsequential. I wake up, and they're gone. The exceptions are rare, and are typically nightmares or what I've gotten in the last week, which are strongly negative emotional dreams. What strikes me most about both is that, upon waking, you know you were dreaming, but you can't shake the emotional response.

On Saturday morning, I woke up convinced the world was either entirely pissed at me, or was about to be. In my dreams, both my boss and my wife were angry with me (which is of course preposterous, what with me being the perfect employee and husband). What was worse, though, was that there was this additional dread, what I think of as report card anxiety, where there was some other thing that I had done that neither of them knew about yet, but was going to really make them mad. (Did I ever mention that, at times, I was not the most applied student?) I don't know what it was, but it was so intense that when I woke up, I spent the first half of my day with this dread hanging over me, trying to figure out what it was that I had done that was going to bring it all down on me.

Last night was even stranger. I dreamed that my lovely wife and I were fighting. Not like boxing, or even yelling at each other. Instead, in my dream I was driving down the road, and the entire time she was harping on things I do when driving that irritate her. Now, let me be quick to point out that, while she will let me know when something bugs her, this is not a constant occurrence in real life, and when she expresses criticism, it is typically in a constructive manner. In the dream it got so bad that, in an effort to dramatize that I took a corner too sharply, she leaned into me, causing me to actually drive off the road.

The dream went on for a little bit more, and then I woke up around five in the morning. I went to the bathroom, I went back to bed, and then nothing. No sleeping. Why not? Because I was &$%#ing furious with my lovely wife over this fictitious altercation. I just lay there, internally grumbling about how I was just trying to drive, and if she had so many problems with how I drove, why didn't she ever offer to drive, blah blah blah. All over something that never really happened. Bizarre.

The funny thing to me is that first, it never happened, and second, even after waking up enough to use the restroom, I couldn't shake the anger. Eventually, I did get back to sleep, but when the alarm went off, I felt like I hadn't slept at all, and I was half expecting her and I to start bickering. Fortunately, we didn't, and I've figured out that my dreams are being driven by my illness (despite the last year's events, I really don't get sick often, and forget how getting really sick effects me). Hopefully, this realization means that tonight I'll actually rest and dream about normal things.

After all, the Enterprise isn't going to just start captaining itself.

Once In A While, I Do Notice My Surroundings

Today, I sit at home, having called in sick. Of course I feel bad about it, and I'm surprised I did it at all, but after a week of headaches and the fourth day of waking up to find that a deep breath gives the impression of someone squeezing a sponge in my chest, I decided it was best. That is all I have to say about that.

Instead, I need to tell you about something wonderful. See, we moved over here last year. I've never really had the chance (or taken the time) to describe this, and it's worth describing.

Our drive to school each morning is nothing short of amazing.

My favorite season is Fall, and it's like someone sat down and tailored the perfect stretch of road just for the season. In the ten minutes it takes to get the Moose's day care, I feel like I've taken a full tour of the best Fall has to offer.

First, the entire road is thickly lines with woods on either side, tall trees that practically explode with color. Right now, they are just getting started, small bursts of pinks and reds and oranges amongst the wall of green. Each day, it gets a bit brighter, until the drive is like barreling down a kaleidoscope each morning, colors blurring by as you go.

Now this is not so unusual, and we had a similarly woodsy drive, in spots anyway, where we were before. What really takes it the next step here is the intense fog we get. Rain or shine, we begin to develop this thick fog that, because of the hilly terrain, moves and gathers into deep pockets along the road. Frequently, the road itself has little or no fog, save the occasional crepuscular rays shooting through the colored leaves, where alongside it pools of white and gray fog lay so thickly that you can't see anything that lies beneath or beyond them. It's a dazzling effect.

The best part is that there is one major intersection with a light on our path, and we have to stop there almost every day. To our right and our left are the think woods I described earlier. Ahead of us, on the left, is a wide field with a gentle, uphill gradient leading away from the road. At the top of the hill is a large, white house with columns across the front. During the peak of the season, the fog rolls down the gradient and lays across the field in such a way that you can see the white and gray layers as you look across it.

Across from this field lay another field, and as Bob is my witness, it is a giant pumpkin patch. The word giant can be applied to both the field itself, as well as the mind bogglingly tremendous pumpkins that lie therein. At the far edge of the field is a red brick farmhouse, and behind that is the standard red barn with white trim where you can go buy the pumpkins and the kids can go on a hayride.

You know, when I moved here, I said that it was like moving into a cliche of what small town America is supposed to look like. This is more than that. It's like someone painted a picture of a perfect Fall day and, upon seeing it, someone else decided to go ahead and implement it as if it was a blueprint. So for all my grousing about elections and illness and whatnot, each weekday for the next couple of month, I know I get to go on my morning drive and see everything that I love about this season.

It's not a bad way to start a day.

Sometimes...Sometimes I Need To Lie

As some of you know, one of the reasons I started this blog was a need to write, and failing any attempts at fiction, I decided that it was better just to write anything that to give it up entirely. So, five days a week (or as close to it as I can come) I sit down and throw a wall of text at you good people. Some days I talk about things that happen to me, some days I talk about things that make me mad or things I can make fun of, but the point is that I write.

Well once again the urge to put down words of fiction is rising in me, and I don't know why. I keep wanting to tell stories, to get these weird little ideas out of my head. What's interesting to me is that I've been paying attention to the people in my forum, and there seems to be a lot of them who have this same urge. Now, this is hardly a standard demographic, what with all of us being there presumably because we all enjoy the same webcomic, but still, I'm surprised by the number of them who have this creative urge. Many write, some tell stories, other do both serious and comedic webcomics, occasionally someone puts up a crude drawing of themselves sitting naked at their computers cursing out the rest of us (awkward), but the point is that there is a strong creative urge among them.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, but it's strange, right? I mean, why do we do it? Why do we feel the need to share these fictions? Is it a way to express some aspect of ourselves in a way that we can't express directly? Is it a need to try and seek out truths that are somehow to big to handle by simple discussion?

Perhaps it's something more than that. Perhaps our need to create is somehow ingrained into us. I can't find the quote, but somewhere in Neil Gaiman's Sandman books, someone explains it as the difference between the animals and men - the ability to dream and tell stories, to take something that exists purely in the mind and make it real for others.

Either way, I think I'm going to find someplace to start doing so. It won't be here - I tend to run a PG-13 shop around here, and I couldn't guarantee that same level of cleanliness where my lies are concerned. I'll have to find some darker corner of the web to haunt. In the meantime, to work out some of this for myself, I will be treating you all to a taste of something interesting later this week in celebration of Halloween - I've decided to share some of my favorite nightmares with you. So each Friday, up to Halloween, I will share one of the things that has snapped me awake at night, leaving me gasping and afraid to so much as move.

Hey, what good is an audience if you can't make them suffer along with you?

Technically, It's a Grammar Complaint

I keep trying to get away from the political stuff around here, so instead today we will discuss language. We all have our little accents here in the USA. I like to think that I do not, but my lovely wife points out that like most people in these parts I rarely say the 't' at the end of Detroit. Ah well, it's something to work on.

