Last night as I lied in bed waiting for the NyQuil to work it's magic (magic that, I might add, has left me a wee bit hungover), I watched a little news with my lovely wife. One of the stories covered was about this dude Baitullah Mehsud, a "Taliban warlord" who claimed responsibility for the recent attack in Lahore and even threatened the White House itself. Ordinarily, I would promptly disregard such a story after briefly labeling this fellow a kook, but then the newscaster mentioned that he was 35 years old, and this got me thinking.
I'm 34 now. I'm an acting lead developer for a large software company. I'm not even a real lead developer. Technically, I'm just a senior programmer with ambitions to become a lead developer.
Along comes this Cat Stevens looking dude who's only a year older than me, and he's a damned warlord. Sure he's a fanatical, murderous douche, but still. I mean, I like to think of myself as ambitious, but I just don't see any kind of one year plan where I can go from wannabe lead developer to warlord. So now I'm thinking that clearly this guy has a lot more drive than I do. Admittedly, he's got an accelerated career path partially due to his superiors occasionally being hunted down by the international military. Nevertheless, it's quite an accomplishment at such a young age.
So now I'm feeling all bad about myself over this. Perhaps it's simply due to poor title choice. I mean, there isn't a single career path I can take from here that sounds even one iota as hardcore as "warlord". The best I can hope for is "system architect" which is hardly intimidating. So yeah, there's a definite case of title envy here. I mean, what guy wouldn't want to have a business card that says "Bob Smith: Programmer, System Architect, International Warlord"?
Dude, you would totally beat out the other contractors for that website gig.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Please Hold All My Calls. Seriously, All of Them.
Yesterday, for no special reason, my lovely wife called me. This was very sweet, and it was nice to hear her voice in a non "some teacher called me and someone is sick/in trouble" setting. Unfortunately, this call once again reminded me of one of my greater, and more peculiar failing. I absolutely, positively suck at talking on the phone.
Now I've mentioned being antisocial before, but that isn't what's going on here. Rather, there is something about trying to hold a conversation on the telephone that simply escapes me. As a result, every phone conversation I have without a specific agenda is full of awkward pauses and stilted, half-started topics. You'd think I was talking to that hot chick I had a crush on in middle school. Okay, I suppose technically I am, but now I've been married to her for almost fourteen years, so you'd think my conversation skills would be a bit smoother.
What's funny is that it's only casual conversation I fail at. You get me on the phone for a reason and I'm golden. Even things that are supposed to be uncomfortable don't phase me at all. I went through three phone interviews with Microsoft, and the most uncomfortable I got was asking them to wait a moment until I found an empty meeting room. (What? I was off the clock and on my way out the door.) If we have business to conduct, even something as simple as "call and see how so and so is doing", then I'm golden. You should hear me order a pizza - it's closing in on high art. But just calling to catch up? Yeah, things are gonna get weird.
Perhaps I rely too heavily on visual cues during conversation, or on being able to pause and think out my response. I mean, if I'm sitting across from someone, I never fail to find some random topic that we can chat about. Hell, right here on this blog I manage to pump out a page a day five days a week nearly without fail. You call me up just to catch up though, you'll find I don't have a thing to say, and I'm at a loss as to why that is. I can chat online. I can chat in person. I cannot chat on the phone.
On the bright side, my rollover minutes on my cell phone are quickly approaching legendary status.
Now I've mentioned being antisocial before, but that isn't what's going on here. Rather, there is something about trying to hold a conversation on the telephone that simply escapes me. As a result, every phone conversation I have without a specific agenda is full of awkward pauses and stilted, half-started topics. You'd think I was talking to that hot chick I had a crush on in middle school. Okay, I suppose technically I am, but now I've been married to her for almost fourteen years, so you'd think my conversation skills would be a bit smoother.
What's funny is that it's only casual conversation I fail at. You get me on the phone for a reason and I'm golden. Even things that are supposed to be uncomfortable don't phase me at all. I went through three phone interviews with Microsoft, and the most uncomfortable I got was asking them to wait a moment until I found an empty meeting room. (What? I was off the clock and on my way out the door.) If we have business to conduct, even something as simple as "call and see how so and so is doing", then I'm golden. You should hear me order a pizza - it's closing in on high art. But just calling to catch up? Yeah, things are gonna get weird.
Perhaps I rely too heavily on visual cues during conversation, or on being able to pause and think out my response. I mean, if I'm sitting across from someone, I never fail to find some random topic that we can chat about. Hell, right here on this blog I manage to pump out a page a day five days a week nearly without fail. You call me up just to catch up though, you'll find I don't have a thing to say, and I'm at a loss as to why that is. I can chat online. I can chat in person. I cannot chat on the phone.
On the bright side, my rollover minutes on my cell phone are quickly approaching legendary status.
Monday, March 30, 2009
I Suppose It Could Have Been Vienna
I want to start by saying thanks to those who participated on Friday. My tracking results have actually only further confused me, but that's okay. I have been reassured that at least one person reads this each day, and that's enough to keep me writing it.
Now, onto more pressing matters. Last night something occurred that has left me...unsettled. At approximately 8:45 PM, a woman called my house and asked to speak to me, using my first name. The name on caller ID was blocked, presumably via *67, so the name was "Private Number" (which I think is total bull%#$@, but that's a rant for another day). Since Roomba was doing its thing, my wife wasn't sure what she said and asked her to repeat it. The lady asked to talk to me again, and again she refers to me by my first name.
And then she hung up.
Okay, there are probably rational reasons for this, but here's the thing: with the exception of people I work with, I literally don't communicate regularly with anyone outside of my family. There are people online, but I either know them from school, or have remained relatively anonymous. So, assuming this person didn't get hit by a bus while they were talking to my wife, I'm forced to acknowledge this as being flavored with crazy. (Before any of you think this is a leap, remember that I grew up surrounded by as many flavors of crazy that one can hope for. We were the Baskin Robbins of basket cases.) So, now my mind is trying to come up with reasons for someone calling my home, asking for me and then hanging up on my wife, and here's what I've got so far:
Someone from my past is holding a grudge
Someone with a varied career history such as my own will invariably make enemies. It is this that makes me consider that perhaps one of my old enemies, or worse, one of their relatives, has resurfaces looking for revenge. I must admit that this is pretty far fetched. After all, I've always been nothing but professional, which means that in the past, particularly during my run as a ninja, I was pretty careful to leave no traces of my presence. Still, one must consider all possibilities.
I've picked up a stalker
Again, this is pretty damned far fetched, as in real life I show interest in women who are not my wife only to the extent that I'm being polite if they are between me and the coffee pot. Still, it is the internet age, and I suppose someone could have come across my Facebook picture a la six degrees of Kevin Bacon and upon the mere sight of my digitized pretty become smitten and began building a rich fantasy life around me. (Funny this about rich fantasy lives - no one ever has gas. Not many people realize that.) I suppose that through publicly available information, one might use my full name to acquire my phone number, thus making that awkward phone call only to figure out that I am spoken for. I'm hoping against this one, both because it's really creepy and, as a vegetarian, the idea of a surprise, boiled rabbit doesn't do much for me.
My wife called from the future
Okay, so I'm about to befall some catastrophe, and my lovely wife decides to go against all rules regarding communicating with those in the past and tries to warn me, but upon being forced to speak to her past self panics and hangs up the phone. This one works on a lot of levels. My wife probably wouldn't recognize her own voice, since it's always weird hearing your own voice. Also, my wife takes good care of me, and would probably shirk the temporal authorities to try and prevent some disaster I was/will be involved in. She's cool like that.
So there you have it. My money is on the idea that my wife tried to call me from the future to tell me not to get on that train/not to sign that contract/not to wear those loose fitting pants that are prone to falling down on my national television debut. Assuming that this is an isolated incident and further information does not present itself, I think this is the most plausible explanation.
Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably send her a nice card or something.
Now, onto more pressing matters. Last night something occurred that has left me...unsettled. At approximately 8:45 PM, a woman called my house and asked to speak to me, using my first name. The name on caller ID was blocked, presumably via *67, so the name was "Private Number" (which I think is total bull%#$@, but that's a rant for another day). Since Roomba was doing its thing, my wife wasn't sure what she said and asked her to repeat it. The lady asked to talk to me again, and again she refers to me by my first name.
And then she hung up.
Okay, there are probably rational reasons for this, but here's the thing: with the exception of people I work with, I literally don't communicate regularly with anyone outside of my family. There are people online, but I either know them from school, or have remained relatively anonymous. So, assuming this person didn't get hit by a bus while they were talking to my wife, I'm forced to acknowledge this as being flavored with crazy. (Before any of you think this is a leap, remember that I grew up surrounded by as many flavors of crazy that one can hope for. We were the Baskin Robbins of basket cases.) So, now my mind is trying to come up with reasons for someone calling my home, asking for me and then hanging up on my wife, and here's what I've got so far:
Someone from my past is holding a grudge
Someone with a varied career history such as my own will invariably make enemies. It is this that makes me consider that perhaps one of my old enemies, or worse, one of their relatives, has resurfaces looking for revenge. I must admit that this is pretty far fetched. After all, I've always been nothing but professional, which means that in the past, particularly during my run as a ninja, I was pretty careful to leave no traces of my presence. Still, one must consider all possibilities.
I've picked up a stalker
Again, this is pretty damned far fetched, as in real life I show interest in women who are not my wife only to the extent that I'm being polite if they are between me and the coffee pot. Still, it is the internet age, and I suppose someone could have come across my Facebook picture a la six degrees of Kevin Bacon and upon the mere sight of my digitized pretty become smitten and began building a rich fantasy life around me. (Funny this about rich fantasy lives - no one ever has gas. Not many people realize that.) I suppose that through publicly available information, one might use my full name to acquire my phone number, thus making that awkward phone call only to figure out that I am spoken for. I'm hoping against this one, both because it's really creepy and, as a vegetarian, the idea of a surprise, boiled rabbit doesn't do much for me.
My wife called from the future
Okay, so I'm about to befall some catastrophe, and my lovely wife decides to go against all rules regarding communicating with those in the past and tries to warn me, but upon being forced to speak to her past self panics and hangs up the phone. This one works on a lot of levels. My wife probably wouldn't recognize her own voice, since it's always weird hearing your own voice. Also, my wife takes good care of me, and would probably shirk the temporal authorities to try and prevent some disaster I was/will be involved in. She's cool like that.
So there you have it. My money is on the idea that my wife tried to call me from the future to tell me not to get on that train/not to sign that contract/not to wear those loose fitting pants that are prone to falling down on my national television debut. Assuming that this is an isolated incident and further information does not present itself, I think this is the most plausible explanation.
Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably send her a nice card or something.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Not So Much a Cry For Help - More of a Whimper Really
I have a hunk of code here that runs whenever someone reads DLOG that is supposed to tell me how name people are reading this thing. Well, that's what I thought anyway. It turns out that I have a hunk of code here that runs whenever someone arrives here, let's the page fully load, and has javascript enabled on their browser.
As such, I have no idea of how many people actually come to this site. I suppose it doesn't matter, since I'm not in it for profit or anything, but it would be nice to know. My fragile ego and all that - I'm sure you understand.
