Just Call Me the Orkin Man

I'm afraid that today is code freeze at work. That means that this entire week I'm playing the programming equivalent of whack-a-mole, fixing bugs, checking the code in, waiting to see if more bugs come up (they always do), and fixing them again. It's...entertaining.

I typically enjoy programming, but these weeks are rough. The problem is one of scope. See, with so many people making changes at once, it's inevitable that something gets broken. Okay, a lot of somethings. Seeing as how this is expected, you'd think it would be a situation I'm accustomed to, but alas, it is not so.

A big part of the problem stems from my inherent infallibility. See, the drawback to always being right about everything is that when something breaks in my screen, clearly it has to be the doing of someone else. Some nefarious do-gooder is mucking about in the code somewhere, and eventually does something that I will have to hunt down and correct just to get things working the way they were before. I mean, clearly I wouldn't have made such a change.

**********BLOG DISCLAIMER**********
Statements about the perpetual correctness of the author are made with the caveat that his lovely wife has ceased regularly reading this blog. Should she begin reading again, all such statements will be rendered null and void, except in Rhode Island, where all rules have to have an exception. I'm not sure why - maybe they're just trying to be difficult.
**********BLOG DISCLAIMER**********

So yeah, it's stressful, and in all seriousness it is hard to have something break and resist the urge to point fingers, especially when it really is something someone else did. Heck, the only reason I even have time to write today is that someone has crippled my screen so badly that I can't get into it to test anything until they post the fix. Of course, I've been guilty of the same on past occasions (my infallibility being a recent development). Anyway, good times.

Maybe He Figured Out That I Don't Understand Football

I have to talk to you guys about something, and it's not easy for me. I'm not a big fan of telling people when things upset me, preferring a simple "I'm fine", even when it's said through grated teeth. For me, this is my natural state, as things that upset me tend to blow by eventually, and making a big deal out of them just exasperated the situation. It has become clear to me, however, that this is not something that is just going to blow by any time soon, and thus, it is something I have to deal with.

The Moose likes his mom a lot better than he likes me.

Don't get me wrong. The little man and I get along. We wrestle, he giggles, all the usual stuff. But if his mom is in the building, I'm suddenly an unacceptable substitute. I'm Crisco in a recipe that calls for butter, skim milk where heavy cream is needed, Spam in place of bacon (maybe I should stay away from meat based metaphors, and in reading that last sentence I'm realizing I probably should have eaten breakfast as well). He's not subtle about it either. When she hands him off, he literally wails, tears running down his little cheeks, crying for mama.

Needless to say, this is not doing much for my self esteem.

What really chaps my diaper (keeping with the theme and all) is that while he's wailing, I'm doing all of this parenting stuff. I get him ready for bed and give him baths and get him ready for school. Frequently while I'm doing it, he's crying, unless my lovely wife happens by and sits down to talk to him while I work.

The worst though is bedtime. See, I'm the one who puts him to bed each night. As a result, bedtime means trying to snuggle with his mom as long as he can, and then wailing when I take him away as if I'm taking him off for torture. Previously, the bedtime routine consisted of saying goodnight to all of our stuffed animals, daddy getting a big hug, and then I would put him down for the night. Now I say goodnight to everything while he cries, and worse, he refuses to hug me anymore. If anything, he'll put his head down on my shoulder for a minute, but he still keeps saying mama the whole time. So that's it. My last baby has decided at the tender age of two that daddy hugs are out. That hurts.

Now I know that these things happen. He'll be a momma's boy for a while and then come back to me. I remember the same thing happening with the Princess. The thing is that right now the Princess is kind of finding her feet, and it's coming out as a lot of rebellion against me, so for the first time I'm feeling like maybe she's not my little girl anymore. As such, I'm sort of losing them both at once. Maybe I'm being oversensitive (illness and exhaustion tend to do that to me), but it makes me feel very alone lately.

The solution is obvious of course - I think it's finally time I got myself that monkey.

But Now the Grass Is Greener On My Side, So There

So, another weekend has come and gone, and since I went into the weekend sick, waking up on Saturday with a slight fever, I took the opportunity to lay around and relax. Nah, I'm just kidding. I spent a lot of the weekend outside pulling up sod in the hot sun. Oddly enough, I'm not feeling a ton better this morning. Go figure.

I'm not sure what it is in me that prevents me from simply calling a time out when I need it. Maybe it's that I continue to feel behind. Don't get me wrong - things have improved immensely. We've gotten the calendars under control, neither of us are working crazy hours anymore, and we're far more prepared for the coming school year than last year.

Still, in my head all I can see is the to do list, ever present. So when we get a weekend where we haven't promised to go somewhere, I find myself undertaking these project, which is ironic because, as is often the case, now it's Monday, I feel like death, and our bonus projects over the weekend meant getting behind in our standard tasks, like laundry and groceries. Ugh.

Unfortunately, neither illness nor exhaustion nor extreme burnout can hinder me from plodding forward. I think it's guilt from all those years of being a slacker, sitting on my hind end in a semi-comatose state watching television and playing video games. Those wonderful, wonderful years...wait, what was I saying? Ah, yes. To make up for what I put others through, and out of fear that I won't be able to tell excuses from actual issues, I push ahead through all conditions, trying to be the person I think I ought to.

Apparently, there are times when I'm under the impression that the person I ought to be is dead, because I'm starting to think I might be pushing a bit too hard.

It's Only a Flesh Wound

As you may recall, I got to go to the emergency room a few months ago for some weirdness with my heartbeat. I didn't want to go, but my doctor acted like it was a big emergency, so I went. As usual, it's months later and I'm just now ironing out the whole who's-going-to-pay-for-what situation with the insurance company, and I've learned an important lesson that I would like to share with all of you in hopes that you don't get burned in a similar manner.

So, I received a hefty bill from the hospital, which surprised me, as I though we had met all of our deductibles. So, I find the matching statement from the insurance company, and it says that they didn't participate with our insurance, so we would have to pay for the whole thing. Having previously confirmed that the hospital did accept our insurance, I was, shall we say, perturbed by this suggestion.

I called the insurance company, and then I called the hospital. What I got was the most preposterous statement yet. I was told that while the hospital accepts our insurance, that doesn't necessarily mean that the doctors do.

I'll give you all a moment to reflect on that last statement.

So, having gotten a little terse with the person from the hospital due to my not being able to comprehend such a thing, she went on to give me a helpful suggestion. If I find myself in the emergency room, and I can afford to wait, I should request that I see a doctor who participates with my insurance. This concept intrigues me, because when I actually do find myself in an emergency room, that comes with the implication that there's A &#$%ING EMERGENCY. I'm trying to ponder the situation where I'm there with one of my kids bleeding from the head, and I'm supposed to size up just how much blood they've lost so I can decide whether to wait for a doctor that accepts my insurance. Quite a system we have running here.

Anyway, I'll grudgingly pay the bill, but this just reinforces my attitude of waiting until I'm reasonably sure I'm going to die from something before I go to the doctor. You know, when I called my doctor about this, and they told me to go to the emergency room immediately, I actually hung up the phone and stood there for a minute weighing my options, because I knew that somehow I was going to get screwed on this, and I didn't want to spend the money. Now, I'm even more likely to ignore their advice and just wait out these issues, which is probably not great for me medically, but at the same time, I'd prefer not to be shelling out the Benjamins to find out I need to take iron supplements regularly.

Return of the Son of Stimpy

For a long time now, I've been aware that deep down inside, I harbor the spirit of an evil genius. Fortunately, my better nature (as well as my lovely wife) keeps me in line, so this part of me is not allowed to flourish and bloom into a full blown super villain. This is probably a good thing, what with the career path of the average super villain ending in imprisonment, commitment to a mental institution or early retirement via death. This aspect of my personality, however, does allow me to truly appreciate a dastardly deed when I see one, or as the case was yesterday, actually fall victim to one.

After skipping lunch due to illness, I packed up my loot promptly a five, figuring I'd beat the family home and prepare dinner. I get my stuff together, and began walking for the exit commonly used by those in my area of the building. As I approach, I notice the person ahead of me pick up his pace substantially prior to hitting the door.

About twenty feet from the door, I realize why. Someone had left a vapor trail of funk, deftly covering a full area leading up to the exit of the building. Realizing that I was now walking in the wake of someone else's flatulence, I inhaled once and then held it in an effort to avoid breathing in any more of their odoriferous particulates than I had to.

Here's what separates this from the standard office crop dusting and elevates the perpetrator to the pantheon of evil genius. As I'm resisting the urge to breathe, I realize that walking a few paces behind me is a girl from another department who is also heading out for the day. Upon realizing this, it struck me that not only was I being forced to walk through the bakery of someone else's air biscuits, but that the stranger behind me would almost definitely associate this offense with me. This would be the one thing this person would think they knew about me - that I'm the type of person that eeks out noxiousness while walking through office halls. Not cool.

Therein lies the genius of it. By making sure that the storm was near the exit, they not only guaranteed that a maximum number of people would be forced to walk through the eye of it, they set up a ripple effect that each person would be concerned that the person behind would attribute it to them. Thus, a single SBD becomes a chain reaction of paranoia and discomfort (not to mention the occasional retching - it was vile). Brilliant.

I'll probably never know who the real perpetrator was, but I assume that he'll be hearing from the recruiters of the Evil League of Evil in the near future.