Being entrenched in the process whereby my daughter will learn to read, I have once again become acutely aware of how difficult it is to claim that things can just be sounded out, a fact that these accents make worse. That said, there are is one thing spoken incorrectly that I can not abide by. This term has no reason for existing, and for my money, falls well outside of an accent tissue and into a realm of almost intentional stupidity. Now, for those of my readers who are actually literate (pause to acknowledge silliness of this expression in a blog), please read the following word:

Nuclear

I was willing to overlook the fact that one tremendous boob pronounced this word incorrectly, because he was, as previously stated, a tremendous boob. Now there's another one out there, talking on television, trying to assume a mantle of power, and she can't say it either. So is this an accent thing. To the people of Alaska and the people of Texas share a common accent? Is there a whole slew of Americans that I am unaware of who feel the need to pepper their words with extra syllables? Is it a balance thing, where the syllable extracted from "You all" to make the sound "Y'all" is being used to extend this word? Seriously, just what the hell is going on here?

Maybe this really is a widespread issue, and I'm just not well traveled enough to know about it. You guys are from all over, right? Do people where you're from talk like this? Do YOU talk like this? Do you judge those that do? If not, why not? (Note: any admission to using this word in such a manner should probably be posted as anonymous in the comments section, as it will almost certainly result is some manner of judgment on your character - sorry, but all I have to go on is these two, and they aren't the brightest stars in the sky if you know what I mean.)

Now I know it's just a word, and that one should not allow themselves to get worked up about such things. I just get frustrated because these are the people representing us, and I hate to think of people in other countries associating me as being in the same shed as these particular tools. At least neither of the actual Presidential candidates uses the offending version of it.

Dude, I totally blew that whole "getting away from politics" thing again, didn't I?

A Modest Proposal...Or Two

Well, I watched the debate and was truly disappointed. Both candidates held their own, and no one did anything that will make themselves easy targets for future comedy. Biden came across as experienced and able to speak to many facets of governmental and international workings. Palin raised her standing from tremendous twit to merely brutally unqualified. Of course, I may be biased.

Somehow, it has up until now escaped my knowledge that here in Michigan we also have a couple of proposals to vote on. I'm a big fan of such proposals most of the time, as it gives me the impression that I actually live in a democracy where my opinion can directly affect the laws that govern me. Of course I usually just end up feeling put out at the fact that so many people differ so wildly from my opinion, but hey, that the whole melting pot thing, right?

So, I'm going to do my civic duty and talk about these issues in case you missed them, my fellow Michiganders. If you're one of my readers from another state, or don't feel like reading a long, unfunny post from me about real life (I wouldn't blame you), you can feel free to go read Get Fuzzy. It's funny, and it makes me happy.

So, first we have Proposal 1, which is the legalization of medical marijuana in the state of Michigan. Now, I personally don't understand why this is even a question, but then I support the legalization of a lot of drugs that are currently illegal anyway. Once we have a practical, proven use of something that could benefit people who are suffering, why would we continue to protest that use? You want to stop the recreational use that full legalization would entail (along with the subsequent tax income and reduction in drug related crime), fine. But for medical purposes, there is no reason we shouldn't be supporting this.

For more information, you can go to the Michigan Coalition for Compassionate Care, the creators of the proposal. In the name of fairness, I will also link to this press release from the group Citizens Protecting Michigan's Kids. As usual I will point out that it seems that the way to protect kids is through legislation, not personal parental responsibility. Funny how consistent that is.

Proposal 2 I'm all screwed up about. The second proposal would allow embryonic stem cell research under very specific conditions, those conditions being that the embryo was created for the purpose of in-vitro fertilization, is not going to be used for that purpose (and thus will be destroyed), and is less than 14 days old. I can honestly say that I have no idea how I feel about this. I can see the need for stem cell research. I can see where this will open Michigan up to compete in the arena of medical science, one of the only areas other than our failing automotive industry where we have traditionally done well. So this could open up a lot of opportunities for us, as well as help to advance medical science and help people who are suffering.

Ignoring some of the protests I've heard (including the threat of "weird science" and a television ad you may have seen claiming that it's going to cost taxpayers - an ad that the makers have since had to admit is patently false), this whole thing makes me a little queasy. I am, for various reasons, pro-life. I'm not militant about it. I don't necessarily want to overturn current laws. It's just my gut feeling that there's something not right about it. Most of this comes from my knowledge of late term abortions, which I cannot accept as anything other than killing. Once that idea takes seed, it's hard to follow a pregnancy backwards and say at what point it would be nothing more than a blob of cells, which obviously at some point it is. (Sorry, I know this isn't as much fun as my usual posts, but hey, I have to be real occasionally.) So to say that at fourteen days were okay to do what we want isn't a simple thing.

I'm not supplying links to more information on that one. It's too charged a topic and too personal, and the pages I found were not impartial enough to be accurate or even useful. (Seriously, one talked like there were legions of mad scientists waiting for this to pass so we could create a human-bovine hybrid. What the point of such a creation would be is beyond me, but apparently it's a big concern. I'm guessing it has to do with advanced stripper technology and breaking the two ta-ta ceiling that has held us back for so long, but that's not really my area of expertise.) I would encourage you to do your own research if you haven't already made up your mind. Hell, do more research even if you have.

These proposals to me seem more important that the electing of officials. When we elect officials, all we can hope for is that this other person, who we agree with to some measure, will follow through on whatever promises they've made that we liked. With the proposals, we get to directly affect the way our country works. I can't see a greater use of democracy, or a greater responsibility of our citizens, than to take them seriously, give them the consideration they deserve, and make your opinion known.

Unless you disagree with me - then stay home and keep your opinions to your damned selves.

Soon, This Blog Will Be Blacklisted From School Libraries. Sweet.

In the flurry of financial chaos and preparations for the train wreck that is to be the Vice Presidential debate tonight (I'm almost giddy when I think about how inevitably uncomfortable it's going to be), a fairly important item almost slipped by without mention. September 27 - October 4 is this years Banned Books Week. This is something worth noting, people.

Celebrated each year by the American Library Association, Banned Books Week gives us a chance to reflect on our remaining freedoms, one of which is the right to read pretty much any damned thing we want to. For a lot of us, we don't worry much about it, but we should. There are always people who want to protect everyone from themselves, who refuse to believe that people can withstand information and still remain themselves. I'm sure, for some, that is correct. For most, however, this is ridiculous.

A quick look at the most challenged books of 2007-2008 (PDF) shows some of the items that are always requested for banning, along with the reasons for the request. It's funny to me that the same things come up each year. It's not funny to me that sometimes they are actually removed from libraries, albeit school libraries.

Take, for example, the Harry Potter books. Once again we find the Harry Potter books being requested for removal on the basis that they promote witchcraft. Okay, setting aside for the moment that the books are clearly labeled fiction, let us approach the greater point that there's no such &$%#ing thing as witchcraft. You might as well protest the Smurfs because they encourage people to be blue and go around topless. An even greater point for me, however, is that the closest thing you can get to witchcraft in the real world is Wiccans, which is treated by those who believe in such things as religion. So, ban Harry Potter, you need to consider banning any texts that promote any religion at all, a slippery slope to be sure.

Even more important from my point of view is Mark Twain. See, Mark Twain's stories take place during a dark time in our country. As a result, people tend to use racial epithets rather casually, because that's how people were back then. As I understand it, they are frequently put up for banning for this reason, and this reason alone.

Now, I'm a white guy. I can't honestly say that there is any word in the English language that someone could throw at me that would truly upset me. Having said that, I attempt to sympathize with those for whom this is not true. Nonetheless, I cannot support removing the texts from libraries. It's our history. Pretending that it didn't happen removes any lessons that we can learn going forward, and no matter how far we would like to pretend we've come as a country, deep down, most of us know we're not where we need to be yet.