It is for this reason that I am asking each person who reads today's post to put in a comment. You don't have to be witty or relevant. Put in your favorite word. Put in a link to your own awesome website. Put in that picture you have on your cellphone of you going into leather shops and trying on clothing involving way too many straps.
On second though, let's keep the images out of this.
My goal is to get sort of a base that I can compare the analytical software on to find out how many hits per day it's not counting. I can then use this almost certainly wrong and somewhat arbitrary offset to convince myself that the work I'm doing here is reaching out to a wide audience, and that my deep and serious ruminations on such things as urinal placement, the decision not to change Luke Skywalker's last name and of course monkeys are really time well spent.
Come on people, you've got to help me believe.
As such, I have no idea of how many people actually come to this site. I suppose it doesn't matter, since I'm not in it for profit or anything, but it would be nice to know. My fragile ego and all that - I'm sure you understand.
It is for this reason that I am asking each person who reads today's post to put in a comment. You don't have to be witty or relevant. Put in your favorite word. Put in a link to your own awesome website. Put in that picture you have on your cellphone of you going into leather shops and trying on clothing involving way too many straps.
On second though, let's keep the images out of this.
My goal is to get sort of a base that I can compare the analytical software on to find out how many hits per day it's not counting. I can then use this almost certainly wrong and somewhat arbitrary offset to convince myself that the work I'm doing here is reaching out to a wide audience, and that my deep and serious ruminations on such things as urinal placement, the decision not to change Luke Skywalker's last name and of course monkeys are really time well spent.
Come on people, you've got to help me believe.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Low Down
So, I step into the men's room at work one day, and discover one of the two urinals populated. Since using another restroom would have required walking to the next building, an unrealistic option given my coffee intake of the day, I have no choice but to step up to the remaining urinal despite strong social mores against standing toe-to-toe with another fella. This meant that I was using the urinal that hung on the wall substantially lower than the other one, which got me wondering why there was such a height differential in the first place.
I mused (correctly, I might add) that the placement of the low urinal was for accessibility reasons. Furthermore, I decided that the parties being considered were probably the vertically challenged, as the well-hung are grossly underrepresented when such considerations are made (I've heard tell that Johnny Homes himself could nary walk into a public restroom without tearing up at the shame of having to use a full toilet for a minor transaction, but I digress). So now I'm standing there considering the process by which the good people in the Government decided that urinals should be hung "with an elongated rim at a maximum of 17 in (430 mm) above the floor".
I'm sure it went something like that. So now I've got this little vignette playing in my head. The chaos. The shrieks of horror. The scientists cursing themselves for not wearing goggles. It's all there. Fortunately, I managed to stifle a chuckle at all of this (snickering while standing next to another guy at the urinals is generally frowned upon, particularly by the other guy). Still, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during that particular process.
So long as we're not talking about the urinal wall.
I mused (correctly, I might add) that the placement of the low urinal was for accessibility reasons. Furthermore, I decided that the parties being considered were probably the vertically challenged, as the well-hung are grossly underrepresented when such considerations are made (I've heard tell that Johnny Homes himself could nary walk into a public restroom without tearing up at the shame of having to use a full toilet for a minor transaction, but I digress). So now I'm standing there considering the process by which the good people in the Government decided that urinals should be hung "with an elongated rim at a maximum of 17 in (430 mm) above the floor".
Scientist (probably in a white lab coat holding a clipboard): Okay Tiny Pete, please step up to urinal number 2.
Tiny Pete: Don't call me that.
Scientist: Right. Sorry. So, whenever you're ready.
Tiny Pete: (Fires)
Scientist: Okay, we can clearly see an arch required to hit the target. I'm thinking that we're a good three inches too high on this one.
Tiny Pete: Doctor, I can't keep up pressure!
Scientist: Oh lord! We have a breach! Pete, stop!
Tiny Pete: It's too late, doctor! The seal is broken! There's no turning back!
Scientist: Gah! Why didn't they listen to me when I said to start low? Everyone, to high ground! Save your shoes!
I'm sure it went something like that. So now I've got this little vignette playing in my head. The chaos. The shrieks of horror. The scientists cursing themselves for not wearing goggles. It's all there. Fortunately, I managed to stifle a chuckle at all of this (snickering while standing next to another guy at the urinals is generally frowned upon, particularly by the other guy). Still, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during that particular process.
So long as we're not talking about the urinal wall.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
And On the Eighth Day, God Said, "Dude, do you smell that?"
I tried to take the high road. I tried to stop appealing to the lowest common denominator (myself included) with potty humor. I tried to push DLOG into new, more meaningful territory.
But alas, the world has conspired against me.
Let's start with the Florida teenager who was suspended from riding the bus for three days for "causing a disturbance". Did he jump up and down, shouting fire? Was he armed? Did he destroy a planet with a moon-sized space station (hey, they didn't specify if the disturbance was force related or not)? Nope.
Dude was cutting muffins.
Yes, the boy was suspended for repeatedly shooting bunnies (an expression my daughter has happily adopted from her uncle), causing "a stench so bad it was difficult to breathe". While not personally present, I have heard tales of a band trip where an individual who shall go unnamed (as will his twin brother) would most likely have been taken from the bus and shot had such rules been enforced in my day, but I digress. Either way, I feel for the kid, and hope that each day driving him to school will teach his mother not to serve Thai cabbage omelets for breakfast anymore.
Now I knew about this story before, but I resisted because I want to show you, dear readers, that I can rise above such things. I threw away the research done (interesting fact: if you hold enough gas in, the pressure can get high enough to transfer into your bloodstream and eventually enter your lungs to be expelled with your breath) and tried to move on. Unfortunately, the Japanese forced my hand by coming up with something even more ridiculous.
Yes, in an effort to make things more pleasant aboard the international space station, the Japanese have invented "stink-free underwear". Once I calmed myself from the hysteria that unfortunately occurs upon reading such a headline in an actual news source, I went on to read the rest of the story. They've created underwear that they claim were "designed to kill bacteria, absorb water, insulate the body and dry quickly". They even go so far as to brag "He can wear his trunks (underwear) more than a week". They don't bother giving credit to the poor canary that gave his life discovering the seven day barrier on these things. Either way, I'm sure Stephen Colbert will be relieved to know that the new room named after him will not bear the brunt of Japanese butt funk.
One thing I know for sure: the Japanese economy won't suffer a version made for the ladies. (Link not safe for sanity.)
But alas, the world has conspired against me.
Let's start with the Florida teenager who was suspended from riding the bus for three days for "causing a disturbance". Did he jump up and down, shouting fire? Was he armed? Did he destroy a planet with a moon-sized space station (hey, they didn't specify if the disturbance was force related or not)? Nope.
Dude was cutting muffins.
Yes, the boy was suspended for repeatedly shooting bunnies (an expression my daughter has happily adopted from her uncle), causing "a stench so bad it was difficult to breathe". While not personally present, I have heard tales of a band trip where an individual who shall go unnamed (as will his twin brother) would most likely have been taken from the bus and shot had such rules been enforced in my day, but I digress. Either way, I feel for the kid, and hope that each day driving him to school will teach his mother not to serve Thai cabbage omelets for breakfast anymore.
Now I knew about this story before, but I resisted because I want to show you, dear readers, that I can rise above such things. I threw away the research done (interesting fact: if you hold enough gas in, the pressure can get high enough to transfer into your bloodstream and eventually enter your lungs to be expelled with your breath) and tried to move on. Unfortunately, the Japanese forced my hand by coming up with something even more ridiculous.
Yes, in an effort to make things more pleasant aboard the international space station, the Japanese have invented "stink-free underwear". Once I calmed myself from the hysteria that unfortunately occurs upon reading such a headline in an actual news source, I went on to read the rest of the story. They've created underwear that they claim were "designed to kill bacteria, absorb water, insulate the body and dry quickly". They even go so far as to brag "He can wear his trunks (underwear) more than a week". They don't bother giving credit to the poor canary that gave his life discovering the seven day barrier on these things. Either way, I'm sure Stephen Colbert will be relieved to know that the new room named after him will not bear the brunt of Japanese butt funk.
One thing I know for sure: the Japanese economy won't suffer a version made for the ladies. (Link not safe for sanity.)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cancer? Never heard of it.
In this weeks, school newsletter, it was announced that several teachers will be part in the Relay for Life "to help raise awareness and money for cancer". Ignoring the grammatically questionable decisions in the sentence (one may wonder if cancer really needs the money), what gets to me is that I see this all the time. Some body is doing some thing to "raise awareness" of cancer.
Here's the thing: I think we're all pretty much aware of cancer by now.
I'm not sure who it is that cancer has on its PR team, but they've done a bang up job. Seriously, just today a Google News search on "cancer" brings up 108,979 results. In comparison, "Miley Cyrus" only finds 5,005 results, and I feel like I can't turn around without hearing %#$@ about her. (Side note: best result was "Miley Cyrus in no rush to have kids". Was this really a burning question?) So clearly cancer is getting the press it needs.
Maybe the concern is that cancer is being underrepresented in movies and television, so I did a keyword search on The Internet Movie Database, and lo and behold, we get 1690 titles that have in one way or another to do with cancer. A search on "death" yields 14,998 results, which is a lot more to be sure, but let's face it, it's less than ten times as many results, and death kills way more people than cancer.
As such, I think we can all take a deep breath and assume that no more needs to be done to make people aware of cancer. By all means, take action to raise money to fight it, support those afflicted by it, but rest assured that at this point we're all well aware of its presence. Maybe bring attention to those afflictions that don't get as much press. How about Cotard delusion, or alien hand syndrome? I'm thinking not a lot of people are aware of those. And let's not forget that right here at DLOG, we attempted to bring to light the suffering caused by FOH syndrome
People need your help - those pectoral implants aren't cheap you know.
Here's the thing: I think we're all pretty much aware of cancer by now.
I'm not sure who it is that cancer has on its PR team, but they've done a bang up job. Seriously, just today a Google News search on "cancer" brings up 108,979 results. In comparison, "Miley Cyrus" only finds 5,005 results, and I feel like I can't turn around without hearing %#$@ about her. (Side note: best result was "Miley Cyrus in no rush to have kids". Was this really a burning question?) So clearly cancer is getting the press it needs.
Maybe the concern is that cancer is being underrepresented in movies and television, so I did a keyword search on The Internet Movie Database, and lo and behold, we get 1690 titles that have in one way or another to do with cancer. A search on "death" yields 14,998 results, which is a lot more to be sure, but let's face it, it's less than ten times as many results, and death kills way more people than cancer.
As such, I think we can all take a deep breath and assume that no more needs to be done to make people aware of cancer. By all means, take action to raise money to fight it, support those afflicted by it, but rest assured that at this point we're all well aware of its presence. Maybe bring attention to those afflictions that don't get as much press. How about Cotard delusion, or alien hand syndrome? I'm thinking not a lot of people are aware of those. And let's not forget that right here at DLOG, we attempted to bring to light the suffering caused by FOH syndrome
People need your help - those pectoral implants aren't cheap you know.