With Matching Spats On Their Little Paws

Today saw the first major casualty of my now full blown illness. Instead of working out over my lunch break, as I had planned to, I'm working through and nursing a serious NyQuil hangover from last night. I haven't even been able to take any more medicine for fear that I'll pass out or go hallucinogenic or something. I'm having enough trouble at work right now. I don't need to start ranting about the walls melting and the floor being covered in multicolored mice wearing vests. Always, always with those damned, tiny vests.

Anyways, I packed up my gym bag this morning with every intention of working out, but it's not going to happen. Right now, I want nothing more than to be home in bed. I'm not sure I'd even play video games. I think today is more of a hide under the covers watching bad television day.

The thing is, when this happens, part of me feels like I'm copping out. I really should take it easy, but I find so many creative reasons not to work out that the genuine ones feel faked. Silly, but true.

Ah well, at least I've got a mountain of work to take my mind off of feeling crummy. Hopefully the NyQuil will wear off before I go home and I can at least hang out with the family without being completely spaced out. Somehow I don't think they appreciate how I've perfected the "I'm not feeling good" thousand yard stare when they're trying to tell me a story.

Why Cook It When It's So Good Raw?

I've been playing that game with myself whereby I am clearly coming down with some form of illness, and yet I deny it to the bitter end. I have patches of inability to breathe fully and write it off as allergies bothering my asthma. I wake up all stuffed up, and again I just say allergies and walk away. I resist the urge to actually call myself sick and act upon that declaration as if this is in and of itself a sign of weakness, and acknowledgment that some virus or bacteria has gained some ground on its attack on my person.

Well, deny as I might, something has set up shop at the temple and is now shilling various forms of ick from its little booths inside me. It becomes hard to deny such things when you start your day by coughing up a small amphibian in the shower. Previously, I had thought such things were one of the many benefits of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, but since I gave up that charming habit a few years ago, one must face the reality of the situation, and that reality is that I'm sick.

Fortunately, there is a simple method of clearing the temple of these mucus vendors, a savior to throw over the tables and scare off the livestock in a fit of righteous anger. This morning, I brought down the big medicine chest, and ingested my salvation, a tremendous 12-hour Sudafed. Sweet, glorious Sudafed.

Now I'm not talking about that crap they shill on the shelves in the guise of Sudafed. No, I'm talking about the good stuff, the stuff they make you sign for. Oh sure, it ticks me off a little bit that the war on drugs (which I'm still hoping will be won by drugs) required making it a borderline crime possessing my good friend psuedoephedrine on the off chance that you're going to go home and produce meth out of it. I don't really get this, as I find it a perfectly pleasant experience as is, but since I've never tried meth, I defer judgment to those who enjoy it enough to blow their houses up for it. Must be a hell of a drug.

So now I'm sitting here, able to breathe again, headache abated for the time being. Sure, I'm enjoying a little Sudafed head along with it, but what are you going to do? Better this than laying around in bed all day, right?

Well, okay no it's not, but I gots things to do.

No Seriously, It's Actually That Cool

Somehow, the stars have aligned, the gods have smiled down on me, and the result is a beautiful rain of technology. As you may or may not recall, last week at this time I was brimming with glee over the acquisition of a shiny new PSP, complete with shiny new games. For me, this was the equivalent of a pony, and in the last week I've managed to work in more game time that the month proceeding it.

Well, we were slated to get new cell phones, mostly because mine is getting pretty old. Actually, it's the first cell phone I ever had, and I was using it as the result of putting my newer one in my jeans pocket, and then laundering the set. Oops. Anyway, my phone gets lousy reception, which means it doesn't always ring. When you have cell phones pretty much for emergencies, that's kind of a problem. So, we went Friday night and I wrestled with kids while my lovely wife looked at various phones so we could figure out where we wanted to sign a contract.

Now, my lovely wife is an interface designer. This means a lot of things, specifically with regards to shopping for gear. For example, I looked at one phone, and though to myself, "Hmm, that's interesting. Not really useful, since all I need is a phone, but whatever". When she looked at the same phone, her comment about it, to no one in particular, and I quote, was, "If I have to use this, I'll kill myself". This caught the attention of one of the employees in the store, who was not used to having an interface designer in the store. I was exempt from such a nonplussed state, as I'm used to such commentary.

Anyway, after going to a couple of shops for cell phones, I would say that the expedition could safely be called a miserable failure. We went home, and I declared that I wanted to stay with our service, I didn't need a new phone, I didn't want to talk or think about it anymore. (I was in a bit of a mood - biting toddlers do that to me.) I figured that I would go out and buy a phone used or something, and just have our carrier activate it. Problem solved.

Well, Sunday morning my lovely wife comes up from the basement and declares that we're getting iPhones. I wasn't sure how to react, because I had given up entirely on that pipe dream. I made it very clear that I was simply following instructions and that this decision was hers (a little CYA never hurts), and then we went and bought iPhones.

So there you go. I can watch YouTube on my phone. I can browse the internet on my phone. I can read my email and look at my calendar on my phone. I'm pretty sure I can even make phone call, although I'm not sure that I've actually tried. It's hard to explain how wierd this makes me feel, this constant connectivity, this ability to grab data wherever I am. This morning, I silenced two arguing kids by reaching down to my belt and firing off a music video, and they stood next to each other, dead quiet, just staring at it.

Dude, I'm like a superhero now.

Regrets...I've Had a Few

And now, without further ado (and in no particular order), I present things I regret

Cutting up jalapeno peppers and then going to the bathroom without washing my hands first.

Mouthing off at work that I knew the best way to do something. I did, but now I actually have to do it, and teach everyone else how to as well. It would have been a lot easier to just let everyone do it the wrong way.

Eating Quest Doritos.

Ever hesitating to tell my wife how much I love her and how much she means to me out of fear that I might sound silly or contrite.

Coming in from outside in the winter and then going to the bathroom without warming my hands first.

Losing my patience with my kids.

Eating an entire Mancino's meatball sub and drinking a two liter of Mountain Dew in one sitting while watching a zombie movie. I totally should have had Pepsi.

Ignoring dad's last email.

Not always being more understanding about the lifestyle choices of others, with the exception of furries, who remain &#^%ing freaks.

Frequently choosing to write about something funny rather than how I feel, because I assume that, just like in real life, if I actually tell you how I feel about things regularly, you'll lose interest and stop coming here.

Not being prepared enough for the impending zombie apocalypse. (For God's sake, I haven't even bought a machete).

I'm sure there's more, but you know, I try not to be someone who sits around regretting things. I'd prefer to take whatever information I can glean from a mistake I've made and move on, hopefully wiser. Why bother myself with something that's done and over with when I can just let it go? It's bad enough that there are things that, no matter your attitude, simply can't be shaken off or forgotten.

Quest Doritos - the flavor still haunts my taste buds to this day.

On the Temporal Nature of Digital Works

I just finished writing up a tremendous blog entry on conspiracy theories. It was well researched, full of WikiPedia links for those who wished to delve deeper into the topics (which is a habit I seem to be getting into lately - please, let me know how you feel about that). It was amusing and interesting and all that you've come to expect from the good folks here at DLOG.

And now it's gone.

Just like that. Gone. One minute on my screen. Next minute gone. No automatic backup made. No recovery possible.

It's hard to express how much this has bummed me out. I fear I have neither the time nor the energy to reproduce it today. Maybe tomorrow.

For now, go read Wondermark. Here's the one that got me hooked. You can roam the archives from there, which I highly recommend:

Wondermark!

Facing the Book

A while ago, I bit the bullet and signed up for a Facebook account. I didn't do much with it other than gawk at pictures of people I used to hang out with and their offspring, who are all almost but not quite as cute as my own. (I keed, I keed. Well, sort of anyway.) I added a link to this blog, I made sure that none of the people I try to avoid were there, and then I moved on.

Well, it's becoming kind of an issue now, as my Facebook is hooked to my spam email account, as are almost any online sites that require an email address. This is just good practice, as eventually one of them is going to get hacked or sell their email lists, and when that goes down I won't start getting all sorts of interesting offers in my regular email.

What this means is that I tend to ignore notifications being sent to me from Facebook for a random amount of time. Once in a while, it will suddenly strike me that I haven't checked my spam account in a long time. I'll open it up, and there will be invites from people I know in Facebook. The problem is that this almost always occurs while I'm at work, and can not access Facebook to accept the invitation.

No big deal. Not the sort of thing I would typically do at work anyway. The problem is that things remain slightly hectic in my life (it's getting better, but still), so there's a significant chance that I will go home and not go anywhere near the computer. Then, a week or two later, I realize I haven't checked my spam account in a while, and in doing so remember that I never accepted the invitation.

Now I understand that there is a big group of you who do not regularly interact with your computer. You don't think of email as pressing, and things that happen online are a peripheral part of your existence. You might not even use the Internet for days at a time.

You people freak me out.

Well, not really, but by nature of my career, I'm permanently wired into the net. For me, there was a great triumph in being able to grab my PSP, hop online, and look up the answer to some question my lovely wife asked me, all without actually getting out of bed. It was sublime.