So yeah, don't try to ban books because they talk about drugs or sex, or the people you're trying to protect will have to rely on their idiot friends or the internet for this information. Don't try to ban books because they point out mistakes of our past, or we'll do that *$&% again and be all surprised when someone points out how wrong we were the first time. Don't try to ban books because they don't jive with your religion because someone else believes in something that your religion doesn't jive with. Is that clear? If you're concerned about someone you care about reading something that will have an effect on them, discuss it with them, but don't kid yourselves - you can't stop information.

This message has been brought to you by the Drug-fueled Wiccans Supporting Easier Access to Free Erotica Association of America.

And Again With the Cop Outs

Okay, today had a run to the doctor with a sick kid, many meetings, and, you know, my job and all. So yeah, it's gonna be a short one. In place of a blog post I will instead link to a short treatise that I think pretty well sums up my opinions of our country at this moment. Please, take a moment and watch. Hopefully, you will feel the same way as I do.

Freddie Krueger Has Got Nothing On CNN

Fifteen to twenty minutes is exactly how much time experts recommend you take a nap. It's just enough time to leave you refreshed, but not so long that you enter a deep sleep, which can leave you groggy. It's just right. I was thinking about this last night when, after fifteen or twenty minutes of sleep, my lovely wife woke me and asked me to check on the Princess.

Now I don't begrudge my wife for this. I've said before that this is one of my duties, and while not my favorite, I accept it. So I got up, checked on her, and tried, very unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep.

Last night, it was partially the perfect nap causing this, but mostly it was the television being on. Ordinarily I can ignore whatever she's watching and got to sleep, but last night, some joker on CNN made that an impossibility. See, he was ranting and yelling about how the House defeat of the federal bailout bill, and subsequent drop in the market was going to affect everyone in America.

Essentially, he was trying to convince us that we were all screwed.

Now, I'm ordinarily immune to such FUD tactics. I know it makes a good story. I know it get's people energized to act, even sometimes on stupid things. I don't listen, because the person spitting this stuff is emotional, and thus irrational.

Unfortunately, when I'm half awake, it can get in. So after a few minutes, I was laying there with a ball of fire in my stomach, convinced that everyone I know and love (me included) were all going to lose everything they had. I panicked over my friends who can't get jobs. I panicked over my relatives potentially nearing retirement. I panicked over that clause in every car loan and mortgage that says that the bank can demand to be paid in full at any time.

I ended up getting up and having a drink. I tried to watch television, but I was too emotional. I started crying. I cried when I though about all that I've lost this year. I cried when I though I might not be able to help those that I love. I cried when they pulled Spiderman back into the train and those two kids gave him his mask back. At that point, it became clear that I was having an over-emotional response and I calmed down.

I still didn't get back to bed until midnight, and I have no idea how long it took to sleep after that. I ended up in my usual forum, making snarky remarks, reading random jokes, playing a wonderful choose-your-own-adventure zombie movie (NSFW or mother-in-laws). I got my perspective back. I'm just mad that I let it get to me at all. I know better. For all the panic and terror that they can spin, people are adaptable. We'll get through.

Unfortunately, this does mean I'll be putting off some much needed home renovations, but hey, we're all tightening the belts, right?

It Came From YouTube: Kidd Video

Like a lot of kids in my generation, I watched too much television when I was young. It wasn't as easy back then. We didn't have Disney or Nickelodeon. We had one day a week, in fact only half a day, to pack in all the cartoon goodness we could get. We had Saturday mornings.

The thing of it is, you forget some of these things, and then one day, you randomly remember some show you watched as a kid. Not a big name. Not a Smurfs or a Tom & Jerry. Not even a He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. No, some show that was on a couple of years, somehow hooked you, and then vanished without a trace.

Such a show was Kidd Video.

Kidd Video had a typically ridiculous premise. A rock band of four young people gets sucked into a cartoon world, The Flip Side, where they are pursued by Master Blaster, a fat guy hell bent on forcing them to create music for him to profit from while making everyone else do anything he wanted (kind of like the RIAA actually). There was of course a fairy on their side, complete with headband and leg warmers. Seriously, the only way this show could have gotten more eighties is if Micheal Jackson had occasionally run through holding a Pepsi with his head on fire.

So what was the hook? They were a band in the spawning MTV generation. That allowed two things. First, each episode featured a popular song being redone by the band playing in the background, typically during a Scooby Doo-esque chase scene. I distinctly remember them doing a cover of Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" (I'm guessing they didn't concern themselves as much back then about song meanings). Then, at the end of each episode, they would have an actual video by the band.

Well, I got curious (which is almost always a bad thing), and Googled them, and by God, there they were. The ridiculous outfits, the mediocre but catchy tunes, the whole mess, right there on YouTube. There are times when I don't know if the internet is a good thing or a bad thing in terms of information never dying. This, my friends, is one of those times. The highlight of the video, for me anyway, is that it gives us a taste of what diversity meant in the eighties. As you will see, the band featured three white guys with different hair types and colors (which was all the diversity one required back then), and a Latina girl who says not-at-all-stereotypical things like "Aye aye aye". It's a small world indeed.

And so, without further ado, I give you: Kidd Video

Better Than Nothing

Tired and distracted today, so a full post is unlikely. I will take a moment to say that I was really looking forward to tonight's debate, but someone Washington Post ruined it for me. Man, I hate spoilers.

Boy, Micheal Crichton Missed the Boat on That One

Ah, technology. Technology allows me to schedule posting here, so even today, while I am away, I get to bring you, my readers, another rambling post on the weirdness that is this world. Life is good.

First, an epic fail. PETA, who has practically mastered the epic fail, has put in a suggestion to Ben and Jerry's that, in an effort to be more humane, all their ice creams should cease using cow's milk and should instead be created with human breast milk. Ignoring the obvious humor that could be derived from naming such ice cream (yes, I do occasionally take the high road), one has to wonder why they do things like this.

You know, I'm not real fond of dairy products. For the most part, I don't eat dairy products. Besides being kind of icked out with the whole bodily fluids thing, I know that the conditions that the cows are often subjected to can be pretty harsh. I'm sure there are exceptions (something I say to avoid receiving letters from angry dairy farmers), but I've heard some stuff I'd rather have not heard.

The problem with PETA is that they pull these stunts that are so preposterous that the stunt outshines whatever they were trying to say. So in the end, all they get out of it is a little free press, where they are soundly ridiculed and mocked for being as ridiculous as they are. What they are not is heard. Pity.

In brighter news, a scientist at the California Polytechnic State University drilled a hole in a hunk of amber and extracted a colony of yeast (among other, not so interesting bacteria and whatnot) that could be up to 45 million years old. What's really cool is that they were able to activate that yeast, even after all of that time. So, what to you do with 45 million year old yeast?

You brew beer out of it of course.

Unfortunately, you have to be in the California area to score a bottle of anything from the Fossil Fuels Brewing Company, but I assure you that if I was, I would give it a go. For now, I'll have to stick to Bell's. Actually, I'm pretty much okay with that.

And where am I today, that I might be away from a computer for too long a period to actually write this for you. I'm at my Alma Mater, trying to convince students not to abandon the sinking ship that is Michigan, but rather to come to my neck of the woods and work for my company. Hopefully, some of them will listen.

Until tomorrow kids, be good. Oh, and feel free to take the low road on the whole Ben & Jerry's ice cream naming things. That's what the comments section is there for.