Monday, March 23, 2009
We Do Have Trouble At Bathtime, What With the Kid Walking on Water
I recently got an email subscription to a parenting website, and I have to say that after one month, I'm pretty well disgusted with the whole thing. It's not the site itself - I like the content they provide. Instead it's that they make the mistake every web site in the world seems to make. They allow comments from random yahoos, and random yahoos tend to be total morons. (Yes, we allow comments here at DLOG, but let's face it, we cater to a better class of people. Well, that and I can delete comments, which is why there's never spam in the comments section.)
So the article I'm reading as about basic things you can do to help your two year old work on their numbers. The gist of the one paragraph is that many two year olds may count up to ten, but they are probably just reciting as opposed to actually understanding one to ten. So, there it is - the average two year old doesn't fully understand the counting beyond "one" and "more than one".
Then the comments start in. I've actually used this site before, and stopped going because the comments section has an effect on my anger issues the way a lit match has an effect on a gas tank. Unlike most sites, where it's just people voicing idiot opinions (thus making them ignorable), on this site people use the comments section to brag. They're not trying to be helpful or relevant, they just want to spout off about how their precious snowflake is better than other kids, thus adding to the already ridiculous competitive behavior among many parents.
But don't take my word for it. In relation to the paragraph I was talking about before, we get the following comment:
I admit, the context was parents disagreeing with the notion that their kids don't understand the numbers, as suggested in the articles. What bothers me is that the point of the article is to help people figure out how their kids figure things out. They want people to help their children by recognizing what's going on with their children. I may be way off here, but whether or not little Sally can identify sweater colors from a Lands End catalog is completely irrelevant to the topic at hand and not adding anything to the conversation.
I skimmed through five pages of this tripe. Sure, some people were just trying to get advice, or pointing out the inappropriateness of the others, but a lot of people are just using this as a soapbox to brag on their kids. Look, unless your kid took seven steps upon her birth and then declared herself chief of the world, let's try to keep these comments relevant, okay?
And if the birth did go down like that, you know the rule: pics or it didn't happen.
So the article I'm reading as about basic things you can do to help your two year old work on their numbers. The gist of the one paragraph is that many two year olds may count up to ten, but they are probably just reciting as opposed to actually understanding one to ten. So, there it is - the average two year old doesn't fully understand the counting beyond "one" and "more than one".
Then the comments start in. I've actually used this site before, and stopped going because the comments section has an effect on my anger issues the way a lit match has an effect on a gas tank. Unlike most sites, where it's just people voicing idiot opinions (thus making them ignorable), on this site people use the comments section to brag. They're not trying to be helpful or relevant, they just want to spout off about how their precious snowflake is better than other kids, thus adding to the already ridiculous competitive behavior among many parents.
But don't take my word for it. In relation to the paragraph I was talking about before, we get the following comment:
My daughter will be 3 in November and she's quite intelligent. She understands the difference between 1 and 20 and can count to twenty. I can put toys in front of her and she will count the amount of toys and I can tell her she can have 2 and she will push all but the two that she wants away.
She also knows her alphabet, all of her colors including chartreuse, aquamarine, vermilion and quite a few shapes including octagon, parallelogram and trapezoid. She speaks VERY well.
I admit, the context was parents disagreeing with the notion that their kids don't understand the numbers, as suggested in the articles. What bothers me is that the point of the article is to help people figure out how their kids figure things out. They want people to help their children by recognizing what's going on with their children. I may be way off here, but whether or not little Sally can identify sweater colors from a Lands End catalog is completely irrelevant to the topic at hand and not adding anything to the conversation.
I skimmed through five pages of this tripe. Sure, some people were just trying to get advice, or pointing out the inappropriateness of the others, but a lot of people are just using this as a soapbox to brag on their kids. Look, unless your kid took seven steps upon her birth and then declared herself chief of the world, let's try to keep these comments relevant, okay?
And if the birth did go down like that, you know the rule: pics or it didn't happen.
Friday, March 20, 2009
It's Only a Flesh Wound
Well it turns out that instead of a cast, all I need is a glorified splint for a couple of weeks. I even got use of another finger, so now only my pinky is out of the game, and frankly, it doesn't do much anyway. Of course my bone will always be angulated, so my knuckle will appear flattish for the rest of my life, but I can live with that. Besides, I wasn't going to give up programming for a career as a hand model any time in the near future anyway.
All of this did get me thinking about casts though. Why do people sign casts? It's not like we sign other kind of bandages. How would you react if I asked you to sign a Hello Kitty Band Aid (which I frequently found myself wearing until I insisted we start keeping standard bandages in the house)? What about something bigger? A catheter maybe? "Dude, sign my bag. Wait, let me warm it up for you first."
Ewwwwwww.
Anyway, other than being slowed down a little bit, I should heal up fine, but I am a little weirded out by the fact that I'll be permanently marked by such a small and insignificant happening in my life, but I suppose that's how life is, isn't it? You never really know which events will be part of who you are forever, and which have no importance beyond the moment that they end. You would think someone with badly thought out tattoos would know that by now, but what can I say? I'm a slow learner.
Maybe I should have been taking better notes, huh?
All of this did get me thinking about casts though. Why do people sign casts? It's not like we sign other kind of bandages. How would you react if I asked you to sign a Hello Kitty Band Aid (which I frequently found myself wearing until I insisted we start keeping standard bandages in the house)? What about something bigger? A catheter maybe? "Dude, sign my bag. Wait, let me warm it up for you first."
Ewwwwwww.
Anyway, other than being slowed down a little bit, I should heal up fine, but I am a little weirded out by the fact that I'll be permanently marked by such a small and insignificant happening in my life, but I suppose that's how life is, isn't it? You never really know which events will be part of who you are forever, and which have no importance beyond the moment that they end. You would think someone with badly thought out tattoos would know that by now, but what can I say? I'm a slow learner.
Maybe I should have been taking better notes, huh?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Boxer's Fracture Sounds Cooler Than It Is
About a week and a half ago, I tripped walking out of my kitchen, and in an attempt to catch myself, I planted my fist firmly into a tile floor, breaking and bending the metacarpal below my right pinky. Being a bad mother &%#$er, I ignored it for a week, noticed new bruising after the Moose kicked it on Saturday, and then went to the doctor. Tomorrow I get it cast. What slays me is that like most things in real life, this is a lousy story. Adding insult to injury (literally) is that when I tell the story to people, they look at me as if this is the story I made up to cover the real story.
Attention world: if I make up a story to hide how I got an injury, that story will be filled with all the awesomeness I can pack into it, and will most likely involve ninjas, robots, terrorists and me saving some group of otherwise defenseless creatures.
Attention world: if I make up a story to hide how I got an injury, that story will be filled with all the awesomeness I can pack into it, and will most likely involve ninjas, robots, terrorists and me saving some group of otherwise defenseless creatures.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Also, You Never Tell Me I Look Nice Anymore
Due to a recent hand injury, I'm going to back down on the blog a bit. As such, we will be running with a new, ultra-short format for a while. Hopefully it will be enough to placate our regular readers until I heal.
Today, I wish to pass along some relationship advice. Ladies, sometimes men just don't want to talk right this minute, and frankly, repeating yourself just makes us withdraw further. Consider giving us some space instead. Believe me, there's nothing more frustrating than hearing the same things over and over again when we're not prepared to deal with it. "Why won't you talk to me? You act like I'm not even here. Why did you bury me in the cold, cold ground?"
Seriously, it's stuff like this that makes me not even want to answer the planchette sometimes.
Today, I wish to pass along some relationship advice. Ladies, sometimes men just don't want to talk right this minute, and frankly, repeating yourself just makes us withdraw further. Consider giving us some space instead. Believe me, there's nothing more frustrating than hearing the same things over and over again when we're not prepared to deal with it. "Why won't you talk to me? You act like I'm not even here. Why did you bury me in the cold, cold ground?"
Seriously, it's stuff like this that makes me not even want to answer the planchette sometimes.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Excuses in Rhyme
I'm taking off St. Patty's Day
'Cause I don't have a whole lot to say.
I have no green beer.
There's no whiskey round here.
But I do have potatoes. Hooray?
'Cause I don't have a whole lot to say.
I have no green beer.
There's no whiskey round here.
But I do have potatoes. Hooray?
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Haunting of BVD
Last week I was discussing the impressionable nature of people and how that nature allows shows like Ghost Hunters to survive, and as usual my mind wandered in relation to it. I got to thinking about how they film a show like that. I mean, it's a bunch of guys (plus a token female or two now to add balance) sitting around a supposedly haunted location and...well, recording it. I mean, they record sound and video for hours I bet just to get the semi-spooky fifteen minutes they show us.
What this means is that there are hours of footage of these guys just hanging around this house or hotel or prison or whatever. Now, if you've followed this blog at all, you know right where my mind led at this point. We've got dudes, just hanging out. Yeah, they're on television, and they're professionals, but they're still dudes. I so want to get a hold of the outtakes that I know they're never going to put on television.
You know this footage is out there somewhere. I don't care how professional you are - you put a bunch of guys in a house with nothing better to do that sit around listening for a sign of otherworldly life, one of them is cutting loose. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if one of the "voices" they caught during their EVP recordings was nothing but someone's kielbasa making a hasty exit, and they didn't fess up to it. "It sounds like it said 'fur blat', followed by a high pitched whining sound. Does that mean anything to you?"
Honestly, it's a testament to how professional they really are that they didn't giggle.
What this means is that there are hours of footage of these guys just hanging around this house or hotel or prison or whatever. Now, if you've followed this blog at all, you know right where my mind led at this point. We've got dudes, just hanging out. Yeah, they're on television, and they're professionals, but they're still dudes. I so want to get a hold of the outtakes that I know they're never going to put on television.
Grant: Okay, so far we're not picking up any activity. [Ghost name], are you here with us. Just give us some kind of sign.
Jason: (Looking slightly uncomfortable) Uhhh, yeah. If you're here, just let us know.
Grant: I don't know. I'm just not getting anything. Maybe we should check the attic again.
Jason: Wait, did you hear that?
Grant: (Sits silently, focusing in that very serious way he does)
Jason: Phhhrrrrrrrrt.
Grant: Oh man. (Waving arms in the air.) Dude, what did you eat?
Jason: Oooh, the spirits are angry here.
Grant: (Gasping) Christ. Whatever it is up Jason's ass, stay away from the light!
You know this footage is out there somewhere. I don't care how professional you are - you put a bunch of guys in a house with nothing better to do that sit around listening for a sign of otherworldly life, one of them is cutting loose. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if one of the "voices" they caught during their EVP recordings was nothing but someone's kielbasa making a hasty exit, and they didn't fess up to it. "It sounds like it said 'fur blat', followed by a high pitched whining sound. Does that mean anything to you?"
Honestly, it's a testament to how professional they really are that they didn't giggle.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I Keep Saying "Bloody Mary", But No One Will Bring Me a Drink
So, inspired by the odd matchup of topics covered by today's PvP and XKCD, I thought I would talk about mirrors, and some of the more interesting superstitions and urbal legends that go with them. Now while I have previously confessed certain irrational fears, I am by no means superstitous. Rather, I'm fascinated by what these things mean in terms of how our minds work.