As a result of this wired nature, I tend to think of these interactions as real time. I'm picturing someone inviting me to be their friend, and then wondering why I'm ignoring this request. Does it hurt their feelings? Are they offended? Do they sit there and wonder why they sent it in the first place, quietly listing to themselves every thing I ever did to piss them off? In reality, they probably send the invite and then forget it ever happened, but it worries me. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, even virtually. If any of you are reading this, I'm not ignoring you. I'm just busy and forgetful.

Oh the bright side, I'm pretty sure I've elevated being socially awkward to an art form.

My $.02: Book Review - Watchmen

So, according to the current ticket figures, if you're anyone who isn't me or my lovely wife, you've probably seen The Dark Knight. As a part of that experience, you also probably saw the trailer for Watchmen. Those who, like me, don't hit the theaters, watched it online. Some of us watched it repeatedly. Either way, it's coming out next Spring, and it's causing quite a stir in the geek community.

See, Watchmen is based on a comic series, but it isn't a traditional comic book. Watchmen is kind of a meta-comic. It's a series about a world where comic book heroes are real, where people actually dress up and go out fighting crime, or at least they purport to. They don't have super powers (with one exception, which is handled brilliantly), and they have all the psychological issues that one would actually expect from someone who gets dressed up and plays vigilante.

This right here is why Watchmen is a success. It's a realistic book, and as such it's nearly impossible to say who the good guys are. The title comes from the Latin phrase "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?", theoretically written by Juvenal in ancient Rome. It translates to "Who watches the watchmen?", a phrase that is partially written (but never completed) throughout the book, typically in the form of graffiti. It sums up some of the major themes of the book, questioning why we give people the authority to "protect" us, whose interest these people really act in, and what happens when this authority is allowed to run unchecked.

The book works well in a lot of areas though. It brings up questions of alliances. It deals with human failure, and nostalgia. It also deals with the damaged psyches of the main characters, what brought each of them into the odd world of adventuring, how that world has affected them, and vice versa. It goes far deeper than most comics I've read with the possible exception of Niel Gaiman's Sandman series and V for Vendetta, another of Alan Moore's series.

One thing I would warn people of is that this is a graphic series. There's a lot of violence, and some sex (although that's handled delicately and out of frame). If you're queasy, I can't recommend it. I was planning on suggesting my lovely wife read it, but having finished it again, I'm thinking no.

Overall, Watchmen is a great book, and it's clear why it's considered a standout among comic series. This is why there is such a furor over the movie. To some comic book fans, this book is sacred, and to see it get anything like the typical Hollywood treatment would be heartbreaking. Moore himself refuses to see anything made based on his books, and I can understand why (The League of Extraordinary Gentleman, while an interesting comic series, was such a steaming pile of bad on film that if you walk past it quietly enough in the video store, you can actually hear it suck). So far, everything on this one looks good, but I know better than to get my hopes up. For now, I'll read, and recommend, the book.

What's More, This Completes My Console Trifecta

This weekend, a wonderful thing happened. No, it wasn't the second family reunion weekend in a row (which was fun, but frankly means a lot of driving these days), nor the confirmation that I am not expected to attend my fifteenth high school reunion (every ten years is plenty, thanks). No, this weekend, I got a new toy.

Gleeee!

After leaving this weekend's reunion, I went straight to the Toy's R Us and bought a PSP, my first ever foray into Sony gaming systems (I've have the XBox and have previously owned various Nintendo systems). Now, the PSP is not exactly a new piece of hardware, but that fits in well with my practice of staying a generation behind in gaming technology (remember kids, just because a game is new doesn't make it the best game ever - Super Mario Brothers is stil,l more fun than American McGee's Bad Day L.A.). Even better, I got a bundle, so we have a family friendly game (Daxter), a game of killing (God of War: Chains of Olympus), and a UMD Family Guy: The Freakin Sweet collection. All good.

What's really funny is that I keep up so much on gaming stuff, even though I don't often participate, that I knew exactly what to expect. As such, when I got the inevitable dead pixel (link has NSFW language), not only was I not crushed by the lack of perfection in my new toy, I actually felt like I was part of the group. Why yes, yes I did find my dead pixel and what's more, DUDE, I TOTALLY HAVE MY OWN PSP WITH A DEAD PIXEL ON IT!

Okay, maybe I'm a little out of control here, but try to understand, I have become a dreadfully responsible person in the last decade or so, and a big part of the is the constant denial of expenditures in the "fun" category. Every time I eyeball some toy, I tell myself that the money would be better spent on something responsible. Of course, I'm right. Still, once in a while it's nice to drop the ball, give it an official what-the-heck, and get a new toy. It's a bit embarrassing, but I'm pretty sure the whole ride home (in which I made my lovely wife drive so I could play) I was actually beaming.

So there it is. Christmas came early this year, and apparently I've been a good little boy. You'll probably notice a dramatic slowdown in the book reviews, as I'll be spending my alone time engrossed in gaming goodness, but I'm guessing that they aren't anyone's favorite reason for coming here anyway.

If it helps ease the transition, I'll happily describe the visceral joy I'll take in ripping a harpies wings off and beating it with them.

Why You Never Find Me In Best Buy

Today found me the forced observer of my own dark side. Over lunch, I went to the mall with my lovely wife, and in doing so found myself in a store full of objects that I have long coveted. What's worse, we were actually there for the purpose of consideration and potentially purchasing said object. We looked. We played. We considered. And then my wife uttered words that struck terror into my heart.

"Do you think we should sleep on it?"

Now, internally I didn't have a dialog so much as a panicked emergency response. Klaxons were going off. People were rushing to attack positions. Red shirts fell dead as the hull was breached. It was ugly. Nonetheless, the part of my brain that has somewhat evolved since childhood took control and responded in the affirmative, as I knew deep down that this was the correct response.

So far so good, right? We're taking the time to think this over before committing to a reasonably large purchase, like responsible adults should. So then why is it that the entire walk to the car, the entire drive back to work, and pretty much the entire afternoon has seen me pouting like a six year old? No, I'm not even going to give myself that much credit. The Princess would, without a doubt, currently be handling this better than I am.

I'm reacting like the kid who goes to the toy store, plays with a bunch of stuff, and then is told that we're not buying anything right now. Sure, part of me knew that going in. Nonetheless, the eternal promise of "maybe Santa will get you one" eventually falls through, because as an adult I know the realities of the situation. If you take the time to think these things through, the end result is almost always the same. No matter how shiny it is, no matter how much you think you deserve it, there's always something more important. It's part of being a responsible adult. The part that sucks.

Now of course, there is a chance that we will go back and make the purchase. I'm just surprised at myself and how immature I became in the face of this. I mean, at some point I won't be like this, right? The allure of gadgetry and new, shiny toys eventually wears off and is replaced with a more mature, realistic view of the world where I can look around with complete satisfaction, no longer pining for some trinket to fill the void, right?

Please, just lie to me.

Why Mario Always Seemed a Little Tense

My lovely wife was out of town for a couple of days, and I used that time the way I usually do - I got caught up on some of my tasks, and then I played video games. It's funny, but a couple of hours of Knights of the Old Republic, and I just felt somehow better. I've been thinking about this a lot, and I think I at least partially understand why.

Everything in my life is transient. Nothing ever feels done. Getting things finished around the house just leads to an inevitable, "Well, that just leaves..." followed by a long list of things to come. My job is just made up of finishing parts of tasks, always knowing that in a few weeks, there is a list of things to add to whatever I did before. Every time I think I have the family under control, I discover some new situation that I'm not used to (let me tell you, the whole "terrible twos" thing is not my cup of tea - I love that kid with all my heart, but Daddy's getting really worn out). I rarely ever feel like I accomplish anything.

Games aren't like that. When I play a game I pick up an objective, puzzle out how I'm going to accomplish it, and then actually accomplish it. Finished. Done. No follow up. No, "Hey, that's great, but we forgot that we also need you to do this". (This is of course ignoring that *$&%ing toadstool and his "but our princess is in another castle" thing. God I hated that little ^#%$er.) It's actually done.

It's weird how therapeutic this is. Yes, I realize that what I accomplished is virtual, but does that really matter if it makes me feel better? I come away feeling stronger, more confidant, because dammit, I got something done. I have the closure that doesn't seem to exist in real life, no matter how badly we seem to need it.

Of course there's more to my loving games than this, but I never recognized that particular aspect of it before. I think it's why I always preferred role playing and action games to fighting or sports games (well, that and getting your %#$ handed to you by your lovely not yet wife is a humbling and sometimes frustrating experience). Those games never end - it's a round, a winner, and then a new round. I like having easy to understand and complete objectives. Steal the plans. Kill the demon. Find my pants.

Wait, that last one wasn't in a game.

Dude, where the hell are my pants?

That Wriggled and Giggled and Tickled Inside Her

Another day, another bloodletting. I went to the doctor this afternoon for a couple of unrelated issues, and it naturally let to a blood test. As I believe I mentioned before, the heart trouble was eventually tracked down to low iron, which I think this has a lot to do with the fact that every time I go the the $&#*ing doctor, they take some of my blood.

Anyway, I've been stricken with two new maladies, and both are ridiculous. The first is aching fingers. This in and of itself is not ridiculous. What's ridiculous is that they drew my blood to check for arthritis. Now, I know better, but I can't help but feel like that's and old person problem, and so between that and the fact that my beard seems noticeably grayer than when it started, I'm feeling slightly ancient.