To Think I Used To Listen To the Radio

Like most mornings, I dropped the boy off and the Princess and I were wending our way to the elementary school where she hangs out with other first graders. Typically, I use this time to chat with her, remind her of our current goals, quiz her on spelling words...that sort of thing. Today, after a really rotten night of sleep, I found that I had zoned out without speaking for a mile or two, when my lovely daughter of six presented me with the following statement.

"You know dad, life never stops."

Needless to say, she had my attention. When pressed for details, she explained that babies are born, and if they are girl babies, they grow up, and then they have babies of their own. That happens "over and over and over and over". That's why life never stops.

As usual, I was stunned by her ability to think about things. I was also a bit relieved that we were speaking biologically, what with the original statement lending itself to a more philosophical interpretation that would have required more intellectual processing than my feeble brain can manage on less than a pot of coffee on days such as today. My relief was short lived, however, as she proceeded to smack me upside the noggin with the follow up postulation.

"Life never stops, and that's why life is true."

Had you been in the car with us, you might very well have heard the buzzing sound as my brain short circuited right there. You might even have caught the faint aroma of smoke. I asked her to repeat the thought, and instead she pushed me further. She said, "Life is true because...", and then she looked at me in the rear-view mirror, eyebrows raised, waiting patiently.

I responded, somewhat feebly, "Because...life never stops?"

She nodded. "Right. And?"

Well, I was spent. I told her I didn't know. I put it back on her, but she wouldn't elaborate any further. I was told that I was supposed to guess the answer, and that she wouldn't tell it to me. So when I left her, I had learned that life is true because it never stops, and that there was more to it, but it was up to me to find out what it is. Wow. I expected to occasionally learn things from my kids, but I didn't realize that they would be so deep. Frankly, I kind of miss her old, more literal style of declarations.

After all, not a lot of interpretation is necessary when presented with something like "Never lick the table".

Programmer, Google Thyself

This morning, prompted by a Slashdot poll, I Googled myself. I like to thing of our readership as into technology enough to know what that means, what with the fact that you have to at least be able to use the internet to read this in the first place, but just in case you're not, or your wife helped you get here, I'll explain. Googling yourself is when you go to www.Google.com and search your name.

Previously, the first couple of results that came back were a picture of me reading to the Princess's elementary school, and then my Linked In profile. Well, the picture has vanished from the results, so now my profile is number one. This is a good thing, as employers now make this Googling a regular part of the hiring process, and my profile is all squeaky clean and whatnot.

The second result was a Facebook profile. This is fine, because I'm smart enough to keep my Facebook account reasonable clean as well (remember kids, once it's on the net it's fair game for life). So I clicked through to see what comes up, and the results are, shall we say, distressing. You see, what I found was some other dude who's name is the same as mine.

Not cool.

This displeases me for numerous reasons. First, I don't want to be mistaken for this guy. Now I don't actually know anything about this guy other than his/my name, so I've technically got nothing to fear there so far, but what if he suddenly goes nuts? You wouldn't want to open the news and find a headline saying something like "[Your name here] Goes On Vicious Puppy Kicking Rampage, Publicly Molests Cantaloupes Before Arrest". Well, I don't either.

More disconcerting to me, however, is the fact that, at least in his tiny profile picture, this other fellow seems to be lacking any facial hair. Now, I currently sport a beard, and while I am constantly tempted to shave it off, what with having to change my appearance every few months to throw off my enemies, it is still there. It's not a goatee, but between the two of us, I'm closer to that than he is. This can mean only one thing.

I'm the evil one.



So the question is this: do I add this person as a friend on Facebook in an effort to learn more about him? It seems creepy, but at the same time, if we are in fact some variety of doppelgangers, then we need to know at least the whereabouts of the other, lest we come into contact and inadvertently cancel each other out, ending our respective existences. And that's the best case scenario. There's always a chance that we could start a chain reaction that begins the unraveling of existence itself, eventually collapsing the entire universe back on itself until nothing is left but the empty, gaping maw of nothingness.

That, or I just need to legally change my name to my true name, Lord Darkraven Von Fancypants, master of possessed pantanloons. I'm pretty sure that one's still up for grabs.

At Least I Was Doing Laundry, So It Wasn't a Total Waste Of Time

Last night, I watched the Emmy awards, or at least I watched part of the Emmy awards. I don't watch for the awards, what with not actually watching enough TV to know what the &$%# any of them were talking about. I watch for the show itself. After last night, I might not make that mistake ever again.

I'm not sure what happened, but the show was just painful to watch. The five hosts were just awkward. The bits in between were rambling, unfunny, or both with the exception of those I expect funny from - Don Rickles, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Ricky Gervais, Tina Fey and Any Poeler were funny. That's pretty much it.

The show wasn't just not funny though. Something was off about the whole thing. The other attempts at humor weren't just no funny, they were hard to watch. As an example, the Laugh In reunion bit. I've never seen Laugh In, so I can't speak to whatever it is they were striving for. What they got was, well...there's this moment in Sunset Boulevard where the lady of the house, an aging and all but forgotten actress, is putting on a show for her beau. She's dressing up and trying to be funny, and he laughs, but his laugh feels forced, and you just end up pitying her. That's what they got.

Anyway, I don't know what was going on last night, but I bailed at my usual ten PM bedtime. From what I've read, I didn't miss anything by leaving when I did. Either way, I have to say that while these shows are typically forgettable, I don't think I'm going to forget this one for a while, which is a good thing. I'd hate to think of getting caught up in the same waste of time next year.

Methinks I Best Be Keepin' An Eye On This One

This morning again found me escorting the Princess into school to ensure the safe delivery of a trinket borrowed from a friend. I'm kind of like the armed courier of the first grade - you call me in when it absolutely has to get there. Anyway, while walking her in, something happened, and frankly, I'm still processing both how I allowed to it occur, and how I feel about it.

We're walking down the tiger hall towards class when a young man walks up. He says 'hi' to the Princess, she says 'hi' back. He announces that he know who I am because he's seen me bring her to class before. He begins a chicken impression, which makes her laugh. I'm just following along so I can catch his name, as learning names of the people she spends her time with is something I'm trying to work on.

Now then, at this point two things become apparent to me. The first is that my lovely daughter is no longer holding my hand like she was when we began down the hallway. The second, and more pernicious, observation, was that somehow I had been edged out, the two of them walking towards the wall until I was no longer even walking next to the Princess, but rather a pace behind. I may be overreacting, but I'm pretty sure at the age of six my daughter just reduced me to the role of forgotten chaperon for the first time.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of hyperbole. Obviously, they're not engaged or anything. It was an interesting moment though. Bringing daddy into school with her used to be kind of a big deal. Now I find myself taking a back seat to a curly-haired, clucking boy. I'm not entirely thrilled with it, but I suppose it's bound to happen.

On an unrelated note, today is international talk like a pirate day (which I do not really observe since we here at DLOG all talk like Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate, all the time anyway). As such Google has included pirate as a new language option, which is cool, but not as cool as my favorite Google language choice, Swedish Chef.

Bork bork bork. Truly, words to live by.

You! Yes, you! Stand still laddie!

Often, when I refer to my school days, I make passing jokes about not doing my work. The fact is that I didn't. I was easily distracted. I told a lot of jokes (shocking, I know). I goofed off in class. I was, in short, a kid.

I bring it up because we face a familiar song here. The Princess is having trouble following directions in school. Now, this doesn't come as a huge suprise to me. When tasked with something, she does just what I used to do. She starts in on it, seemingly whole-heartedly dedicated to the task, but quickly becomes distracted by something and wanders off task, only to be brought back by a reminder of what she was supposed to be doing.