Take, for example, the old "breaking a mirror is seven years bad luck". According to some random yahoo on the internet (and somewhat verified by WikiPedia), this stems from the belief that your reflection in the mirror is actually a reflection of part of your soul. I'm not sure what part of my soul I'm supposed to be looking at, but it would seem my soul is in need of a shave. Either way, I love that this started because rather than assume that maybe the image we see of ourselves in water or a mirror is just a trick of reflecting light, people naturally had to put a supernatural spin on it.
Even more fun for me though is the topic of the comics. So you go into a darkened bathroom, look into the mirror, and say "Bloody Mary", or the even more ominous "Bloody Mary, I killed your baby", some number of times, and a vengeful spirit will pop out of the mirror and...I don't know. That part is always a little vague, and kind of a moot point anyway, since anyone who falls for such shenanigans will never make it that far. I've always enjoyed this particular yarn simply because it speaks to how amazingly impressionable one's mind can be. Deep down, we know nothing is in the mirror but our reflection. Still, you look long enough, and eventually you're going to see something that isn't right.
And that's awesome.
Seriously, I love that. I love that we are machines built to take in information through our eyes and process it, and just for fun we mess that system up. You can tell people over and over that you see a ghost in the mirror or something in the woods or the Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, and eventually you're going to get someone who says, "Yeah...yeah I see it!". People want to believe, and they see what they want.
Of course when I look in the mirror, all I see is myself, which is both narcissistic and creepy at the same time given my previous statement - I'll have to go and reflect on this.
Take, for example, the old "breaking a mirror is seven years bad luck". According to some random yahoo on the internet (and somewhat verified by WikiPedia), this stems from the belief that your reflection in the mirror is actually a reflection of part of your soul. I'm not sure what part of my soul I'm supposed to be looking at, but it would seem my soul is in need of a shave. Either way, I love that this started because rather than assume that maybe the image we see of ourselves in water or a mirror is just a trick of reflecting light, people naturally had to put a supernatural spin on it.
Even more fun for me though is the topic of the comics. So you go into a darkened bathroom, look into the mirror, and say "Bloody Mary", or the even more ominous "Bloody Mary, I killed your baby", some number of times, and a vengeful spirit will pop out of the mirror and...I don't know. That part is always a little vague, and kind of a moot point anyway, since anyone who falls for such shenanigans will never make it that far. I've always enjoyed this particular yarn simply because it speaks to how amazingly impressionable one's mind can be. Deep down, we know nothing is in the mirror but our reflection. Still, you look long enough, and eventually you're going to see something that isn't right.
And that's awesome.
Seriously, I love that. I love that we are machines built to take in information through our eyes and process it, and just for fun we mess that system up. You can tell people over and over that you see a ghost in the mirror or something in the woods or the Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, and eventually you're going to get someone who says, "Yeah...yeah I see it!". People want to believe, and they see what they want.
Of course when I look in the mirror, all I see is myself, which is both narcissistic and creepy at the same time given my previous statement - I'll have to go and reflect on this.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
It Seems...I Don't Know. Upside Down Perhaps.
This morning, having dealt with an extremely uncooperative toddler and busted my hand in a ridiculous fall, I was at wit's end and used the television to distract the Moose so I could get him dressed and brush his teeth in the seven minutes we had before we had to leave. I flipped on PBS Kids, where the Moose happily (and more important, quietly) watched Curious George. This was great, except I'm again really tired, and despite promising myself that I would stop over thinking children's television, thus avoiding the dark places it tend to lead me, I just couldn't help it today.
So, here's the thing - like half the episodes of Curious George deal with...I don't know, Curious George stuff. You know, he finds out about working in a kitchen (because apparently the New York health inspectors are cool with primates hanging around while you're making lasagna) or gardening or frogs or something. Normal stuff like you would expect from reading the books.
Then we have episodes like today's. The man in the yellow hat (who despite taking care of George has never earned the right to an actual name) is going to space to repair a satellite. I'm never sure what his actual job is, but whatever. Well, it turns out that the spaceship designers forgot to make the door open from the outside, so now they have to send George so he can open the door after the man's spacewalk. Umm...okay. Not sure I would want my life put in hands that were most likely flinging poo an hour ago, but whatever.
Okay, so now George and the man are out in space, and the time comes to leave the ship and do the repair. The man attempts to tether himself to the ship, and lo and behold, the thing that holds the tether to his suit breaks. Having now established that the people driving the space program are hacks, the decision comes through that always gets to me: Let the monkey do it.
They do this all the time. They find some situation where things go awry, and they need someone tiny to step up and fix it (apparently because someone washed all the spacesuits/aqua gear/portals in hot water). We lost a computer full of critical data at the bottom of the ocean? Send the monkey. We need someone to break into Langley and get the NOC list? Send the monkey. Someone has discovered a bomb in the President's colon, and we only have fifteen minutes to diffuse it? Send the monkey, and give him a pair of wire cutters.
You get the idea.
I guess my concern is that, even with my profound respect for monkeys, every episode I watch seems to hit a point where I'm talking to the television. "Dude, you're going to send a monkey?" If it was an emergency banana retrieval I would understand, but it seems to me in most of these cases they would be able to find someone a little more qualified. I suppose that once again, this is the reason you don't see me writing for Hollywood.
Not many kids would tune in to watch Curious George Watches a Midget Take Care Of Stuff.
So, here's the thing - like half the episodes of Curious George deal with...I don't know, Curious George stuff. You know, he finds out about working in a kitchen (because apparently the New York health inspectors are cool with primates hanging around while you're making lasagna) or gardening or frogs or something. Normal stuff like you would expect from reading the books.
Then we have episodes like today's. The man in the yellow hat (who despite taking care of George has never earned the right to an actual name) is going to space to repair a satellite. I'm never sure what his actual job is, but whatever. Well, it turns out that the spaceship designers forgot to make the door open from the outside, so now they have to send George so he can open the door after the man's spacewalk. Umm...okay. Not sure I would want my life put in hands that were most likely flinging poo an hour ago, but whatever.
Okay, so now George and the man are out in space, and the time comes to leave the ship and do the repair. The man attempts to tether himself to the ship, and lo and behold, the thing that holds the tether to his suit breaks. Having now established that the people driving the space program are hacks, the decision comes through that always gets to me: Let the monkey do it.
They do this all the time. They find some situation where things go awry, and they need someone tiny to step up and fix it (apparently because someone washed all the spacesuits/aqua gear/portals in hot water). We lost a computer full of critical data at the bottom of the ocean? Send the monkey. We need someone to break into Langley and get the NOC list? Send the monkey. Someone has discovered a bomb in the President's colon, and we only have fifteen minutes to diffuse it? Send the monkey, and give him a pair of wire cutters.
You get the idea.
I guess my concern is that, even with my profound respect for monkeys, every episode I watch seems to hit a point where I'm talking to the television. "Dude, you're going to send a monkey?" If it was an emergency banana retrieval I would understand, but it seems to me in most of these cases they would be able to find someone a little more qualified. I suppose that once again, this is the reason you don't see me writing for Hollywood.
Not many kids would tune in to watch Curious George Watches a Midget Take Care Of Stuff.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Very Short Story...
Cause I'm tired.
Yesterday, the Moose got his neck zipped up in his coat. As a result, they put this blue bandage on him. This morning, I was dressing him, and I stood him up to yank his pants up and realized that the bandage was rights where a bow tie would go, and that without a shirt he looked like this little Chippendale's dancer. Even better, with his little belly, he looked like a cross between Patrick Swayze and Chris Farley. This was very very funny to me (did I mention I'm tired), although I realize that it is very wrong.
Not nearly as wrong as when I told him to shake his booty though.
Yesterday, the Moose got his neck zipped up in his coat. As a result, they put this blue bandage on him. This morning, I was dressing him, and I stood him up to yank his pants up and realized that the bandage was rights where a bow tie would go, and that without a shirt he looked like this little Chippendale's dancer. Even better, with his little belly, he looked like a cross between Patrick Swayze and Chris Farley. This was very very funny to me (did I mention I'm tired), although I realize that it is very wrong.
Not nearly as wrong as when I told him to shake his booty though.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Blue Moo...Wait, That's No Moon
As is often the case, I will not get to see the Watchmen movie for some time, probably long after it comes out on DVD. Still, I have internet access, and having read the book, I don't particularly fear spoilers. As such, I've done a lot of reading on what people think about the movie. This has led to what must be one of the most amusing discoveries I've made about the American population in a long time.
America gets all freaked out about seeing at a man's winkee.
Seriously, I have heard more about Dr. Manhattan's glowing blue sidekick than all the other parts of the movie combined. People are seriously disturbed by the fact that he walks around naked through a lot of the movie. Forget that it makes perfect sense that a super being who is gradually becoming disassociated with humanity in general would cease caring about such things as proper fashion choices or any of the myriad other reasons we choose to clothe ourselves. It's not pornographic...it's just a naked guy.
What really disappointed me was how often I would hear these disgusted comments from people in the same breath as "How awesome was it that [insert female starlet] was naked", or even better, "I thought the excessive violence was overdone, but acceptable in the context". It's all good that a dude takes a meat cleaver to the head over and over or some girl gets naked, but having to see a man's junk is a traumatic event. Remember kids - violence and objectifying women is okay. Just don't go around looking at some guy's piece.
I guess what I don't understand is where the trauma is. I mean, it's a naked dude. So &#%$ing what. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that at least 50% of us have seen male genitalia, and given the fact that people seem to continue having children, that's probably a pretty low estimate. Seeing a penis on a movie screen is not going to cause a worldwide panic, lead to rioting in the streets, or cause anyone to catch "the gay".
Not even on IMAX, although I will defer that it might be a little intimidating seeing one that's roughly the size of a small car.
America gets all freaked out about seeing at a man's winkee.
Seriously, I have heard more about Dr. Manhattan's glowing blue sidekick than all the other parts of the movie combined. People are seriously disturbed by the fact that he walks around naked through a lot of the movie. Forget that it makes perfect sense that a super being who is gradually becoming disassociated with humanity in general would cease caring about such things as proper fashion choices or any of the myriad other reasons we choose to clothe ourselves. It's not pornographic...it's just a naked guy.
What really disappointed me was how often I would hear these disgusted comments from people in the same breath as "How awesome was it that [insert female starlet] was naked", or even better, "I thought the excessive violence was overdone, but acceptable in the context". It's all good that a dude takes a meat cleaver to the head over and over or some girl gets naked, but having to see a man's junk is a traumatic event. Remember kids - violence and objectifying women is okay. Just don't go around looking at some guy's piece.
I guess what I don't understand is where the trauma is. I mean, it's a naked dude. So &#%$ing what. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that at least 50% of us have seen male genitalia, and given the fact that people seem to continue having children, that's probably a pretty low estimate. Seeing a penis on a movie screen is not going to cause a worldwide panic, lead to rioting in the streets, or cause anyone to catch "the gay".
Not even on IMAX, although I will defer that it might be a little intimidating seeing one that's roughly the size of a small car.