The other issue is even stupider. Apparently, now at random times during my sleep, I click. That's right, I said "click". My lovely wife wakes me up and tells me, "You're making that clicking sound again". What the hell is that? Now, it occasionally wakes me up. It's like I close the back of my throat, and then try to inhale. So I had them look to make sure I wasn't swelling shut or something, which apparently I'm not.

So I'm supposed to track these things and get back to the doctor later. Take Aleve for now and see if it helps. Also, I'm supposed to enlist my lovely wife in figuring out if I'm acting restless when I start clicking at night. Personally, I don't think I am. I just think I'm being defensive. After all, we've all heard the old yarn about how many spiders people swallow per year, mostly while they sleep, and even though I know it's hooey, I think my subconscious mind is being protective, which is fine with me.

Those little eight legged bastards aren't laying any eggs in my gullet.

And the answer is none. None more black.

As part of my efforts to pretend that I'm still entrenched in video game culture, despite rarely taking the time to actually play games lately, I read up on all the latest stuff. I watch the trailers. I admire the screen shots. I idly wonder if my children will play Duke Nukem Forever, or if a mere generation will not be sufficient to actually get to a release date. Anyway, I know what's going on in the game world.

One of the latest trends really bugs me. It would seem that color has officially become passe for anything but children's games. To some extent, I guess I can see why this is happening. People want realism in their games. Brightly colored ghosts chasing around a banana colored circle lacking eyes was not exactly a hallmark of realism. Fine.

But for some reason, someone decided that realism meant either extremely dark and gritty, or even stranger, realism meant brown with big time lighting glare. I don't know what kind of world these people live in, but when I go outside, this is not what I see. Admittedly, not a lot of games take place in the country suburbs, but still. I've been to cities, and shockingly, cities come in full color too.

Not everyone screws this up, but what really gets to me (and prompted me to rant about it here) is that now the fans are actually altering released screen shots to look more like what they want to see. Apparently, what they want to see is "not much". For the most part, all they did was suck the color out of the shots. In looking at it, all I could think of was some goth kid sitting at his desk, resenting the fact that the game he was looking forward to playing would actually contain color, unlike his world, which is entrenched in darkness.

Seriously, if you follow the link, my favorite part is #6, "Necromancer's Choice". First, and this is important kids, if you want some industry to take your opinion seriously, I find that the best way is to do a side-by-side comparison of what you like vs what they have, and then at the top of their product, put the words "Wow gayness". That'll show them. Besides, I thought part of the joy of playing a Necromancer was sort of playing the scary guy (or girl, for our female frighteners). What fun is it to be a monster in a world of darkness?

Me, I'd rather be a monster in the mall any day.

Meltdowns of the Majestic Moose

Sometime while I slept last night, by beloved son was replaced by a rabid fuss monkey, which came as somewhat of a surprise, as I do not believe that fuss monkeys are indigenous to this area. Nonetheless, when pulled from his crib and presented with the plan of his sitting down to eat breakfast, a great tantrum ensued. The net result was that he skipped breakfast (which just means I pack it so he can eat at school) and I got to do all of our morning activities (getting dressed, brushing teeth, etc.) while he howled and cried and kicked, occasionally pausing to make sure I was still aware of the tantrum going on.

Tantrums are not my strong suit. I know how to handle them and all, essentially ignoring the Moose until he feels like being more reasonable, but I'm a big softy when it comes to my kids. So while I'm doing the right thing, the whole time I feel like a heel for letting him lay on the floor crying while I iron my shirt and drink coffee. When I finally got him out of his car seat to drop him off at school, a trip he continued fussing through, he gave me a big hug, and I felt even worse.

I don't know if it's accurate or not, but the Moose feels a lot more prone to tantrums than his big sister was. I think it's more likely that I am simply more aware of it in him. With the Princess, my lovely wife did a lot more of getting her ready for school and whatnot, as she was working on her Master's degree at the time and thus didn't have as rigid a schedule as I did. Now that I have assumed the responsibility of prepping the two for their day (which frankly makes more sense, as I'm traditionally more of a morning person than my lovely wife), I'm seeing more of him than I think I did of the Princess at this age.

It's especially striking with the Moose because he's been such a mellow, happy kid thus far. For the most part he still is. He's just developing these weird battles, like not wanting to sit in his high chair to eat or fussing for extended periods at bedtime, although the latter is undoubtedly related to the removal of pacifiers from the situation a few weeks ago. I guess I just have to get used to holding my ground. It's just hard when it's my babies. I feel like I'm being mean to let him cry like that, even though I know that it's best in the long run.

There's Something Happening Here

You know, I had written up a big long rant against the government for their new ability seize our laptops and other electrical devices indefinitely at the border, with or without reason. The thing is, I can't even get upset about this stuff anymore, because we all let it happen. Maybe I'm just depressed, but it seems to me like we, as a nation, have officially failed.

Look at the headlines. People making ridiculous suggestions about how to solve the oil crisis, leading to outright childish behavior on the part of both major parties, or my previous gripes about the ridiculous handling of the housing crisis. I don't know if it's that it's a presidential election year, or maybe I just haven't been paying attention, but all I hear about from our government seems to be partisan asshattery. It does not bode well for us as a people.

Is it our apathy? Is it that we think we're so much better than all the other countries that our own failings can be forgiven? Are we simply a nation of tools? I'm afraid that lately, I'm leaning towards the latter. I mean, it's hard for me to believe - most people I know seem intelligent. At the same time, only 69% of Americans can name the Vice President. Louisiana just signed legislation that seems to be targeted towards allowing intelligent design to be taught in schools. (And please, for my religious readers, don't misunderstand my being upset at this with persecution. I don't particularly care what you believe, but I feel that pushing ID as science is purposefully fraudulent.) It just looks like we're backpedaling here.

I'm guessing that my current chagrin is simply a product of todays bad attitude (went to bed in a funk, and while I slept it grew into a megafunk or George Clinton proportions). Hopefully so. A good night's sleep, and I'll go back to my otherwise sunny and ignorant self, perfectly willing to put my rose-colored glasses on and face the world anew.

On a side note, do these rose-colored glasses make me look gay?

My $.02: Book Review - The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead

All my regulars will know that I'm a strong proponent of preparation when it comes to the impending zombie apocalypse. This seems natural to me, but I know that there are those of you out there who scoff at me. They will be devoured. It's a shame, but that's how the whole survival-of-the-fittest thing works.

Anyway, it seems that the The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead would be a shoe in for me. To be honest, it was a mixed bag. It's not that it's written poorly. It's just, well, kind of long.

Basically, the book takes the premise that zombies have existed for thousands of years, caused by a virus that kills it's host, and then takes over the entire nervous system, leaving a dead, but mobile, individual that goes about eating people. Then, it tells you how to kill them, evade them, etc.

The writing itself is well done. Not once does Brooks (son of one my personal heros, Mel Brooks) break character. The entire thing reads like a paranoid, cold war era preparation guide. The fact that it's based on something false is never eluded to in the least. He covers everything that could be considered: weapons (in which he totally vindicated my opinion that an ax wins over a chainsaw), environment, and long term planning in the event of a world wide outbreak.

The thing is, its detail is what does it in. What I really want to see is one of those old school filmstrips where the sound is funny talking about all of it. You know the ones. The announce guy would come on and say something like, "Uh oh. Looks like little Billy has a zombie outbreak in the neighborhood.", and then goes on to tell little Billy how to help his family protect themselves. I think that's what the book was going for, but got lost in the sometimes excessive thought that went into it.

Don't get me wrong - the detail is impressive. It's just a lot to read frankly. When he starts covering historical outbreaks in the last third or so of the book, it picks up, but the preceding text gets to be too much.

On the bright side, this book led to his more serious, and much better World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, which I can whole heartedly recommend. Unless you're a big fan of zombie movies and games, which obviously I am, I can't really recommend this one for reading. At the same time, if I saw it in a bargain bin, I would pick it up to keep around as a conversation piece. So go read World War Z, a much more accessible and frankly better written book, and leave this one to the fans.

Brother, Can You Spare a Mortgage

We're going to get back to a regular schedule around here now that things have settled down a bit at home, and it's going to start by breaking one of my own ruled. That's right, today we're going to talk about politics. Consider this your chance to flee.

Waiting...waiting...writing in gerunds...

Okay, now that the cowards are gone, let's discuss the housing market, because I'm a little confused about a some things. First, are we or are we not a capitalist society? Shouldn't that mean that people invest money into things that they hope will pay off in the future? If it does, great. If not, they lose out, dress their wounds, and move on, wiser.

Apparently this isn't the case anymore. Now, if you win, terrific. Good for you. And if you lose? Why, the government will sweep in and start writing relief checks, funded in large by those of us who are struggling to pay our own $&^#ing bills right now.

I know, I know - a large part of this bill goes to saving people's homes. But as I understand it, a lot of these are the people who are in trouble because they thought they could get a variable rate or balloon mortgage and use it to buy a house way out of their price range. I keep hearing about how the lending industry mislead people, but you know what, I wanted to buy a house too, and didn't because I can read. I would hope that the claims of American ignorance are hyperbole at least to the extent that poeple are not signing legal documents without taking the time to read them.