What gets to me though is that when this came up in Kindergarten, and again when it came up this year, there was a subtle hint about the communications coming from the schools. Nothing blatant of course, but rather a suspicion on my part that the teachers are fishing for something in particular, a suspicion that was confirmed by my sister-in-law, a teacher herself. I suspect that they are trying to get us to question if our lovely daughter has ADHD.

ADHD, or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, has been kind of a scapegoat from what I can see, so the idea of someone trying to pin her behavior down like that infuriates me. In part, it's because I have no doubt that had this term been bandied around when I was a kid, my own parents would have happily diagnosed me and proceeded to medicate me into mediocrity ("better living through chemistry" was sort of a mantra in our household). Fortunately for me, when I was a kid we didn't throw pharmaceuticals at every behavioral problem, so instead of getting drugged, I was put into classes for advanced students, where I began to flourish.

Now I know that every parent has a blind spot when this sort of thing comes up. I know that we don't want to believe that anything is wrong with out children. So I am wary about the idea that maybe she's advanced instead of having some disorder. But when I look at how she becomes distracted, it just feels so damned familiar. She over thinks things. When she's given a task, she start brainstorming new ways to accomplish it, almost always over complicating things to the point of being ridiculous, but the sheer creativity involved is amazing. I have a hard time even considering that as something it would be beneficial to quash with a pill.

Also, I don't want to sound offhand about people who really do have ADHD. As someone who used to fight with depression, and at time still does, I can tell you that nothing is more frustrating than someone who doesn't know what you're going through telling you that it's all in your head. I'm lucky that I was able to control mine without medical assistance, but I can still feel it there, creeping around the edges of my mind. I know that if I'm not careful and vigilant, my natural tendency will always spin everything in a negative light. I also know that isn't the person that I am - it's something that's off. So to those who really have these issues, I sympathize.

Nonetheless, we will take on our daughter's behavior as something that just requires a little work. We're establishing routines. We're giving her more attention now that other things in our lives are finally settling down. I accept that I'm biased, but I know she'll be fine, and given the right guidance, something that didn't happen for me until it was too late, I think she could really blow everyone out of the water.

Of course it doesn't hurt that she's the most amazing little girl that's ever existed in the entire history of mankind. Ever.

By the Prickling of My Thumbs

This morning the Princess requested a Halloween hair pretty for her pony tail. I pointed out that Halloween isn't for over a month still, but she didn't care. "It's close enough."

Heh. That's my girl.

My favorite season is Fall for a lot of reasons. I like the weather. I like the trees changing color. I like apple cider and dougnuts. In fact, it's the best time to be here in Michigan, because I feel like it's the season where we really shine.

Most of all, I love Halloween.

Apparently most people don't realize it (I hide myself better than I know I guess), but I have this weird obsession with what I would consider 'spooks'. It's kind of funny, because I don't actually believe in any of that stuff, but given the chance I would foolishly squander my time sitting in front of the television absorbing mass quantities of horror movies.

Not just horror movies though. It has to be otherworldly. I have no interest in slasher films for example. I don't want to watch some guy in a mask hunting down teenagers with questionable morals. Not interested.

You throw in a ghost, a demon, an alien, a chupacabra...anything in the spook family, and I can't look away. It doesn't even have to be good. Lord, I don't even like to think about how many times I watched Killer Klowns from Outer Space when I was in school, and Evil Dead 2 still stands as a cinematic masterpiece as far as I'm concerned.

The fact that I'm a computer geek has done nothing but feed this. I'm a huge fan of survival horror games. As previously mentioned, at home I have a copy of Fatal Frame 2: Crimson Butterfly waiting to be fired up. I played about ten minutes before. I didn't even get to a save point, but it scared the bejeesus out of me. For reasons I don't understand, I can't wait to get back to it. If I don't have time for that, I can always find mini-fixes online, little terrors that creep around on the internet in the guise of adventure games. I don't recommend following any of those links at work, or at home in the dark. Maybe not in the light either. If that's not enough to ruin your sleep, throw a search for ghost into YouTube.

It's even manifested itself in my music selection. This time last year, I ordered myself a couple of CDs, something I haven't done in years. When the Princess asked me what they were, I told her they were Halloween music for grownups. It was true. It's good music that will sit well in the background when handing candy out, or even on the soundtrack of a scary movie. I'm currently eyeballing a Jill Tracy album that I can download from Amazon. It's even RIAA free. (I like spooks and all, but those guys are monsters.)

So as my summer burnout wanes, as the cool winds blow a restorative breath into my being, I find myself getting ready for the coming month. I get to carve pumpkins, and I have a porch to put them on. I get to hang spider webs. We get to hand out candy, and instead of being in an apartment building where we'll get ten or fifteen kids wandering by, we live in one of those neighborhoods that kids live for on these nights, the very neighborhood where my own tots had to declare defeat after only a couple of blocks last year, each carrying enough candy to kill a goat.

The only question is how the Princess will feel about me using her Barbie hair styling head as a prop in the upstairs window. That thing scares the Hell out of me. Why not use it to scare the Hell out of everyone else?

Everything's Coming Up Rose...Wait, What's That? KILL IT, KILL IT WITH FIRE!

Well, it's Tuesday in America, and every bit of news we're hearing is good, good, good. Well, as long as the only news you read is that George Takai of Star Trek fame at 71 finally getting to marry to his long time boyfriend. Oh, and TRL is ending, effectively reducing the total time of actual music on MTV to two hours of rap between 2 and 4 AM. If you read any other stories however, it's gloom and doom.

Yes, the good old US of A is now in a financial crisis of epic proportions. They're even suggesting that we might go into a recession. Now I'm not an economist, and I'm not sure at what point we get to call something a recession, but I'm pretty sure that an all time high unemployment rate probably qualified us for the title a while ago.

What's heartbreaking is that this isn't the most frustrating thing going on right now for me. No, for me it's all about the presidential campaign, and the sad thing that it has become. See, I keep making the mistake that people are essentially good, and honest. I also try to think of the majority of people as somewhat intelligent. I know we're not a nation of Einsteins, but I like to think of us as reasonable anyway.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, politics has proven me wrong. The people running the presidential campaigns have once again resorted to stretching the truth so far it makes taffy seem like a solid base by comparison. What's really awful is that's the group that seems to be taking "the high road", like both campaigns promised they were going to do. The other campaign is outright lying about various topics. In just a handful of weeks, I have to go vote for one of these people, and while I still believe that one is clearly a better choice than the other, I can't say I'm as enthusiastic as I was before.

What really breaks my heart is that it works. Last night on CNN, there was in interview with an expert who was explaining how much you could lie before you got in trouble and it backfired. He explained it completely scientifically, with no judgment one way or another. See, I couldn't do that. I would have to wrap up the conversation with something like, "Of course, after they do win they'll have to wake up in the morning every day knowing that they only achieved this goal by deceiving the very people they've sworn to protect, a knowledge that will hopefully eat away at them from the inside until there's nothing left but an empty shell of a person wrapped around their crooked, black soul, a despicable creature who spends each day longing for the sweet release that death will bring". I'm not real scientific like that.