Monday, March 9, 2009
My Daughter: A New Hope
Yesterday, the Princess took the first step towards becoming the woman that I hope she one day will become. In a weekend full of events, where we bounced from birthday parties to daddy daughter dances and back again, yesterday's event was clearly the most important. It was one of those moment that all parents look forward to with eager anticipation, just waiting for the time when you know they are truly ready.
Yesterday, my little girl got to watch Star Wars for the first time.
In order to accommodate her bedtime, she actually got to start it with her mother while I took care of medicating the Moose. Once he got to bed, I joined them just in time to see Luke and Obi Wan entering the bar in Mos Eisley. My little girl was completely focused, asking a lot of questions which I let her mom answer. This was both because her mom explains things better, and because I didn't want to geek out completely and frighten my daughter.
This was harder than I thought. I bit my tongue when the camera showed the bloody arm on the floor, resisting the urge to point out that light sabers would supposedly cauterize the wound instantly, thus making the blood incongruous with currently accepted lore. When she questioned why Han Solo shot Greedo, my wife explained that Han owed Greedo's boss money, and that Greedo was there to collect the money or kill Han. I held back the urge to point out the importance of the fact the Han shot first.
It...it wasn't easy.
In the end I managed to keep my geeking out to a minimum, choosing only to point out the places in the movie that correlated to parts of Lego Star Wars that she had played (sorry, but the urge for a Star Wars/gaming crossover geeking was too much for me). She seemed to like the movie and was excited when I pointed out that there were two more of them. So it looks like we'll be having a couple more movie nights with mommy in the coming weeks, which I'm fine with.
In a few years, she'll be ready to advance to the big leagues, and Star Trek is all mine.
Yesterday, my little girl got to watch Star Wars for the first time.
In order to accommodate her bedtime, she actually got to start it with her mother while I took care of medicating the Moose. Once he got to bed, I joined them just in time to see Luke and Obi Wan entering the bar in Mos Eisley. My little girl was completely focused, asking a lot of questions which I let her mom answer. This was both because her mom explains things better, and because I didn't want to geek out completely and frighten my daughter.
This was harder than I thought. I bit my tongue when the camera showed the bloody arm on the floor, resisting the urge to point out that light sabers would supposedly cauterize the wound instantly, thus making the blood incongruous with currently accepted lore. When she questioned why Han Solo shot Greedo, my wife explained that Han owed Greedo's boss money, and that Greedo was there to collect the money or kill Han. I held back the urge to point out the importance of the fact the Han shot first.
It...it wasn't easy.
In the end I managed to keep my geeking out to a minimum, choosing only to point out the places in the movie that correlated to parts of Lego Star Wars that she had played (sorry, but the urge for a Star Wars/gaming crossover geeking was too much for me). She seemed to like the movie and was excited when I pointed out that there were two more of them. So it looks like we'll be having a couple more movie nights with mommy in the coming weeks, which I'm fine with.
In a few years, she'll be ready to advance to the big leagues, and Star Trek is all mine.
Friday, March 6, 2009
You're All Just Lucky That I Happen To Be a Terrific Guy
Got into a discussion today about separating an artist from his work, and now I'm all messed up about it. See, my take on the whole thing, typically, is that if you appreciate the work, let it end there. In fact, I make it a point to not know about the private lives of the people who entertain me for fear that they will do something to ruin my image of them, and thus all further works will be diluted by this knowledge. This is in fact why I am no longer a member of the Britney Spears fan club.
Sometimes, this pays off. Take Van Gogh for example. Some of his best works (The Starry Night for example) were painted during a time in his life where he was, for all intents and purposes, pretty unbearable to be around. This is a guy who dealt with serious depression, to the point where he cut off his own ear, and eventually ended up shooting himself. Should this knowledge detract from my appreciation of his work? I don't know.
On the other hand, sometimes the knowledge of the artists dark past is required to fully appreciate the work. I love the band The Dresden Dolls, but every song they write seems to be about two completely different topics. If not for my lovely wife looking into it (happy birthday, sweetie!), I would have missed a lot of meaning behind these songs.
The problem is that there are a lot of in-betweens here, and the fact is, I won't typically let who the artist is as a person to heavily sway my feelings about their works. Bil Keane may be the nicest guy in the world, but that doesn't change the fact that I find The Family Circus to be the least funny thing since the Spanish Inquisition. Besides, allowing the artists personality to overshadow their works can lead to truly important art being lost, unappreciated, in the annals of history.
It is for this very reason that the world refuses to acknowledge the works of what was undoubtadly history's greatest jazz dancer: Adolph Hitler.
Sometimes, this pays off. Take Van Gogh for example. Some of his best works (The Starry Night for example) were painted during a time in his life where he was, for all intents and purposes, pretty unbearable to be around. This is a guy who dealt with serious depression, to the point where he cut off his own ear, and eventually ended up shooting himself. Should this knowledge detract from my appreciation of his work? I don't know.
On the other hand, sometimes the knowledge of the artists dark past is required to fully appreciate the work. I love the band The Dresden Dolls, but every song they write seems to be about two completely different topics. If not for my lovely wife looking into it (happy birthday, sweetie!), I would have missed a lot of meaning behind these songs.
The problem is that there are a lot of in-betweens here, and the fact is, I won't typically let who the artist is as a person to heavily sway my feelings about their works. Bil Keane may be the nicest guy in the world, but that doesn't change the fact that I find The Family Circus to be the least funny thing since the Spanish Inquisition. Besides, allowing the artists personality to overshadow their works can lead to truly important art being lost, unappreciated, in the annals of history.
It is for this very reason that the world refuses to acknowledge the works of what was undoubtadly history's greatest jazz dancer: Adolph Hitler.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
News Briefs - Because News Speedos Never Seem To Cover Enough
Today I'll use my post to cover some news items I found worthwhile. This is just me passing along useful information, and not in any way indicative of a lack of inspiration or creativity on my part. Really.
First, we have word that in Japan, a robot that is being programmed to "love" is behaving erratically. Essentially, they taught it to display concern and empathy, and then let it's learning code run on that for a while. This led to the thing falling for a visiting intern, going so far as to block the door when the intern attempted to leave, forcing her to call for help and have someone shut it down. The people involved refer to this as a "minor setback", but I'm not sure why. If loving someone means anything other than locking them in a room so you can have them all to yourself, I missed that memo. In other news, apparently the cyborg army that will eventually attempt to overthrow humanity will be plagued with needy, psycho girlfriends. I'd prefer to go mono e mono with the terminator myself.
In gaming news, there is another Resident Evil game coming. For those who don't know, Resident Evil is the series where you face hordes of bloodthirsty zombies and various other dangerous mutations. What better way to celebrate the release of such a game than with a Capcom sponsored blood drive in Hollywood, CA? Those who donate can win prizes, including the new, red XBox 360 bundled with Resident Evil 5. I've heard of similar, but less successful, promotions in the past. Hopefully this will go better than what they attempted with the release of Walter Scott: Emergency Proctologist.
I was going to talk about the Californian woman who did her best impression of a clown car by having eight babies at once, but the article I chose failed me. The headline reads "'Octo-mom' straddles the line in reproduction debate". When I read the story, however, the sentence did not end with "and six more babies fell out". Needless to say, I did not feel the need to continue.
Finally, to prepare for the coming Star Trek prequel, Genki Wear is releasing a series of Star Trek themed colognes. There's Tiberius cologne, named for the famed James Tiberius Kirk, which encourages one to "Boldly Go", presumably where no man has gone before, like the ladies room. There's Pon Farr perfume, named for a Vulcan mating ritual involving a man becoming infatuated, violent, and then dying if they fail to mate (I wonder if the robot from before got a sample of that one). Finally, they have Red Shirt, sporting the words "Because tomorrow might never come".
Honestly, I can't top that one.
First, we have word that in Japan, a robot that is being programmed to "love" is behaving erratically. Essentially, they taught it to display concern and empathy, and then let it's learning code run on that for a while. This led to the thing falling for a visiting intern, going so far as to block the door when the intern attempted to leave, forcing her to call for help and have someone shut it down. The people involved refer to this as a "minor setback", but I'm not sure why. If loving someone means anything other than locking them in a room so you can have them all to yourself, I missed that memo. In other news, apparently the cyborg army that will eventually attempt to overthrow humanity will be plagued with needy, psycho girlfriends. I'd prefer to go mono e mono with the terminator myself.
In gaming news, there is another Resident Evil game coming. For those who don't know, Resident Evil is the series where you face hordes of bloodthirsty zombies and various other dangerous mutations. What better way to celebrate the release of such a game than with a Capcom sponsored blood drive in Hollywood, CA? Those who donate can win prizes, including the new, red XBox 360 bundled with Resident Evil 5. I've heard of similar, but less successful, promotions in the past. Hopefully this will go better than what they attempted with the release of Walter Scott: Emergency Proctologist.
I was going to talk about the Californian woman who did her best impression of a clown car by having eight babies at once, but the article I chose failed me. The headline reads "'Octo-mom' straddles the line in reproduction debate". When I read the story, however, the sentence did not end with "and six more babies fell out". Needless to say, I did not feel the need to continue.
Finally, to prepare for the coming Star Trek prequel, Genki Wear is releasing a series of Star Trek themed colognes. There's Tiberius cologne, named for the famed James Tiberius Kirk, which encourages one to "Boldly Go", presumably where no man has gone before, like the ladies room. There's Pon Farr perfume, named for a Vulcan mating ritual involving a man becoming infatuated, violent, and then dying if they fail to mate (I wonder if the robot from before got a sample of that one). Finally, they have Red Shirt, sporting the words "Because tomorrow might never come".
Honestly, I can't top that one.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Accuracy, Perhaps to a Fault
If you've somehow managed to miss anything about it, the Watchmen movie comes out Friday. For those of you who aren't familiar, Watchmen is a "graphic novel", which is a term frequently used by comic book geeks to mean "a bunch of comics that were previously printed put together in a book so you can read the whole story at once", because "graphic novel" sounds like something an adult would read. (Before you start making angry comments, I do realize that there are legitimate graphic novels such as Maus, but being honest, they are a smallish subset.) Anyway, it's not just a graphic novel, it's hailed as the greatest graphic novel of all time, and even made Time magazines 100 best novels list.
What's interesting is that this particular movie runs a greater risk of nerd rage than any film to come before it. If this movie fails to deliver, fanboys around the world will unite against the films creator and...well, they'll probably just bitch about it on the internet really. Now I've read the book twice, and skimmed it recently to remind myself of it, and it is a good book. It's a fascinating look at the idea of superheroes written by Allen Moore, a man who acknowledges that the entire concept is inherently ridiculous, and the kind of people who would dress up and fight crime in such a way would be, by necessity, bent. It is, however, treated as a sacred text by the fans, and they will rage if not satisfied.
Where the irony lies is that I think the people making the movie will not fail these people, and as a result, I don't know that they will satisfy anyone else. It is, after all, a comic book. It was written to be a comic book. I've been watching the clips online, and the fact is they clearly took the comic book and simply moved it to the big screen. I'm sure some changes were required, but given the current technology, it looks like they just took the comic, and they put it, scene for scene, into a movie. For people like me who have read it, it is, to say the least, fascinating to see it moving about like that. I'm just not sure how it's going to work for anyone else.