What's even more bothersome though is that part of the problem was that the government felt the need to interfere in the first place. So some time ago, the government decided that it had to rally against lenders not giving out mortgages to the poor. Now, I don't want to seem unsympathetic to people who have real problems, but again, focus for a moment on where we started this talk. A captalist society is being regulated because banks will not give out loans to people who probably won't be able to repay them. So, the elected officials get to say how they helped the poor afford houses (an excellent talking point during an election), and then a decade or two later the elected officials get to reprimand the lending industry for screwing up the economy and point out how they voted to provide relief in this time of need (another excellent talking point).

I guess what's bothering me is the nagging thought that if the government had just stayed the &$%# out of the lending industry's business in the first place, then the market would have regulated itself and we wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we would be equally screwed, just through different forces. Maybe this entire posting is just one big troll to see if anyone will actually get mad enough to write a comment (doubt it, but I can never tell these days).

The only thing that I'm sure about is this - I definitely get the feeling that the government is overly involved in our lives. I'm starting to wonder if maybe they should worry about things like national security and standard public services (police, fire, libraries, etc.), and not so much about babysitting everything we do to try and protect us from ourselves. I would say that this opinion sounds too close to being Republican for my comfort, but as far as I can tell the GOP is just as quick to cut checks and butt into our lives as the Dems, so the line between them is beyond blurry these days.

On the bright side, complaining about big government is sure to up my readership as I get added to watch lists. Sweet.

Same Old Saturday Night

You've probably noticed that I didn't update as often as usual last week (like you have nothing better to do that sit around and click Refresh to see if I've posted). Well, Saturday was the Princess's sixth birthday, and between that and other activities going on last week, this fell off the radar a little. Sorry about that.

Having the weekend party is always trying. I hit Friday afternoon and I'm thinking, "Boy am I glad it's the weekend", which is foolish. If I had been thinking, I would have seen the walk out my building for what it was - me sitting on the bull, waiting for someone to open the chute. 24 hours of near chaos followed while we tried to detail clean, decorate, and yes, shamefully buy presents for our lovely daughter. (Did I mention that we've got kind of a lot going on?)

Anyway, she loved her party, tested her new bedtime against a Hanna Montana concert on tv (but forgot what time we had said was her new bedtime, allowing me to retract a previously hasty extension and replace it with a more sensible 8:30), and generally had a good day. Unfortunately, the Moose was making rather merry with the cake and whatnot as well, which resulted in repeated vomiting Saturday night. Not cool. So, it was kind of a late night for everyone I guess.

As if there wasn't enough weirdness in our own lot, a couple of houses down, someone was throwing a big party (ours was limited to family). This is all well and good, but the party in question was apparently a theme party, so while dealing with our own shindig, I periodically looked out the window to spy pirates of all things. It's kind of hard to describe the sense of the surreal that comes from seeing numerous pirates climbing out of SUVs and meandering down the street.

So there you have it. Another weekend that ended with me coming up on Sunday afternoon and thinking to myself, "Boy am I glad I go back to work tomorrow". Well, not really, but I could use a day of bed rest. Oh well, at least everyone had a good time amidst the pink pony party hats, pirate gatherings, and random projectile vomiting.

I just wish for once we could do something different.

Okay, Go Ahead and Ask

Having stood up on my soapbox and ranted against Bravo's questionable judgment in reality programs, I was going to be contented and move along from the topic with nothing more to say. Naturally, something came along to prevent this. Apparently, we are starting to question the wisdom of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy of gays in the military now, and this of course leads to people saying things that I pretty much have to comment on.

Obviously we're all familiar with the policy, introduced in 1993, that said we would allow homosexuals to serve in the military so long as they didn't talk about being gay. I don't understand this policy for a lot of reasons. First, as far as I'm concerned, if you want to risk your life to protect you're country, go for it. I'm not sure where you're sexual orientation will affect your performance as a soldier (although I do recall some comedian pointing out the whole "I can't shoot him - he's adorable" conundrum). More so for me though, there is a wonderful feeling of being oppressive while pretending that we accept it, a feeling that's pervasive in a lot of the country, where we're saying, "Oh, it's okay to be gay, we'd just prefer if you didn't talk about it".

It's that last part that always made the policy seem so stupid to me. You can serve so long as you don't talk about being gay. Keep in mind, all of the straight people around you will probably be talking about their relationships and loved ones back home, so it seems to me that basically, you would have to either avoid talking about yourself completely (and that's not going to foster distrust among your fellow soldiers) or else outright lie about yourself.

Anyway, people in the government are talking about removing it altogether and just letting gay people serve in the military. Seems to me like a fine move. Of course it will lead to some people being abused for their sexual preferences, at least until such abuse is treated with the appropriate retributions, but that's the joy of trying to grow out of our current state. I stand by my statement that when my kids are adults (or, more pessimistically, my grandkids), they'll probably look back on this period the way I look back on the segregation that was going on seventy years ago.

Anyway, in response to this proposal (and the primary reason I couldn't just let this go), Elaine Donnely, president of the Center for Military Readiness said that the repeal "would impose new, unneeded burdens of sexual tension on men and women serving in high-pressure working conditions, far from home, that are unlike any occupation in the civilian world". Keeping in mind that in 1992 we finally allowed women to serve in active combat (another bizarre exclusion to my mind, but that's a different topic), is she suggesting that allowing gays be, well, gay while serving would somehow lead to more sexual tension than straight men and women serving together? So what, a straight man who has thus far been able to control himself while working with all of these women will suddenly find himself unable to ignore the new Private's abs in the shower because he knows the guy is gay? What the hell?

All I can figure is that the comment was made on the basis of the stereotypes I discussed before. She's concerned that once the gays are allowed to be themselves during active duty, the first thing they'll do is subtly alter their uniforms. Once past that sartorial challenge, they'll make small alterations to their bunk area. And if anyone can really work a buzz cut, it's going to be them. This will naturally make themselves appear more attractive to everyone, including the heterosexuals serving. This leads to the real problem we're facing here, bringing us full circle and thus exposing the real solution to this issue.

People who are involved with decisions about gays in the military should no longer be allowed to watch Bravo.

It's Faaabulous!

I don't get to watch a lot of television (something I'm not exactly lamenting), but I've noticed a disturbing trend lately. I used to watch the Bravo channel because it featured Inside the Actor's Studio, which was interesting. I haven't seen Inside the Actor's Studio in a long time though despite the fact that Bravo is on frequently at my house. I believe the reason for this is that Bravo seems to have switched over to a new format. See, where they originally focused on the arts and theater, Bravo now seems to be the "gay people decorating #&$%" network.

Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with gay people. In fact, at first I was glad to see them being represented more prominently in media where they weren't the target of jokes or being used on a sitcom because lisping is funny.

As I continue to see this stuff though, it seems they're getting a little overboard with it. First, the competition shows such as Shear Genius or Project Runway seem to revel in finding not just gay people, but flaming gay men who invariable seem to stay in the competition through the bitter end, often winning. Then you've got random shows about people overhauling houses and redecorating and guess what, once again they seems to almost always a gay couple who are redoing their kitchen or landscaping. I don't think I need to speak to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

I guess what bothers me is that every one of these shows revolves around the same thing: decorating. So where I originally thought to myself, "Wow, it's nice to see the homosexual aspect of our population being included in popular culture. Maybe we're finally moving away from the prejudice that has been so prevalent up until now.", now I see it for what it really is, the continuation of a well established stereotype.

Well done, Bravo. Effeminate gay men like to do hair, design clothes and accessorize their living spaces. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I'm thinking maybe I've seen enough for a while. Hopefully, you'll come up with something interesting to replace these shows when public interest wanes.

Next season on Bravo - African Americans preparing fried chicken, Mexicans gardening and white people who can't dance. Watch what happens indeed.

I Really Hope Kevin Smith Doesn't Read This

As some of you know, about a year ago, we moved from the suburbs of one college town to the suburbs of a bigger college town. Now, obviously I'm biased, but it seems to me that, in any area, you get certain archetypes of people. There's one of these archetypes that I don't understand, and I associate with college towns, but that might be a mistake. Feel free to correct me.

We were exploring the town soon after moving, and not surprisingly, exploring just meant checking out the Meijer that was closer to town than the one we usually shop at (for those not familiar, a Meijer is a huge grocery/department store that I'm kind of a junkie for - it's like a classier Super Wal Mart with less tank tops and Nascar hats). Upon entering, I couldn't help but notice this guy. He was maybe six and a half feet tall. He had long hair dyed some shade of dark (yes, that was the color - dark). His facial hair was cut in ann odd combination of goatee and mustache. So far, pretty standard for a college town. Here's the thing though.

He was really fat, and he wore a trench coat.

That right there is what I don't get. Why is it that younger, fat guys who want to look bad ass always go for the trench coat? Do they think it hides that their fat? Does the flowing nature of the coat make them feel like their wearing a cape, and they can pretend that they're Batman instead of Butterball? What the hell?

I ask these questions as a reformed fat guy in a trench coat. Yes, at one point during high school, when I was at my, shall we say "heftiest" (which is a polite was of saying orca fat), I donned not one but two different trench coats, and I haven't the foggiest idea why. Maybe I needed something that looked tough to try and cover the reality that was my dough boy appearance. Maybe I was using it as a hiding place, trying to avoid what I really was. Maybe I just saw Dick Tracy one too many times. I have no good explanation. One thing is for certain - I'm glad that I have no photo evidence of this period of my life, because I'm sure that, rather than making me look cool or mysterious, the trench coat just made me look like a giant, evil tent. The haunted carnival, personified.