Anyway, I'm going to do my best to ignore all of this. It's the system, and for better or worse it's what we're stuck with. I'm going to assume that the market will eventually right itself, preferably before we end up in a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max style civilization (which I'm completely prepared for having played both Fallout and Fallout 2). I'm going to continue hovering around FactCheck.org and making sure that at least I know the truth behind the stupid advertisements and e-mail campaigns. Worst of all, I'm going to go on assuming that most people prefer to educate themselves on these things by doing their own research on not believing whatever their party or some douche bag pundit says on the television. This is especially true when it comes our loyal readers here at DLOG.

You better not let me down, dammit.

People Are...Strange

According to recent posts in our work message board, we have once again been attacked by that most unusual work annoyance. See, someone around here has a weird habit of stealing other people's lunches. Not just pre-packaged things either. They're taking someone's leftovers.

This is a whole world of bizarre as far as I'm concerned. Ignoring the fact that what you're doing would definitely get you fired, and technically could result in actual criminal charges, what with it being theft and all, you stealing someone's &$%*ing lunch. Dude, I know things are tough, but cough up five bucks and get a sammich at Subway.

What's really strange to me though is stealing someone's leftovers lunch. I mean, are you really so desperate that the meatloaf some stranger had for dinner last night is actually a good choice? Maybe it's a crime of convenience - someone was coming, so they just grabbed the first paper bag they saw and walked. Either way, it's creepy eating other people's home made food. I mean, you don't know what their definition of 'sanitary' is, do you? Or maybe they have creepy eating habits. All I'm saying is that at some point, someone packed a cold placenta sandwich. Is not missing lunch really worth taking that chance?

Anyway, what I always wonder about this is how they go about it. Do they scope out the lunches during the morning, or is it a sudden decision? Did they just forget lunch, or is it a game they enjoy playing? Is our economy really so bad that people in a professional setting are resorting to theft to feed themselves (it is Michigan, so I don't entirely discount that possibility)? How do you play it when you get caught pinching someone else's brown bag? Claim it was a mistake or draw the guns and make your escape? And doesn't the guilt take away what little enjoyment you're going to get out of that already mediocre Salisbury steak frozen dinner anyway?

You know, it strikes me that not only have I thought about this too much already, but I suddenly feel the need to see if my lunch is okay.

Maybe It's Time To Invest in Some Sheep

It would appear that I am somehow not in sync with my family when it comes to sleeping arrangements. Somehow, the three of them all know when we're going to have a sleepless night, whereas I trundle off to bed thinking it will be a standard slumber. Silly me.

First, my lovely wife gets a bout of insomnia. This is a shame, but not entirely unheard of. So, she flips channels while I drift off to sleep. I woke up long enough to see Letterman harassing Jack Hanna, so this was, as far as I was concerned, a win.

The Moose then chimes in with some coughing. Okay, a lot of coughing. Maybe even some hacking. It's hard to say. Either way, I sort of half sleep through that, listening for anything more serious.

Then the Princess comes into our room, and she says she can't sleep. Having been awoken a few of times now, I'm not in helpful daddy mode so much, so I tell her to get a glass of water, restart her lullaby music and return to bed. She does so, and we all move on.

So now we've made it to around 2 AM, and the Moose has a coughing fit that is sufficiently vicious to produce what sounds like coughing up a tremendous hairball. I have this really weird mechanism where I can be dead asleep, but when something is wrong, I leap out of bed and I'm in the boy's room before I really have a complete thought. It was a misfire thank goodness (no hairball), but my lovely wife (who may or may not have fallen asleep by that point) volunteers to give him his nebulizer that we may stop the coughing. He get's his meds to the light of the Cosby show, and I put him back to bed.

Having alleviated any medical issues, Mother Nature decides that an hour and a half of sleep is sufficient, and we get a rollicking thunder storm around four. This leads to the Princess returning to our room, this time visibly unsettled by the storm. She requests entry into our bed, but this typically results in a flurry of little knees and elbows being jabbed between her mother and I. Since her bed fits two better than our bed fits three, I end up grabbing my alarm and sleeping in her bed with her, sandwiched between a pink elephant and a pink poodle.

So, yeah, I don't know how they do it, but somehow everyone knew last night was no sleep night. If I had had more warning, I would have prepared. Made dip or something. Maybe cupcakes. At the very least, I wouldn't have spent yesterday reading up on Japanese urban legends, a mistake that left me more than once half asleep and prancing up the stairs too fast with the ridiculous though of what might be behind me.

Today, just in case, I'm going to keep all my research puppy and rainbow related.

Yeah...I've Got a Thing That Night

Last night, I got a letter in the mail that I knew was coming. I identified it before I opened it. It was one of those squarish things that almost always mean the same thing - an invitation - and thanks to a forwarded e-mail from my mother in law, I knew precisely what I was being invited to.

Another high school reunion.

Now then, just five years ago my wife and I made a last minute decision to attend our ten year reunion (which I still feel bad for, since we did not RSVP). We went, it was...interesting. Mostly, it was like high school but with less hair and more drinking. Actually, now that I think more about it, it was just less hair.

Now we've been invited back and this time, it's a definite no. It's not that I don't wonder what everyone is up to (although honestly, things like Facebook are starting to eliminate that). It's just that, well, we're busy, and I just went back five years ago. Furthermore, and I can't stress this enough, I didn't like high school. It blew. As such, the idea of reliving it every ten years is fine. Every five years seems like a bit of overkill to me.

So there you are. I looked over the invite, admired a cute bulldog, and then tossed it. Call me again in five years, and, assuming that I have not yet been hit by a bus, then I'll show. For now, I'll just go on mostly trying to forget high school and the emotional whipping that it was. Besides, I did the smart thing. I took the best part of high school with me.

And she's stuck with me the rest of her life.

Stick a Fork In It

Well, it's official. I hate politics. I'm trying to be fair about them. I'm trying to assess the presidential candidates based on their platforms. Unfortunately, I can't anymore.

See, Obama used the expression "lipstick on a pig" in a speech recently. It's a common expression. I heard it a few years ago for the first time. I heard it a few months ago when McCain used it to describe Hillary Clinton's efforts at health care reform. So yeah, it's out there.

But when Obama uses it, he's referring to Sarah Palin according to McCain's people. For me, that was the last straw. Since I haven't heard him disagree, my opinion is that he is okay with this. As such, I am forced to make the following assessment: the group responsible for the Republican presidential campaign, and by association both their nominees for President and Vice President, are all douche bags, and now I have to vote Democratic.

This may seem glib, and in some small way it is (I'm not that knee jerk about these things, preferring research to what seems to be the American way of "hey, he agrees with me on topic X, and that's good enough). Seriously though, since nominating Palin, it seems to me like the Republican party has stopped discussing anything having to do with our country and what they mean to do to fix it. Instead, I hear a lot of stories. Stories of McCain being a POW. Stories of Palin shaking up the Alaska government. No plans, just stories. I understand that we can go look up their plans online if we so wish, but it's telling that the onus is on us, as all they want to do is tell us stories.

But then, they start striking out against the Democrats, labeling any criticism of Palin as sexism. Okay, I can see where you're going to get traction out of that, and let's be honest, this was all about courting the white women, right? I mean, we don't really believe that of all the GOP, she was the person most qualified for this, do we?

But this latest tactic, in my humble opinion, is just too much. Claiming that this comment was a swipe at Palin is beyond bad politics. We've now moved firmly into immaturity. They know it isn't true. They know it's not what he meant. Most importantly, they think we're so stupid that if they tell us that it is what he meant and demand an apology, then we'll all go, "Yeah, you should say you're sorry".