What's funny about this is that now I'm even more excited by it. I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more: the movie, or the internet lighting up like a Christmas tree once all of the geeks and non-geeks have had a chance to take in whatever it is they have made of the work. I can say that Moore's comics have been hit or miss in the move to film. V for Vendetta? Very good movie. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?
Let's just say that if offered the choice between watching that movie and getting kicked hard in the junk, I would advise one to consider the fact that getting kicked in the junk causes excruciating pain that only lasts a few minutes, as opposed to excruciating pain that lasts a couple of hours.
What's interesting is that this particular movie runs a greater risk of nerd rage than any film to come before it. If this movie fails to deliver, fanboys around the world will unite against the films creator and...well, they'll probably just bitch about it on the internet really. Now I've read the book twice, and skimmed it recently to remind myself of it, and it is a good book. It's a fascinating look at the idea of superheroes written by Allen Moore, a man who acknowledges that the entire concept is inherently ridiculous, and the kind of people who would dress up and fight crime in such a way would be, by necessity, bent. It is, however, treated as a sacred text by the fans, and they will rage if not satisfied.
Where the irony lies is that I think the people making the movie will not fail these people, and as a result, I don't know that they will satisfy anyone else. It is, after all, a comic book. It was written to be a comic book. I've been watching the clips online, and the fact is they clearly took the comic book and simply moved it to the big screen. I'm sure some changes were required, but given the current technology, it looks like they just took the comic, and they put it, scene for scene, into a movie. For people like me who have read it, it is, to say the least, fascinating to see it moving about like that. I'm just not sure how it's going to work for anyone else.
What's funny about this is that now I'm even more excited by it. I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more: the movie, or the internet lighting up like a Christmas tree once all of the geeks and non-geeks have had a chance to take in whatever it is they have made of the work. I can say that Moore's comics have been hit or miss in the move to film. V for Vendetta? Very good movie. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?
Let's just say that if offered the choice between watching that movie and getting kicked hard in the junk, I would advise one to consider the fact that getting kicked in the junk causes excruciating pain that only lasts a few minutes, as opposed to excruciating pain that lasts a couple of hours.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
If I'm Wrong, I'll Be the First To Apologize to Mr. McFiddlebottom
Talking about Star Wars yesterday got me thinking about the original movie. This is typically a bad thing when talking about popular, sci-fi franchises. Specifically, I started questioning the whole Luke-lives-with-his-uncle-Owen part of the story.
Seriously, stop and consider this maneuver for a moment. The second worst despot in the history of the whole Jedi-Sith scene has effectively aided the now galactic Emperor in taking over, well, the galaxy I guess. (For those wondering, Vadar is the second worst because the Emperor, being both evil and upper management, is clearly worse.) This villain, who has now sold himself into the Sith lifestyle, has no idea that his children survived birth. So, you're one of the few Jedi who survived, and you have to figure out what to do with the adorable spawn of Vadar.
Maybe they were going for the whole hide-it-in-plain-sight theory, but doesn't it seem like at least not calling the kid Skywalker would have been a good move? Don't you think that, growing up, at least one person he met would be all, "Hey, isn't Skywalker the name of that dude who went bat&$#% insane and killed all those wannabe Jedi kids a few years back before turning into Darth Vadar?". Maybe Tatooine wasn't that big on current events. Either way, I would have called him something else, just to be sure, but maybe that's why George Lucas is a multimillionaire, and I write a free blog online.
After all, who would seriously believe that the ultimate hero needed to end the Galactic Empire and restore balance to the force would be Spanky McFiddlebottom?
Seriously, stop and consider this maneuver for a moment. The second worst despot in the history of the whole Jedi-Sith scene has effectively aided the now galactic Emperor in taking over, well, the galaxy I guess. (For those wondering, Vadar is the second worst because the Emperor, being both evil and upper management, is clearly worse.) This villain, who has now sold himself into the Sith lifestyle, has no idea that his children survived birth. So, you're one of the few Jedi who survived, and you have to figure out what to do with the adorable spawn of Vadar.
Obi Wan: So...what do we do with these two, eh?
Yoda: Look not at me. Too old to change diapers, I am.
Bail Organa: We can take one of them.
Obi Wan: Well, I sense she'll be strong and independent. Very princess like.
Bail Organa: Perfect. We'll raise her as our own daughter. Princess Leia Organa.
Obi Wan: Right. Then what do we do with him?
Yoda: (Yawning) Care not do I. See if his uncle can take him.
Obi Wan: What if Vadar comes looking for him?
Yoda: Of children Vadar knows not. Be fine the boy will.
Obi Wan: Okay, so we send him to Tatooine. What will we call him?
Yoda: (Clearly getting irritated) Call him Luke Skywalker.
Obi Wan: But master, that is his father's name. Surely we don't want...
Yoda: Look, long day I've had. Correct me no more, or the business end of my light saber will meet with your dark side. In fact, since care so much you do, you too will live on Tattooine. Watch the child you will. Try to guide him. I sense a tendency to become a whiny, teenage beeyotch in this one.
Maybe they were going for the whole hide-it-in-plain-sight theory, but doesn't it seem like at least not calling the kid Skywalker would have been a good move? Don't you think that, growing up, at least one person he met would be all, "Hey, isn't Skywalker the name of that dude who went bat&$#% insane and killed all those wannabe Jedi kids a few years back before turning into Darth Vadar?". Maybe Tatooine wasn't that big on current events. Either way, I would have called him something else, just to be sure, but maybe that's why George Lucas is a multimillionaire, and I write a free blog online.
After all, who would seriously believe that the ultimate hero needed to end the Galactic Empire and restore balance to the force would be Spanky McFiddlebottom?
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Real Reason I Refuse To Play World of Warcraft
Yesterday, the Princess wanted to play Lego Star Wars on my PSP, and I did what any loving father would do - I told her to wait until I finished the level I was on. I collected the requisite number of Lego studs (which are the little things that hold Lego pieces together and the games version of coins, not men in leather outfits made of Legos) to achieve True Jedi and finished the level. Then I set her up in Free Play mode on my game and, with the usual reluctance I get from handing my favorite toy to another, handed the game over.
She got right into it, playing one of the flying level almost to completion before requesting that I put her back into the standard "running around as a Star Wars character shooting things" type level. I finished the level up for her so any studs she collected would be added to my total, as I'm saving up to unlock some of the extra characters and extras. Then I put her into a regular level and handed it back.
She plays for a few more minutes, and then she starts bragging about how she's picking up so much money (a declaration I do not correct, as I don't really want to hear my six year old daughter talking about how many studs she's picked up). For the most part, I say something supportive like "Good job honey" while continuing whatever I was doing. Then, at one point she said it, and I found myself saying things like "Make sure you pick up the blue ones - they're worth more" or (while looking over her shoulder) "Hey, you can shoot those things for extra coins". I told myself that I was just helping her enjoy the game, which she clearly was, but a small part of me kept wondering if that was true.
I think I might be using my own daughter for gold farming.
So now I have to watch myself for signs of such activity. I'd hate to catch myself telling her she can do her homework later, and suggesting that she play the game instead just so I can unlock the stud multiplier. Of course, if I did unlock it, then any studs acquired while she was playing would be worth up to six times as much, and it's not like she's not having a good time, right?
Sorry sweetie, no Hannah Montana tonight - Ghost Anakin Skywalker isn't going to unlock himself.
She got right into it, playing one of the flying level almost to completion before requesting that I put her back into the standard "running around as a Star Wars character shooting things" type level. I finished the level up for her so any studs she collected would be added to my total, as I'm saving up to unlock some of the extra characters and extras. Then I put her into a regular level and handed it back.
She plays for a few more minutes, and then she starts bragging about how she's picking up so much money (a declaration I do not correct, as I don't really want to hear my six year old daughter talking about how many studs she's picked up). For the most part, I say something supportive like "Good job honey" while continuing whatever I was doing. Then, at one point she said it, and I found myself saying things like "Make sure you pick up the blue ones - they're worth more" or (while looking over her shoulder) "Hey, you can shoot those things for extra coins". I told myself that I was just helping her enjoy the game, which she clearly was, but a small part of me kept wondering if that was true.
I think I might be using my own daughter for gold farming.
So now I have to watch myself for signs of such activity. I'd hate to catch myself telling her she can do her homework later, and suggesting that she play the game instead just so I can unlock the stud multiplier. Of course, if I did unlock it, then any studs acquired while she was playing would be worth up to six times as much, and it's not like she's not having a good time, right?
Sorry sweetie, no Hannah Montana tonight - Ghost Anakin Skywalker isn't going to unlock himself.
Friday, February 27, 2009
I Bet I'll Feel Better About It If I Watch Starship Troopers Again
So, here's a question for you: why is it that we, as a species, kill bugs? As you all know, I'm the resident bug slayer in the house, and it suddenly struck me that I'm not sure why I'm comfortable killing bugs. I mean, I don't relish in it or anything, but I'm willing to do it.
The thing is, I've killed approximately one non-insect animal intentionally in my entire life. It was traumatic, and I would not do it again. Sure, many unfortunate critters fell to the wheels of my car when I lived out in the sticks as a teenager, and I felt bad, but none of those were intentional. Besides, if a possum can't be bothered to look both ways before crossing, I don't see where I can be held responsible. I have historically, however, slain a good number of insects quite on purpose.
I even consider not doing it. When called upon to face one of my typically eight legged foes, my inner tree hugging, hippy freak says that I should really catch the little fellow and simply release him back into the wild. You know, all humanitarian like. Then one or more of it's hairy little legs moves, and the little hippy is all, "Oh %#@$ that noise. Kill it! Kill it with fire!".
At first I figured it was xenophobia. I mean really, what could be more different from a person that a furry, multi-eye having, exoskeleton wearing insect, other than perhaps some of the freakier deep sea critters? (Make no mistake, however - if I find one of those things crawling up my wall, it's so getting hit with a shoe.) Then I thought back to a trip to Florida, where the relative I was staying with threw something at a gecko on the wall. I was appalled, as it would never cross my mind to try and eliminate a gecko for any purpose other than perhaps collecting their skins in exchange for bottle caps (skill multiplier for anyone who gets the game reference). Geckos don't really share a lot with people beyond an apparent concern for car insurance costs, so my xenophobic theory doesn't seem to hold water.
Therefore, like so many things in my life, I have no idea why it is considered acceptable to do this. I wouldn't think it acceptable to hurt an uninvited animal in my home unless it was directly threatening my family. Why can I freely smack a spider into oblivion and not only have it be acceptable, but be hailed as a hero (okay, maybe not hailed, but I should be dammit), and yet if I did the same thing to a puppy who wandered into my house, I would be promptly vilified? What if the puppy had eight legs? Then would it be acceptable?
I'm thinking no - then it would just end up on the internet, and I would be mega-vilified.
The thing is, I've killed approximately one non-insect animal intentionally in my entire life. It was traumatic, and I would not do it again. Sure, many unfortunate critters fell to the wheels of my car when I lived out in the sticks as a teenager, and I felt bad, but none of those were intentional. Besides, if a possum can't be bothered to look both ways before crossing, I don't see where I can be held responsible. I have historically, however, slain a good number of insects quite on purpose.