Now, I know there are those of you who are saying to yourselves, "Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe they're just dudes who like trench coats that happen to be fat.". Maybe, and I'm sure that accounts for a subset of them. I know I would wear a trench coat today despite no longer being the bucket of tubby I once was. But there is a correlation here, I'm sure of it. I've just seen too many of these people for there not to be. I just can't figure out what it is.

It probably has to do with the extra pockets. You can hide a lot of snack foods in those pockets.

Just Trust Me On This One

Okay, I try to avoid three things here on Dangerously Low On Grog. First, I try not to put a lot of links to other forms of entertainment, as I try to make this a form of entertainment. I also try to avoid looking like a rabid fanboy. You know, those people who have a person, place or thing that they are wholeheartedly dedicated to and will follow blindly, no matter how bad everyone else seems to think it is.

Having said that, something has occurred on the internet that demands your attention. Something wonderful. See, there was this writers strike a few months ago, and none of the writers were allowed to write anything for television or movies for a while as a result. Naturally, a lot of these writers tried to figure out where else they could do their work. This led to Joss Whedon getting together with his friends and family, and they self financed a little three part musical, Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog.

Now I know I said that I try to avoid the rabid fanboy vibe here, but I can't. Joss Whedon stepped up to fill the gap that us geeks felt inside of us. No longer can we turn to George Lucas, who took our childhood heroes and tarnished them forever. No longer can we rely on decent Star Trek, which, let's be honest, officially jumped the shark with the passing of James Tiberius Kirk. But Joss came along with Buffy, with Firefly, and gave us something we needed...geek media with actual quality. So for me, this goes beyond highly recommending something that's entertaining (and it is). I want a show of support, and what better way to give that support than to send all four of my regular readers to this site. (I know - my numbers are way up these days. Woot!)



So, while I am a fanboy, I'm not rabid. I didn't even watch Firely until it had been canceled (something I regret, but now I own the dvds as well as the film Serenity, which you should all own too). I've only watched the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer like four times (not counting the musical episode, Once More With Feeling, which I've seen a shameful number of times and own the soundtrack to), and I've watched maybe half a season of Angel. I haven't even purchased the run of X-men comics he wrote, mostly because I didn't realize that they are now available as trade paperbacks which is the only way I read comics and I would love, love, love to get my hands on. (How are my hints? Too heavy handed? I can never tell.)

Anyway, his new show Dollhouse isn't due until January, 2009, so some of us were looking for a fix, and this was it. So there. Go watch now. It's musical. It's funny. It has Nathan Fillion and Neil Patrick Harris. It has one semi-racy joke, so maybe watch it when you get home if you blush easily. And then go rent Buffy. And Firefly. And write letters to Universal Pictures demanding sequels to Serenity.



What's that? The third thing I try to avoid here on DLOG? Oh, I just figured that as a loyal reader, you knew that one.

Furries. &$%#ing freaks.

I Call Her "The Moose Whisperer"

Last night, we're eating our dinner when the Princess announces that her fork is missing. Having never lost a utensil mid meal that I can recall, I was fascinated. She then found it, in her lap, and announced that she knew what had happened. "The air conditioning blew it off my bowl." My lovely wife and I exchanged a glance, and one of us asked how it did that.

"Hello. It's air."

I have no idea what that means, but I so envy the Princess for her convictions. She says things like that as if it were common sense. These days I feel like I don't really know anything anymore, and here she comes at nearly six, and she has all the answers. I was at least seventeen or eighteen before I knew everything. So precocious, that one.

And it's not just air conditioning either. At one point I started a file of her "Really Good Ideas", as she puts it. It includes such gems as "Never lick the table", "No eating things you can't eat" and "Don't play on the rocks or you will fall down and break your head open". Clearly sage advice on all counts. Oh, and don't ask for details on the table thing. It has to do with where the cat sits, and is not a dinner conversation.

Another area where she seems to excel is figuring out what her little brother wants. This morning the Moose wouldn't eat his Honey Nut Cheerios, which is in and of itself an outrageous statement. It's like someone saying that I wouldn't drink my beer. Preposterous. Anyway, he's fussing and whining, and any attempts to pry the pacifier out of his mouth that I might get a more detailed response led to further fussing. I was clearly getting frustrated when the Princess piped in, "He's just mad because we're not having pancakes". How she came to this conclusion I have no idea, but he stopped fussing long enough to look at me and, muffled by the aforementioned pacifier, say, "Pancakes". And then he started eating. I guess she just hears things differently from me.

To me, everything he says sounds like, "I want mommy to change this diaper".

I Know for Whom the Grass Quacks

This last December, we became homeowners for the first time. This meant that I had to start learning those skills that homeowners require, such as learning how to avoid yard work. Thus far I have been found to be pretty adept at this, but when my lovely wife, who has taken interest in our plant friends outside and thus been doing the yard work I've been trying so hard to avoid, came home with a note from the doctor saying she couldn't be out in the sun, I knew I had been bested. As a result, I found myself outside last weekend attempting to remove the latest scourge from our yard; the dread quack grass.

For those unfamiliar with quack grass, it is like crab grass's meaner big brother. According to my wife's research, it spreads faster that internet videos of heiresses in night vision (or the heiresses themselves, for that matter). Judging from our yard, this would appear to be an accurate assessment.

The problem is that in order to kill this stuff, you have to kill all of the grass around it as well. She tried to take a targeted swipe at it first, which led to patches of my lawn which is now brown and dead. Well, not entirely dead. There's still some quack grass growing there.

I took a more vicious approach myself. Given that I already have to dig up these portions of the lawn and reseed them, I took to carpet bombing. It didn't help that I was working as the sun set, so the darker it got, the more everything that moved looked like quack grass. I'm almost afraid of seeing the actual results. I'm thinkng half of my yard is going to be brown by Saturday. At least I think the quack grass will be dead.

This lead me to notice something: my neighborhood is quiet. I don't mean as in "a nice, quiet neighborhood" quiet. I mean as in dead silent quiet sometimes. It's weird. The reason I bring this up is, well, while I was out trying to establish my dominance over the grass situation, I had a familiar rumbling in my gut, and as Bob is my witness, I was afraid to unleash the spider that barks for fear of being the only sound in a three block radius. All could think of was the open windows. As a direct result of this unearthly quiet, I had to finish the job of decimating my lawn while trying to ignore a belly ache and hoping that no one overhead the inevitable squeaking as I occasionally gave up the battle.

Now that it has actually cause me physical suffering, all I can say is that the quack grass better be dead. The only plan I have left is to kill it with fire. I wonder what the home owner's association has to say about slash and burn gardening.

On the bright side, I might still get to invest in that flamethrower. Groovy.

My $.02: Book Review - Darwin's Radio

There are a few different breeds of science fiction. There are space journeys, there are far future visions, there are evil aliens. Mostly, they are just regular genres, only with "in space" or "in the future" pinned on to the end.

Then there are the books that are visions of the near future, books that look at current science and simply introduce a small "what if" statement onto something. When done correctly, these are often more interesting, and definitely more believable than the tales of space adventuring and whatnot.

This is where Darwin's Radio falls. The book is based on the premise that there are areas of our DNA that contain encodings from viruses long forgotten, and that under certain conditions, these encodings can become active and produce the viruses. Naturally, this occurs (because if it was just a book about a theory someone made up, you wouldn't read it), and the resultant virus appears to be causing miscarriages. As might be expected, there is widespread panic, the government becomes maybe too involved, and hilarity ensues. Okay, there's not so much hilarity, but you get the idea.

I've never read anything by Bear before, but his work is disturbingly good. There were things I didn't care for. He's a little heavy handed with the foreshadowing, and there's a hint of mysticism that I felt was a little out of place in a work that seemed so rooted in science. All of that aside, however, he has a skill for taking what might have been a standard sci-fi topic and introducing very real characters dealing with it. His ability to cover the politics as well as the emotional costs of such an epidemic is what really made this so engaging, and simultaneously what made it so disturbing.

I'm not going to go into details as I try to avoid spoilers around here, but I would recommend picking this one up. Apparently, it has spawned sequels, but I need something else in between. Not unlike Kiss Me, Judas, the idea of more both excites me and makes me a little weary. I need something light to cleanse the palate first.

Maybe I'll finally get around to that pamphlet, "Great Jewish Sports Figures".

Still Here. Mostly.

Just wanted to let you know that I haven't forgotten you. I just have
kind of a lot going right now.

We will return to our regular updates soon.

I Definitely Side Wth Almond Joy On This One

I've discussed some of my candy based pet peeves before. Having settled out of court with the OLADF (Oompa Loompa Andi-Defamation League), you'd think that I would shy away from further discussion, but I will not be silenced so easily. Besides, as long as I leave those little freaks out of this, I think I'm clear.

So, let's talk some more about candy silliness, starting with slogans. Why is it that candy makers, or the marketers that guide them, insist on slapping a slogan on the outside of a candy wrapper that, to the adult who is most likely going to pay for said candy, begs for an inappropriate interpretation? As an example, this morning I hit up the office candy bucket, and the outside of my watermelon Now and Later actually has the words "Hard 'N Fruity". Hard and fruity? I dare you to Google that at work. Hell, I double dare you to do a image search on it. Go on. You know you want to. Sicko.