Well, not this guy. I'm taking my vote, and calling my legion of devoted followers to join me (all six of you). I'm tired of seeing what amounts to devious double talk in place of an actual conversation. Unless something spectacular happens during the debates (and I'm talking McCain-kicking-a-puppy spectacular), this one is all over for me.

On a side note, with all of the bandying about of such a term, I am forced to wonder what effect it has on the theater running frog demographic.

With His Wee Beady Eyes

Now, I know a not-really-news press release when I see one, so the "news" that KFC is temporarily removing the secret recipe in an effort to shore up security struck me for exactly what it was - an advertisement. If the schmucks at the Associated Press wish to treat it as actual news, that's their call. It's not like anything interesting is going on, and frankly, after yesterday's gem I can forgive them their little slip ups.

The story itself though is hysterical to me. First, they talk about this recipe as if it is a highly coveted prize. I recall enjoying a piece of extra crispy as much as the next guy back in my more carnivorous days, but it's not like I sat around for days afterwards obsessing about what it was I has just eaten. I was satisfied throwing the Colonel a few bucks once in a while to get my fix, and honestly, I was there as much for the gravy, mashed potatoes and biscuits as I was for the deceased birds.

The way they talk though, there are bandits sitting around plotting the theft of their 11 herbs and spices with the vigor one might apply to, say, stealing the Hope diamond. Maybe it's me, but I just can't believe that the guys who run Popeye's are sitting around a big table going over blueprints of the KFC headquarters, discussing how their going to attain the recipe, and this unseat the Colonel from his throne. Actually, death unseated the Colonel in 1980, but you get the idea. (Little known fact - the Colonel was not actually buried, but rather was battered and deep fried in his own recipe, and then served to a bunch of rabid chickens. Yeah, I didn't just totally make that up. It's a fact.)

Anyway, this whole story is clearly just an effort to get a little free PR from the good people in the journalism industry. Whatever. I just wish they wouldn't make comments like "the actual recipe would include some surprises". I mean, it's frankly kind of creepy that they insist on hiding their damned recipe to begin with (as a veggie, you tend to obsess about knowing just what you're eating). Why hint around the fact that whatever it is in there, it would surprise people?

Besides, everyone already knows that it includes an addictive chemical that makes you crave it fortnightly.

Why Nobody Goes to Fresno

This is a little unusual, but the following story is such a gem that I feel the need to post it here so, should it get lost in a brevity that is the internet lifespan, you all get a chance to enjoy it:

Authorities: Burglar wakes men with spice rub

FRESNO, Calif. (AP) — Authorities say they've arrested a man who broke into the home of two California farmworkers, stole money, rubbed one with spices and whacked the other with a sausage before fleeing.

Fresno County sheriff's Lt. Ian Burrimond says 22-year-old Antonio Vasquez was found hiding in a field wearing only a T-shirt, boxers and socks after the Saturday morning attack.

He says deputies arrested Vasquez after finding a wallet containing his ID in the ransacked house.

The farmworkers told deputies the suspect woke them Saturday morning by rubbing spices on one of them and smacking the other with an 8-inch sausage.

Burrimond says money allegedly stolen was recovered.

Information from: The Fresno Bee, http://www.fresnobee.com

What I love about stories like this is that, in such a small space, they offer so much. At it's heart, it's a simple caper, a burglary by a desperate man in need of funds. Despite knowing that it's wrong, he decides he must resort to breaking and entering.

So, you've decided that in order to collect the money to get your wife the surgery she needs to survive (I tend to over think the motives, as it helps me remember that a crime is rarely executed out of evil intentions), you're going to break into a house. Now, the risk inherent to breaking into a house is that you may very well run into someone who owns said house, someone who is most likely going to be less than thrilled with you being there. You need to be able to defend yourself, but you aren't going in there with the intention of hurting anyone, so guns and knives are out. You decide that a pocketful full of spices would effectively blind someone, so you grab some steak rub, and off you go.

But wait! What if the homeowner has a dog? You'll need something to distract the hound from your hindquarters. This is where the sausage comes in. You whip out your 8 inch kielbasa (stop it), and the dog will forget all about his beloved master for a moment or two.

Fine, so we've established why a person might be breaking into a house armed with a sausage and a pocketful of spices, other than being part of the terrifying but talented German Ninja Chef Assassin Squad (the only group of assassins known to offer their victims a last meal). Unfortunately, my imaginative abilities either can't, or simple refuse to, establish a motive for dropping your pants, using the spice rub for its intended purpose on one of the victims, and then whacking someone else with the sausage before fleeing with your ill gotten gains. I mean, I'm assuming the guy didn't stand still while the burglar administered the vicious spice rubbing, so I'm guessing the victim was asleep when the, ahem, 'rubbing' commenced.

This can only mean that the burglar, for whatever reason, went in there with the intention of administering a spice rubbing to someone. I can think of a lot of reasons why I would hit someone across the face with a sausage. I mean, the humiliation alone of having to file a police report that you were pummeled by a polish, beat down by a bratwurst or smacked by a salami would be worth what would most likely result in parole. Plus, just before you hit them, you could look them in the eye and say "Que pasa, kielbasa?" in your best Dirty Harry voice. If someone did that to me, I think I could forgive them for the sausage-based shenanigans that followed. But a spice rub while wearing just a t-shirt, boxer shorts and socks? Man, that's just sick.

Unless, you know, he was planning on eating him later, in which case I suppose it's just being prepared.

Well, That and I Prefer Pepsi

There comes in every marriage a topic that, no matter the effort, a husband and wife must simply disagree upon. No amount of reasoning or debate will sway one or the other from their positions. Dislike it though I might, I have identified this debate between me and my lovely wife, and, failing to sway her, must turn to you, gentle readers, in the hopes that you will be more open to logic and sensibility.

The proper term for soft drinks, as you saw me use a couple of days ago, is "soda pop".

Now, let me lay out for you why this is the most correct term. For starters, I point to the map below (click for a larger view):



As you can see, the vast majority if the Unites States prefers the term "pop" when referring to soft drinks (the blue segment of the map). This is the segment my lovely wife falls into. Now, I don't ordinarily consider her to be one of those people who blindly follows the majority, so I suppose I have to blame her upbringing for not making her more understanding of the needs of others. This is ironic, as I have heard tales of her own extended family visiting when she was young and being shunned by close minded individuals who choose not to recognize that not everyone has been raised with the same set of terminology around them.

There is a smaller, yellow segment who uses the term "soda". This term is historically rooted in the soda fountain, where nice young men in paper hats would combine soda water with flavorings to produce what was the original version of soft drinks. Thus, while this term may be viewed as archaic by some, it is historically correct and should not be ignored.

This is why I advocate the term "soda pop". Wherever I am in the country, people know what I'm referring to. It's a simple term that breaches this controversy, and I think that's important. We already disagree too much over too many things. Why not try to be amenable to as many as possible, and thus avoid offense to anyone where we can.

Hmm? The red areas? Well, that's kind of pesky. You see, while I do advocate the support of others in their carbonated beverage terminology choices, I'm afraid that this is an exception. See, it's a thing called a genericised trademark. Basically, using the term "coke" to refer to any variety of soda pop takes away from the brand recognition and intellectual properties of the good people at Coca-Cola. So while I support most people's choices, I'm afraid that the red areas have followed a path that leads to damaging a company's good name, and I can't get behind that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some aspirin and band aids to deal with the fallout of my decision to try and roller blade down an escalator while holding a large tray of jello.