I even consider not doing it. When called upon to face one of my typically eight legged foes, my inner tree hugging, hippy freak says that I should really catch the little fellow and simply release him back into the wild. You know, all humanitarian like. Then one or more of it's hairy little legs moves, and the little hippy is all, "Oh %#@$ that noise. Kill it! Kill it with fire!".
At first I figured it was xenophobia. I mean really, what could be more different from a person that a furry, multi-eye having, exoskeleton wearing insect, other than perhaps some of the freakier deep sea critters? (Make no mistake, however - if I find one of those things crawling up my wall, it's so getting hit with a shoe.) Then I thought back to a trip to Florida, where the relative I was staying with threw something at a gecko on the wall. I was appalled, as it would never cross my mind to try and eliminate a gecko for any purpose other than perhaps collecting their skins in exchange for bottle caps (skill multiplier for anyone who gets the game reference). Geckos don't really share a lot with people beyond an apparent concern for car insurance costs, so my xenophobic theory doesn't seem to hold water.
Therefore, like so many things in my life, I have no idea why it is considered acceptable to do this. I wouldn't think it acceptable to hurt an uninvited animal in my home unless it was directly threatening my family. Why can I freely smack a spider into oblivion and not only have it be acceptable, but be hailed as a hero (okay, maybe not hailed, but I should be dammit), and yet if I did the same thing to a puppy who wandered into my house, I would be promptly vilified? What if the puppy had eight legs? Then would it be acceptable?
I'm thinking no - then it would just end up on the internet, and I would be mega-vilified.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
For My Young Readers, It's Like a Video Store for Books
When we moved to the new town, we left behind a very nice, reasonably new library. I have many fond memories of this library. I would take the Princess there in her stroller, pushing it around while I perused the newest CDs or comic collections. I'd even occasionally get out a book. I loved that place.
Then we came here, and one of the first things I did was locate the local library. When I found it I was...well I'm not going to say disappointed. Let's go with underwhelmed. They had books, and nice sections for music and DVDs and all that. It's just small, and feels a lot older than what I was used to. It's like going to my grandma's house when I was a kid. This is going to sound weird, but the place smells like something built in the 1950s. I can not explain it better than that.
I feel bad that I even noticed it, as it does not detract from the media it houses. Still, leaving the gleaming metal and glass that I was used to left me a little sad. I looked into the libraries in the neighboring city, as back home we had a pretty lenient system for getting a card for neighboring towns, and the attendant looked at me as if I was joking and explained that if I wanted to participate, I would have to buy a library card. I'm not positive, but judging from the way she looked at me, I'm thinking I must have been wearing my mud-stained overalls and ripped white t-shirt, perhaps accompanied by boots thick with cow manure and a wad of chaw dribbling down my chin.
Anyway, it is with great joy that I look forward to next month, when our gleaming new two story library opens here in town. I'm sure it will be all the same books, and they probably won't have moved Maus II or Johnny the Homicidal Maniac out of the youth section yet, but it will be shiny. I'm practically giddy, as I'm a huge fan of dragging the kids to the library still. Now we have a brand new one to wander aimlessly.
Hopefully, the economy will turn around, and in a couple of years we'll be able to afford books for it.
Then we came here, and one of the first things I did was locate the local library. When I found it I was...well I'm not going to say disappointed. Let's go with underwhelmed. They had books, and nice sections for music and DVDs and all that. It's just small, and feels a lot older than what I was used to. It's like going to my grandma's house when I was a kid. This is going to sound weird, but the place smells like something built in the 1950s. I can not explain it better than that.
I feel bad that I even noticed it, as it does not detract from the media it houses. Still, leaving the gleaming metal and glass that I was used to left me a little sad. I looked into the libraries in the neighboring city, as back home we had a pretty lenient system for getting a card for neighboring towns, and the attendant looked at me as if I was joking and explained that if I wanted to participate, I would have to buy a library card. I'm not positive, but judging from the way she looked at me, I'm thinking I must have been wearing my mud-stained overalls and ripped white t-shirt, perhaps accompanied by boots thick with cow manure and a wad of chaw dribbling down my chin.
Anyway, it is with great joy that I look forward to next month, when our gleaming new two story library opens here in town. I'm sure it will be all the same books, and they probably won't have moved Maus II or Johnny the Homicidal Maniac out of the youth section yet, but it will be shiny. I'm practically giddy, as I'm a huge fan of dragging the kids to the library still. Now we have a brand new one to wander aimlessly.
Hopefully, the economy will turn around, and in a couple of years we'll be able to afford books for it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Heat of the Moment
Sorry I missed yesterday. I was very tired, very sick, and very unfunny. Believe me when I tell you that you wanted no part of that action.
Anyway, today I was pondering one of the many uncomfortable situations one must face when in an office setting. You walk into a meeting room that a group just left, you sit down, and the seat that you have chosen is still warm from the individual that was sitting there previously. You didn't see who was there a minute ago, so there is no clue who's body heat you are now absorbing.
This creeps me out. Big time.
It's not that I'm worried that they did something nasty there like push an SPD down into the seat cushion, leaving themselves a clean getaway while the next sitter inadvertently releases the stench lying in wait below. That's a different thing altogether, and while unpleasant, at least has an element of skill to it. My own daughter has caught me in this trick, and while I was less that pleased, I did admire the talent involved in the moments before the lack of oxygen caused me to black out.
Rather, my discomfort comes from the simple fact that there is a tranfer of body heat from some unknown individual at my office and myself. Seriously, consider for a moment those situations in your life where you have exchanged body heat with another individual. Take, for example, this morning when I was snuggling with my son before school. (What? I assume that was the kind of thing all of you were picturing. Wasn't it?) Now take out that other individual from the moment you were imagining, and replace them with the sweaty guy from HR.
Yeah...not cool.
I realize that this discomfort is somewhat unfounded. It just creeps me out a bit. I don't jump up out of the seat or anything. I will, however, consiously choose to not sit in a previously occupied seat if given the opportunity for exactly these reasons. And perhaps, next time you have to go to a meeting, you'll consider my words, and make a similar decision.
If not, you'll definitely think of me the next time you use a public rest room and the seat is warm, and really, what more could I want from life?
Anyway, today I was pondering one of the many uncomfortable situations one must face when in an office setting. You walk into a meeting room that a group just left, you sit down, and the seat that you have chosen is still warm from the individual that was sitting there previously. You didn't see who was there a minute ago, so there is no clue who's body heat you are now absorbing.
This creeps me out. Big time.
It's not that I'm worried that they did something nasty there like push an SPD down into the seat cushion, leaving themselves a clean getaway while the next sitter inadvertently releases the stench lying in wait below. That's a different thing altogether, and while unpleasant, at least has an element of skill to it. My own daughter has caught me in this trick, and while I was less that pleased, I did admire the talent involved in the moments before the lack of oxygen caused me to black out.
Rather, my discomfort comes from the simple fact that there is a tranfer of body heat from some unknown individual at my office and myself. Seriously, consider for a moment those situations in your life where you have exchanged body heat with another individual. Take, for example, this morning when I was snuggling with my son before school. (What? I assume that was the kind of thing all of you were picturing. Wasn't it?) Now take out that other individual from the moment you were imagining, and replace them with the sweaty guy from HR.
Yeah...not cool.
I realize that this discomfort is somewhat unfounded. It just creeps me out a bit. I don't jump up out of the seat or anything. I will, however, consiously choose to not sit in a previously occupied seat if given the opportunity for exactly these reasons. And perhaps, next time you have to go to a meeting, you'll consider my words, and make a similar decision.
If not, you'll definitely think of me the next time you use a public rest room and the seat is warm, and really, what more could I want from life?
Monday, February 23, 2009
I'm Not Getting Drunk, I'm Stimulating the Economy
I know that we're all concerned about the economy, and that our government is doing what it can to try and get things moving. While most of my good idea have been ignored (I'm all for a cake-based economy myself), I am impressed with some of the creativity I'm seeing, particularly here in Michigan, where the recession/depression that you're all seeing started ages ago. Your global financial meltdown is what we commonly refer to here as "Tuesday".
First, we're trying to turn Michigan into the new Hollywood. I for one would love to see that happen, if for no other reason than some of the best movies ever made have come from here. Plus, I'm starting to think that maybe basing most of our economy on car makers might have been a mistake. That's probably just me though.
Even better, though, is the latest suggestion to get the economy moving: keep the bars open later. If we can drink until four AM and buy booze on Sunday morning, the state collects more taxes, the bars make more money, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, it makes sense and all, but it just seems wrong somehow. Maybe Homer Simpson was right when he identified beer as the cause and the solution of all of life's problems.
I guess I'm lucky either way. Somehow there always seems to be a gig for a programmer. Still, I would love to see Michigan's economy finally pick up. It would be nice to see people working again and hear some good news about our economy for a change. I'd like to see the good people of Michigan given a chance to pick themselves up and show pride in their state for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Ah Hell, who am I kidding? I just want to be surrounded by drunken movie stars in the wee hours of the morning.
First, we're trying to turn Michigan into the new Hollywood. I for one would love to see that happen, if for no other reason than some of the best movies ever made have come from here. Plus, I'm starting to think that maybe basing most of our economy on car makers might have been a mistake. That's probably just me though.
Even better, though, is the latest suggestion to get the economy moving: keep the bars open later. If we can drink until four AM and buy booze on Sunday morning, the state collects more taxes, the bars make more money, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, it makes sense and all, but it just seems wrong somehow. Maybe Homer Simpson was right when he identified beer as the cause and the solution of all of life's problems.
I guess I'm lucky either way. Somehow there always seems to be a gig for a programmer. Still, I would love to see Michigan's economy finally pick up. It would be nice to see people working again and hear some good news about our economy for a change. I'd like to see the good people of Michigan given a chance to pick themselves up and show pride in their state for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Ah Hell, who am I kidding? I just want to be surrounded by drunken movie stars in the wee hours of the morning.
Friday, February 20, 2009
I Bet They've Never Found a Single Cat This Way
I've been fighting a nasty sinus infection for about two months now. After two bouts of less than effective antibiotics, I'm starting to get a little frustrated about having a headache most of the time. Between the headaches and the fact that I now smell smoke randomly where there is actually no smoke, I've decided that I'm either really messed up or I'm being haunted by a ex-smoker (it's pretty hard to find a ghost who's a current smoker because ectoplasm gums up the workings of a Zippo - not many people know that).
Anyway, this means I'm getting a CT scan of my sinuses today. As is my habit around these parts, I figured I'd let all of you know about it. I do this for two reasons. First, it's pretty much all I'm thinking about this morning. Second, you can all learn from my experiences. After all, there's no reason more than one person has to learn things like "never see a proctologist who works out of a van" the hard way, right?
What's weird is that I'm not really sure what I hope they find. I mean, if they come up with nothing, I'm just getting headaches and smelling mystery smoke with not further information and a chunk of my annual deductible being billed. If they find something, there's a remote chance someone want to open my head up and remove it, another idea I'm not particularly keen on. Such is the conundrum of the advanced medical procedure.