Now, I'm sure that to an innocent child, that's fine, but as an adult who tends to read way too much into the the things I...well, read, I'm not sure that I'm comfortable consuming something that declares itself hard and fruity (not that there's anything wrong with that if hard and fruity is your thing). Combine it with a handful of Skittles, and you have hard and fruity while you taste the rainbow. I'm pretty sure you can't eat them together without being in some kind of pride parade.

How about some of the misleading marketing that goes on with our candy? How about my favorite online moniker, "Fun Size"? We're all familiar with the miniature versions of our favorite candy bars. But seriously, fun size? That's fun size? Makes you wonder about a person who is convinced that an inch and a half is the actual size of fun. I'm guessing it's a man. A very sad, lonely man.

On a related note, I always feel bad for the miniature packages of Twix bars, simply because the very premise of the Twix bar is that there are two of them. The mini ones, however, are packaged singly. I pity them, knowing that somewhere out there is an identical bar, its partner in confectionery goodness, forever separated from it by a shiny wrapper. So I eat them. You know, to put them out of their misery. It makes me feel like I'm doing a good deed while getting my sugar fix.

Anyway, we'll end on a slogan that's not an outright lie so much as an indirection. "The milk chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Well, yes, I suppose that's true. Anyone who's ever made the mistake of taking a handful of M&Ms on a hot day knows perfectly well that the chocolate does not, in fact, melt in your hand. The $&#*ing candy coating melts in your hand. So yeah, kudos to you guys. My hands are chocolate free. Now I just have to get past looking like I recently bitch slapped Rainbow Brite, and I'm good.

Don't get me wrong. I don't expect anything to change. I'm sure that for the remainder of my days having to face the ridiculous things these people come up with in an effort to get my kid's attention onto the latest candy. I just wish we could put more effort into making these things more meaningful, like the Mounds/Almond Joy people did with "Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don't."

Truer words were never spoken.

Ooh, I Wonder If Lowe's Sells Flame Throwers

Today a tree that used to sit next to my garage is now laying in my yard thanks to a reasonably large thunderstorm that blew through last night. I have confirmed that my insurance company took as much interest in this topic as I take in Ann Coulter's opinions on pretty much anything, which is none. As such, I am presented with an interesting puzzle. Do I use this as an excuse to buy myself a chainsaw or an ax?

Obviously, if I were to buy a chainsaw, that would make the job faster, it would be easier on me, etc. However, that is short term thinking, and I'm a long term guy. So while a chainsaw would make this job faster, what about in the long run? So the question I really have to ask myself is this: when the zombie apocalypse comes, which would I rather have at my side?

Again, I think a lot of people would say chainsaw, but I'm not convinced. Sure, when surrounded by a legion of the undead, bent on devouring you and your family, a chainsaw would be nice to have around. You know, it would let you clear a path in short order. So sure, in situations where you're surrounded, you would want the chainsaw. Also, let's face it - anyone who has ever seriously considered this scenario (and you all should) has the image of Ashley J. Simpson in their minds, so naturally the chainsaw is a big draw.

Situations where you're surrounded, however, imply that you've made a tactical error. I mean if you can keep your clan safe for, I don't know, maybe a week or two, then the rotting will kick in. At that point, you'd have to make a pretty serious blunder to find yourself surrounded by a bunch of slow, dragging zombies. So as long as we had enough food to hold us up in the house, being ambushed isn't a real concern of mine.

The downside of the chainsaw is obvious. It requires fuel and maintenance. While I suppose I could siphon gas out of cars abandoned along the roads for a while, I would have no chance at fixing a broken chainsaw. Heck, I can't fix the kids toys. So an ax looks good from that point of view. No fuel, no maintenance, and I could sharpen an ax against a rock. I'm pretty sure rocks will still be in full supply regardless of the flesh-eating crowds.

I don't know. Maybe I'm over thinking this. For now, I'll probably just borrow a chainsaw or something. Maybe buy the ax. I mean, when the time comes, I really only have to protect everyone long enough to get to the local Meijer anyway.

Then, it's machetes and shotguns all around baby.

Honk If You're Reading This While Driving

A phenomenon I have never quite understood is the bumper sticker. I mean, I understand how it works. Someone comes up with a witty saying or political slogan and puts it on a permanent sticker, and someone else who finds this amusing/insightful purchases it and slaps it on the back of his/her/its car. The mechanics are clear enough. It's the inspiration I don't get.

First, it speaks of a culture that cannot speak for itself. I mean, I appreciate an amusing quote as much as the next guy, and, if the occasion is appropriate, will bring one out. I can not, however, imagine the one line that is so witty it would inspire me to announce it to every driver who has occasion to look at the backside of my car. But we, as a nation, have come to rely on the words of others to speak for us, so we find something that seems to fit our current though patterns and then put it out there as out own, hoping I suppose to identify with like minded drivers.

Stranger than this though are those that feel the need to announce their religious or political motivations through these stickers. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that you're willing to share this kind of personal information, as it allows me to be that much more specific when I'm cursing you out for driving like a moron (presumably because you couldn't see out your rear windows, what with them being covered by stickers). Really though, I have enough anger issues in my life. I would rather wait until you've done something offensive on the road to dislike you, as opposed to immediately assuming that you're a douche just because you couldn't take the time to scrape "Bush/Cheney '04" off your vehicles tailfeathers.

While we're on the subject, can we stop putting those little fish derivations on the backs of our cars? First I see a little fish, and have to inquire what the %#$@ I'm looking at, what with having been brought up a godless heathen. Then the little fish has some variation on God's name in it. (Why exactly does God need a name anyway? When someone in heaven says, "Hey, God", is there really any doubt who's they're referring to?) In retaliation, we get a little fish with feet, proving that the scientific community is just as committed to marring the outside of their vehicles as the Christian folks. Then there's another fish eating the foot-bearing fish. And then the Flying Spaghetti Monster, presumably mocking the entire crowd with his noodly appendage. Enough already. What really kills me is that I keep wondering if these things are actually being made by terrorist groups in an effort to drive us all into a self destructive ball of road rage.

So stop it. I don't care if you're all for world peace. I don't want to know how well your kid is doing at school. I will neither decide for or against getting an abortion because of some thing you put on your car (kind of a moot point really, but you get the idea). You're just irritating other drivers, and not unlike tattoos, I'm sure that in hindsight you fully regretted putting that Child's Play 2 bumper sticker on your nice new car.

Unless, you know, someone else did that for you. In which case I'm sure that whoever it was is really, really sorry and never did anything like that again. Ever.

They Can't Properly Slide Down Stairs Either

Last night my lovely wife ran downstairs to check her email, and since the kids were already in bed, I found myself alone. As is often the case in these situations, I responded to my many years of spousal training and used this solitude as an opportunity for a blissful release of stockpiled methane. Amidst the klaxon blast, I realized that I was not, in fact, alone at all, as my cat sat atop the couch giving me a look of judgment as only a house cat can.

At first, I mistook this look as disdain for the act itself. A dog would never judge me like that, but from a cat I've grown to expect it. After a moment's reflection, however, I realized that what I was looking at was bitterness, a bitterness born of the realization that what I had just done was something that she herself could not do, for while she may participate half way in such a release, she will never know what it is to announce its coming with the fanfare that I had.

For, as a cat, she lacks butt cheeks.

Think on this now, dear reader, for I believe this may be one of the key reasons for the bitterness felt by many of our fellow species in the animal kingdom against us. As we have been blessed with cheekage, we tend to take those cheeks for granted, never considering what it would be like to have to live without them, never knowing what it was to possess the musical abilities that come so naturally with such padded appendages. Animals like cats have to try and target their releases for effect, whereas for human beings that is merely a choice we can make from a vast repertoire of more tumultuous possibilities.



Why do I think this may be a source of bitterness? Well, let's think about animals that attack people, such as cats. Any cat, of any size, lacks the propensity for the above described symphonic shenanigans. Similarly, bears, wolves, sharks (who are further suppressed by the water, but could presumably still be taunted by what must be the extreme aquatic squeaking that would result from the forced clench of a wetsuit), wolverines, spiders, snakes, venomous ducks, etc. all must apply the tag "silent but deadly" not just to their stalking, but to their expellation of gas as well.

Now let's look at animals that, instead, have a history of not just non-violence, but an actual working relationship with man. Take horses for example. For hundreds of years, horses and men have worked together. We ride them, they pull carts, they shill beer for us; all sorts of things we, as humans, appreciate. And what do horses have in common with us? Huge, glorious butt cheeks, greater even than our own, with more sheer trumpeting power. Seriously, I haven't spent a lot of time with horses, but they never miss the opportunity to show off how much more boisterous their releases can be than our own (well, that and, you know, the other thing they like to point out that they've got over on us men).



Now, I'm not ready to begin writing a thesis on this or anything. Right now, I'm just exploring the idea, keeping an eye out for evidence to support my theories. I'll have to watch more Animal Planet to build up my case (although now that I think about it, last night it was lions attacking gazelles, which is more non-cheek on cheek violence - fascinating). In the meantime, I'll have to keep an eye on that cat. She still has some claws, and I'd hate for my posterior to become a target of her pent up rage.