Tapes or CDs Indeed

As part of the new school year, we began establishing the evening routine last night, the first portion of which is emptying the Princess's bag of all school paperwork. We rifle through, reading notes, ignoring fund raisers (seriously, I'm not buying a &#$%ing frozen lasagna from you), and identifying homework, both hers and ours. Last night, we got a surprising note from her teacher. Apparently, one of the students in class has peanut allergies. As such, there is a complete ban in the class of peanut products, including no peanut butter in anyone's lunch.

I was officially taken aback by this. I understand that for bringing in birthday treats, care would have to be taken, and I can even see where snacks eaten in the classroom individually might need to be scrubbed, but not allowing peanut butter in lunches at all? Has our friend arachic hypogea been demonized to such an extent that an American staple of lunchboxes is now to be treated as contraband? Or is this another example of political correctness getting out of hand, us coddling those with disabilities of any kind in an effort to be seen as supportive (as well as avoid any attacks and bad press from disability support groups)?

Either way, I was actually upset by this. As vegetarians, the PB&J lunch is a favorite around here, and taking it away does take a major chunk out of our weekly menu (not to mention remove what is by far the easiest thing to pack). So, I go into research mode and start digging around on this. It seems that this is one of those mystery illnesses that crop up once in a while. According to the Mayo Clinic, peanut allergy symptoms range from a mild rash to anaphylaxis, an irritating symptom that leads that another irritating symptom, sudden death. Even more interesting is that anaphylaxis is treated with an emergency injection of adrenaline, a la Pulp Fiction.

Okay, now that I've established a bit of perspective one the situation (it's a pain to drop peanut butter and jelly from the menu, but not as bad as a kid getting a hypodermic to the chest), I still can't figure out where this came from. I mean, I grew up eating these luscious legumes as a staple of our diet, with nary a report of some kid puffing up and expiring from them. (And yes, they are legumes, not nuts, which is why they are called "pea" nuts. Well, that and their other name, "monkey nuts", doesn't sit well mentally.) Reports vary wildly, some claiming 75 deaths between 1975 and 1999, others claiming 175 deaths annually due to allergies, the majority being peanut related. I'm not linking because I don't frankly trust either source.

So, what is the real reason for the sudden increase in awareness and, seemingly, toxicity of the gentle peanut? Well, I think that's obvious given any real thought. Clearly, the problem is being caused by Republicans.

No, wait. Hear me out. Go back to 1977, when I was a wee lad of only two. Jimmy Carter, our 39th President moves up from his position as Governor of Georgia having achieved a narrow victory over Gerald Ford. Naturally, this honks off the Republicans, who immediately set a plan into action to see to it that Carter will be ousted in four years. What better way to drive down the man's approval rating than to attack him where he lives. Using genetic mutations, the GOP slowly introduces a new breed of peanut into the wild, which quietly and unnoticed replaces the previous incarnation. People start getting sick from them, associating the illness with the sitting President, and voila, four year later we get an actor with the shiniest hair to ever gleam in the oval office.

My God, George Washington Carver must have been rolling in his grave.

Comestible Conundrums

Last night, a question arose that was close to my heart. Why do we eat when we know we shouldn't, and more specifically, why, at those times, do we eat things that are awful for us? It's a strange habit that under certain conditions, I find myself longing for certain foods, even though I know that said foods are garbage.

For some people it's baked goods. Others have to have a chocolate fix. For me, it's actually a combination of foods - chips and soda pop. When under a lot of stress, exhaustion, or even when I'm just feeling blue, I find myself inexorably drawn to the local gas station, where I purchase myself a bag of chips, preferably of a variety that will burn (Jalapeno or Flaming Hot Cheetos for example), and a gallon drum of soda pop. I come back to my desk, I consume, and things are somehow better.

Now of course the respite is momentary, but I don't think that matters. I think I do it because as I get older, my life has gotten more complex. In particular, I frequently find myself straining just to meet the needs of others, be they children or my workplace or whatever. As a result, long periods of time go by where I simply don't do anything for myself, not because I'm neglecting myself, but because I'm just busy.

Taking a moment to enjoy some small treat, however, takes almost no time at all. I can do it while I'm working. It doesn't take away from anyone else. Most importantly, it's mine. It's something that's happening for no reason other than I want it, and it makes me a happy, if only for the time it takes to consume it. There's power in that, in the fact that this decision is totally within my control.

Of course this doesn't speak to why it almost always has to be something in the junk food category, but honestly I think it's the same reason. Nearly everything we do as adults is built around responsibility. As a parent, this is amplified tremendously, every action turning into a potential blueprint for my offspring's life long behavior. As such, when I feel the need to break down and do something just for me, just for the moment of pleasure, it seems that it has to have that element of naughtiness to it. It has to smack of irresponsibility. If it were carrot sticks, somehow I doubt I would achieve the same relief.

Now I realize that this moment of pleasure is not a solution to anything, but not everything has to be. Sometimes the things that stress us out are necessary, and just need to be worked through. Eventually, calm will return. So long as our little indulgences don't become a matter of habit, so what if we occasionally break down and treat ourselves to something decadent?

Responsibility is all well and good, but I'm thinking that a life lacking in a little decadence would be a drab one indeed.

And I will Hug Them and Love Them and Name Them George

We've discussed the backbreaking work that was my lovely wife and I trying to save out lawn. Well, a three day weekend and a nasty pair of sunburned ears later, and I think we've won. Unfortunately, instead of just being a matter of hours of suffering at the end of rake and shovel, our situation, as it always seems to, became overly complicated.

The way we fixed the yard was with lawn patch. I go out and dig up nice squares of lawn, use the rake to tease it back into a roll, and then flip them over. We cover and level that with some fancy fertilized soil stuff, and then cover the whole mess with lawn patch.

Now, my neighbor had attempted to lay down some of this lawn patch previously with little success. He even warned me when he saw me putting out vast tracts of it that it didn't work. He did not, however, follow the directions, so a week later the first patches we did are now filling in with grass as hoped. I was tempted to go outside, stand on my new lawn, and shake my heiny at the neighbor, but my lovely wife discouraged such action, not out of fear of alienating the neighbors so much as not wanting me to stand on the new lawn yet. That's my guess anyway.

Having proven that it worked, I went in with renewed gusto this weekend and tore up the side and backyards. I was getting the little spots which simply rely on raking out the dead grass when I came to a patch of dead grass that looked off somehow. I figured maybe I had pulled a clump of grass out and left it, although I was trying not to do that as it makes it harder to see what needs to be patched.

Pulling the grass aside, I discovered that we have a bunny nest in the backyard. I took a moment to admire the cute little buggers, covered them back up, and uttered a four letter word that I dare not type here for fear of losing my solid PG-13 rating. See, the last step of the lawn patch is watering the hell out of it twice a day. So now that I've torn up the yard, I have to contend with the potential of drowning a nest of baby bunnies. What with me being a vegetarian, hossenfeffer was out, so now we've become the secondary protectors of four tiny bunnies.

Naturally, I did what I always do when faced with a difficult moral dilemma - I told my lovely wife the situation and asked her how to solve it. After several false starts, she settled on a system of covering the nest with a contraption she built from Tupperware, wooden splints and duct tape (I should have known duct tape would be involved). I cover the bunnies, the sprinklers run, then I uncover them again so mommy bunny can come out and feed them. It's complicated and feels a bit silly, but what can you do?

On the bright side, it has led to another potential epitaph: "It was complicated and felt a bit silly."