Learning to Snipe Is Useful Too Though

Previously on DLOG, we've discussed the fact that there are those who see the potential of video games as educational tools. It would seem that this idea is gaining momentum. The Federation of American Scientists has releases a free game called Immune Attack that uses a first person shooter type system to teach about advanced immune responses.

This is really interesting to me for a lot of reasons. First, because of my lovely wife's research into learning styles, I am at least slightly more aware that not everyone can learn about something by sitting down and reading about it or listening to a professor/teacher talk about it. There are a lot of different ways to learn information, and this seems like an engaging way to do so.

What really intrigues me though is when I combine this information with what I know about gamers. See, if a game is good, a gamer will dedicate themselves to learning every intricacy of a rules system in order to gain an edge in their play. A good example of this is those who truly engage themselves with role playing games (RPG). I'm as guilty as any of them - if a RPG is well written, I will dedicate myself to figuring out the best combination of armor, what weapons work against which enemies, and which skills to advance in to best suit my character's current development. The point is, the rules of these games are complex, and if you're into it they're worth learning.

Now imagine a situation where that rule set is molecular biology, or chemisty, or particle physics. It's all in the way it's presented. If you can build an engine that makes it engaging (and I'm not talking about that letter blaster junk either) then you can make it worth someone's while to learn these rules. The D&D kids could be learning how to build better nanomachines in place of the interesting but largely non-useful rules that they are currently memorizing. Add to that that games are built around a system where you advance when you're ready, and you have a self-pacing learning system. My God people, with the right software, we could be building an army of uber-geeks.

Seriously, I think there's real potential to help people who have trouble learning advanced topics (or even non-advanced topics) in a traditional classroom setting, which I personally believe is most of us. I don't think this would replace traditional classrooms, but it could provide people who don't excel in them another way of approaching information. In our brave new, "no child left behind" country that we're striving for, it seems like we should be putting the information out there any way possible.

Which makes me wonder - has anyone ever attempted educational porn? I mean for a topic other than biology.

My $.02: Food Review - Doritos:The Quest

There's an old gyspy curse, "May you get exactly what you want", that suddenly feels very relavant. As discussed yesterday, I declared that I would not only hunt down, but then actually eat the questionable comestible that has been belched forth from the bowels of the Frito Lay company, namely Mountain Dew flavored Doritos, a.k.a "The Quest". Well, one would assume it was the bowels anyway.

I should begin by saying that nothing I say will do these things justice. I had hoped that they would be awful. I mean, how could they not be awful? As such, I took such glee in the actual depths of sheer repugnance that resulted in my eating them that it bordered on masochism. So, while I can not by any means recommend buying them, if one is offered to you, you would be doing yourself a disservice in turning it down, if for no other reason to give yourself a new baseline definition of awful against which you can base all other foods. ("Hmm, maybe nacho cheese and chocolate sauce on sushi was a bad idea after all. Well, at least it wasn't as bad as Quest Doritos.") If, on the other hand, you are weak of stomach, just walk away, and allow me to act as a culinary canary plumbing the darkness before us.

That said, on with the show. When you first eat one, mostly what you'll get is lime and salt. This is not bad at all, as I'm a big fan of the overly salty lime chips from Qdoba. Now, behind this, there begins a hint of sweetness, which is not overwhelming. It's a tequila shot short of being a margarita chip, so again, not so bad. A little odd, but not so bad.

Then you swallow, and the travesty of what they've done truly shows itself. See, I'm a drinker of diet pop only these days, but even the diet version of Mountain Dew leaves what I can only describe as a sticky film at the back of your throat. As I recall, the pure, sugar laden version left almost a cough syrup-like coating that led to feeling like I was a couple of hacks away from bringing forth a neon green loogie. Sorry for the visual, but it's the truth.

Well, that they captured perfectly. I can't believe that it's on purpose, but there it is. After swallowing, your throat will contain some kind of sugary dreck that will remain for several minutes. It's a variety of gross I have never before experienced in a snack food.

I should point out the giddy joy I took in having others try them. Descriptions ranged from "Not bad" (a Mountain Dew freak - shocker) to "It's like eating a handful of Doritos and Fruit Loops at the same time". My favorite came from a message board, "It's like eating a chip soaked in urine". Oddly, I can't say that any of them are wrong.

What's funny is that having said all of that, my original position still stands. It's so bad that I can not in good conscience tell you to avoid these altogether. It almost demands that you actually try it and see for yourself. Just know that, should you choose to follow in my shoes, you will be left soiled, somehow dirtied, and what you will get for the first time actually lends credence to the marketer's cry of Doritos being an "extreme experience".

These are extremely nasty.

I'm Guessing the Quest Involves Supressing the Gag Reflex

On a previous rant, I discussed the ever growing slate of Doritos flavors. Specifically, I mentioned that there were too many &#*$ing flavors of Doritos now. Adding insult to injury, the Habanero Doritos have been pushed out of the local gas station completely by other flavors. Not cool, guys.

I swore up and down that I was finished trying new flavors of Doritos. I mean, after the affront on my taste buds that was the Spicy Sweet Chili (if you didn't follow the link, I will sum up for you - ick), I really don't want to know what else they will come up with in the mad scientist lab that produces the colored powders clinging tenaciously to the outside of these things. I mean, I was forced to doubt the credibility of Stephen Colbert because of how awful they were. Colbert for God's sake!

Then, a strange wind blew across the internet. A rumor of something new, something different, something so wrong that the mere idea of it won't leave my mind. In one of their freaky marketing ploys, the people at Frito Lay (code monkey like Fritos - sorry, I have to do that) have release another mystery flavor, a flavor given the uninformative but intriguing moniker "Quest".

Now, having been assaulted by the last new thing, why, you may ask, would I even consider trying this? Because, if the rumors are to be believed, if the talk is true, then what they have done is so full of badness that it would be a horrible injustice not to try it. It would be like not admiring Ed Wood for being the worst movie maker ever, like pretending that Milli Vanilli didn't happen. You may as well try and tell yourself that Al Gore won in 2000.

So what is this thing that they've done? Quite simply, they put together two things known for their nastiness, both associated with both the false "extreme"-ness that the marketing crowd adores. They combined two negatives, and they are hoping for the culinary equivalent of a positive.

They made Mountain Dew flavored Doritos.

I haven't seen them. I can't find a bag yet. If...nay, when I do locate these crimes against nature, I will buy not one, but two bags. One I will place on display, to remind myself the lessons that we should have taken from Mary Shelly's Frankenstein - just because technology means that we can do something doesn't mean it's a good idea.

And the other bag? Dude, I'm so eating that #&$%. In the immortal words of the man staring down the barrel of Dirty Harry's hand cannon, "I gots to know".

***** UPDATE *****
Not ten minutes after I posted this, I went to fill my tank with gas, and while there were no Habanero Doritos to be seen, there were in fact two bags of "Quest" flavored Doritos. I have yet to open the eatin' bag, but should I survive, I will report the results tomorrow.

Thanks - I Just Had It Stuffed.

When I drive down the road, I can't help but notice little businesses that sit along the road, and I always wonder what they do there. I don't mean the stores - obviously, I know what they sell at the local Joe's House of Artificial Appendages. No, I'm talking about the little industrial buildings, the ones made of brick with small windows all around them. They don't always have the most informative names. Maybe Joe could give them some pointers.

Anyway, before I moved I used to drive by one such business. It was a sqaut, gray-bricked building that sat a ways back from the road. At the top of the building was a logo that consisted of a beaver sitting on a couple of logs. As I was driving, I never got to read past the word "Beaver" on the sign.



This stood as an example of one of those things that burrows itself into my brain and squirms during those quiet moments where I'm supposed to be reflecting on my life or praying or whatever the hell it is other people do when it's quiet and they're alone. What, precisely, did this company do? Do they build dams? That would make sense. In fact, that's the only thing I could think of that did make sense. Well, that or they were manufacturing merkins, but that didn't seem very likely.

It wasn't until I was at my new far from this little building that I figured it out. I was procuring a handful of delicious Boston baked beans when I happened to notice that the top of the machine was printed with that same beaver in relief. So they made candy machines. Bizarre. Bizarre, and a little dissapointing (be honest - you were rooting for merkins too).

This led to another one of my thoughts about these companies. At what point was someone sitting around, and they decided to start a business, and they picked that? I don't just mean candy machines, I mean whatever they make. Lamps. Window blinds. Shoelaces. Seriously, think about it, someone was sitting down at dinner, and he says to his wife, "Honey, I think I want to go into business for myself. I'm tired of taking orders from someone else. I'm going to buy that little building up the street, and I'm going to start manufacturing those little things people put in their wallets to hold pictures. Well, that or merkins.". (Okay, that one was just gratuitous - I'll stop now.)

What's funny is that what started this train of thought was that there are little businesses that live along the short road my company is at the end of, one of which is a company that makes hot air balloons. Frequently, I'll look out a window or drive past and witness them blowing up a hot air balloon, presumably for quality assurance purposes. I've seen all colors. I've seen one with the cover of Dark Side of the Moon on it. You get the idea.

Well this morning, this morning I drove by a forty foot beaver. This morning I drove past a forty foot beaver wearing a baseball cap. And waving. With a three foot flame shooting up it's butt. Not everyone gets an omen first thing in their day that lets them know things are gonna get weird. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.

And I seriously have to get a cell phone with a camera.