Honestly, I am hoping they find something, just not something especially medical. I'm hoping they find one of those sweet little tracking implants the aliens put into people when they abduct them. Not only would it explain the many gaps in my memory, but it would make me feel like I was better traveled that I currently am. Plus, if I ever run into David Duchovney, I would have something to talk about besides his supposed sex addiction, which I'm guessing would be an awkward conversation ("Dude, are...are you picturing us doing it right now?").
Unfortunately a CT scan doesn't lend itself to comical implants, so I have to hope the aliens have me covered.
Anyway, this means I'm getting a CT scan of my sinuses today. As is my habit around these parts, I figured I'd let all of you know about it. I do this for two reasons. First, it's pretty much all I'm thinking about this morning. Second, you can all learn from my experiences. After all, there's no reason more than one person has to learn things like "never see a proctologist who works out of a van" the hard way, right?
What's weird is that I'm not really sure what I hope they find. I mean, if they come up with nothing, I'm just getting headaches and smelling mystery smoke with not further information and a chunk of my annual deductible being billed. If they find something, there's a remote chance someone want to open my head up and remove it, another idea I'm not particularly keen on. Such is the conundrum of the advanced medical procedure.
Honestly, I am hoping they find something, just not something especially medical. I'm hoping they find one of those sweet little tracking implants the aliens put into people when they abduct them. Not only would it explain the many gaps in my memory, but it would make me feel like I was better traveled that I currently am. Plus, if I ever run into David Duchovney, I would have something to talk about besides his supposed sex addiction, which I'm guessing would be an awkward conversation ("Dude, are...are you picturing us doing it right now?").
Unfortunately a CT scan doesn't lend itself to comical implants, so I have to hope the aliens have me covered.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Remember, You Can't Spell 'Assessment' Without...Well, You Get the Idea
So today I got my annual self assessment out of the way, and as usual I feel ridiculous about it. Don't get me wrong - I think it's a good idea that we do a self assessment. It's just that no matter what I do, I end up feeling like it was wrong, which is a far cry from my actual work where I typically feel like an infallible being of almost infinite talent. (Okay, that's a bit of hyperbole. I'm sure my talent is finite, we just haven't found the end yet.)
The problem with a self assessment is that I either feel like I'm selling myself short, or I feel like I'm exaggerating my contributions. I do my best to find a nice middle ground, but it's hard. I really don't sit around assessing my performance on a regular basis. I prefer to squander my time, you know, actually doing my job.
It used to be that I would always hold back a little bit. I didn't ever want to sound like I was bragging or exaggerating, so I always rated myself as average or sufficient. The thing is, I really am good at what I do. So I'd sit there and say something like, "I think I do a good job", but inside I'd be thinking that without me the entire project would devolve into a wailing and gnashing of teeth. (I used to have a little problem with being egotistical. Fortunately, I got that in check, which only adds to my overall awesomeness.)
These days, I realize that no one is going to toot my horn for me (at least not since that harassment suit), so I try to be more accurate about what I felt I contributed. The problem is that now, I feel like my assessment is all braggadocio. I mean, I don't really think I'm exaggerating, but when I read over it all before I hit submit, I feel like I might as well have written, "This year, I accomplished all of my goals while repeatedly bailing out the rest of the team, only taking time off to cure cancer (pending FDA approval), save kittens from burning buildings, and read stories to orphans who would otherwise be forming drug habits".
I guess as long as I'm honest it doesn't matter. I just don't like having to evaluate myself like this. I'm not big on self-reflection, something I've been working on for the last few years, and it's...well, it's bothersome. Besides when you get right down to it, you all know I just want to type something smarmy in those comment fields.
Did I satisfy this requirement? I satisfied it in a way that no programmer has ever satisfied it before. I've ruined this requirement for other programmers. Years from now, when I've moved on to something bigger and better, this requirement will still think longingly on this experience and have to support itself against a desk as its knees grow weak, explaining to the latest programmers that it just grew faint for a moment, trying to hide the tear that runs down its cheek from knowing that never again will it experience satisfaction like it has today.
Yeah, I think I better stick with "I think I did a good job".
The problem with a self assessment is that I either feel like I'm selling myself short, or I feel like I'm exaggerating my contributions. I do my best to find a nice middle ground, but it's hard. I really don't sit around assessing my performance on a regular basis. I prefer to squander my time, you know, actually doing my job.
It used to be that I would always hold back a little bit. I didn't ever want to sound like I was bragging or exaggerating, so I always rated myself as average or sufficient. The thing is, I really am good at what I do. So I'd sit there and say something like, "I think I do a good job", but inside I'd be thinking that without me the entire project would devolve into a wailing and gnashing of teeth. (I used to have a little problem with being egotistical. Fortunately, I got that in check, which only adds to my overall awesomeness.)
These days, I realize that no one is going to toot my horn for me (at least not since that harassment suit), so I try to be more accurate about what I felt I contributed. The problem is that now, I feel like my assessment is all braggadocio. I mean, I don't really think I'm exaggerating, but when I read over it all before I hit submit, I feel like I might as well have written, "This year, I accomplished all of my goals while repeatedly bailing out the rest of the team, only taking time off to cure cancer (pending FDA approval), save kittens from burning buildings, and read stories to orphans who would otherwise be forming drug habits".
I guess as long as I'm honest it doesn't matter. I just don't like having to evaluate myself like this. I'm not big on self-reflection, something I've been working on for the last few years, and it's...well, it's bothersome. Besides when you get right down to it, you all know I just want to type something smarmy in those comment fields.
Did I satisfy this requirement? I satisfied it in a way that no programmer has ever satisfied it before. I've ruined this requirement for other programmers. Years from now, when I've moved on to something bigger and better, this requirement will still think longingly on this experience and have to support itself against a desk as its knees grow weak, explaining to the latest programmers that it just grew faint for a moment, trying to hide the tear that runs down its cheek from knowing that never again will it experience satisfaction like it has today.
Yeah, I think I better stick with "I think I did a good job".
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Have Wicked Sack. Also, I Have a New Bag.
So another birthday has come and gone, and I got some really cool loot. My daughter picked me out a new water bottle for my desk, and while I probably wouldn't have gone with the purple with a big pink heart on it, my little girl picked it out, so I use it with pride. The Moose got a more manly version to carry around. My lovely wife, however, (with a gentle nudge from me) came through with the prize gift this year.
I gots me a new man bag.
See, I carry a lot of junk around with me. I typically have two books, my PSP with games, cords for my iPhone and the PSP, a back up set of headphones, and just to be sure, a diaper, wipes, and a plastic bag to jettison any of my son's business in a public waste container. (I've been told by my wife this is bad form, but I ain't carrying it around with me.) I also keep a couple of folders for random paperwork that needs to be dealt with during the day.
I was toting all of this around in a laptop case, and that worked out okay, but didn't feel right. A laptop case implies a laptop, and while my ten year old machine runs Fallout 2 admirably well, it's not worth carrying around just for that. Besides that, as a programmer, I kind of needed something not computer related.
So now I have an excellently functional yet manly bag to sling about my shoulder (not unlike the one pictured above, sans scary sneer and weapon), and it's somehow...better. For reasons I don't at all understand, I feel better about carrying the exact same stuff in this bag than I did before. I guess it's because around here, computer bags are a dime a dozen.
But a good man bag - well, that's something special.
I gots me a new man bag.
See, I carry a lot of junk around with me. I typically have two books, my PSP with games, cords for my iPhone and the PSP, a back up set of headphones, and just to be sure, a diaper, wipes, and a plastic bag to jettison any of my son's business in a public waste container. (I've been told by my wife this is bad form, but I ain't carrying it around with me.) I also keep a couple of folders for random paperwork that needs to be dealt with during the day.
I was toting all of this around in a laptop case, and that worked out okay, but didn't feel right. A laptop case implies a laptop, and while my ten year old machine runs Fallout 2 admirably well, it's not worth carrying around just for that. Besides that, as a programmer, I kind of needed something not computer related.
So now I have an excellently functional yet manly bag to sling about my shoulder (not unlike the one pictured above, sans scary sneer and weapon), and it's somehow...better. For reasons I don't at all understand, I feel better about carrying the exact same stuff in this bag than I did before. I guess it's because around here, computer bags are a dime a dozen.
But a good man bag - well, that's something special.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
POS TOS
Inspired by the recent brouhaha over an update to Facebook's Terms Of Service (TOS), I felt I should probably update the DLOG terms of service as well. I'm sure a lot of you probably weren't even aware that we had a TOS, but it's pretty standard for most websites these days. As such, the following are the new terms of service for readers of Dangerously Low On Grog, which you agree to simply by logging on:
All content contained herein is the sole property of Dangerously Low On Grog (DLOG) and it's author. No part of anything found on this site can be reproduced, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author. Exceptions will be made for those who feel the need to quote the site when explaining the supreme awesomeness that is DLOG, but only because I understand that there are those who will scoff in disbelief when you simply try to describe said awesomeness. I assure you that these scoffers will be dealt with swiftly when I have accomplished my goal of world domination.
Readers may comment on content here at DLOG in the comments area supplied. These comments need not be limited to praise for the author. It should be noted that the author reserved the right to hunt down those that use the comments area to post criticism of the author, his ideas or his work and hit them with a cheese of the author's choosing. The cheese will be selected based on the degree of offense, starting with a nice muenster for minor infractions and escalating all the way up to this stuff for major offenses, such as defending parachute pants or quoting Ann Coulter. Commenters give up their right to retaliation for this cheese smacking, instead agreeing to respond "That was gouda. May I have another?".
Finally, by reading DLOG, you also agree to the following: allowing the author to crash on your couch/spare bed if he's in town, buying the author drinks on occasions when drinks may be purchased, complimenting anyone wearing a sweater vest on said sweater vest (lord knows I love a good sweater vest), consistently being forthright and owning up to any silent but deadly action when directly confronted on such action (if not directly confronted, you may allow the blame to lie with whatever unfortunate individual is accused), and trying your best to be excellent to each other.
There. I think that should hold up in court nicely.
All content contained herein is the sole property of Dangerously Low On Grog (DLOG) and it's author. No part of anything found on this site can be reproduced, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author. Exceptions will be made for those who feel the need to quote the site when explaining the supreme awesomeness that is DLOG, but only because I understand that there are those who will scoff in disbelief when you simply try to describe said awesomeness. I assure you that these scoffers will be dealt with swiftly when I have accomplished my goal of world domination.
Readers may comment on content here at DLOG in the comments area supplied. These comments need not be limited to praise for the author. It should be noted that the author reserved the right to hunt down those that use the comments area to post criticism of the author, his ideas or his work and hit them with a cheese of the author's choosing. The cheese will be selected based on the degree of offense, starting with a nice muenster for minor infractions and escalating all the way up to this stuff for major offenses, such as defending parachute pants or quoting Ann Coulter. Commenters give up their right to retaliation for this cheese smacking, instead agreeing to respond "That was gouda. May I have another?".
Finally, by reading DLOG, you also agree to the following: allowing the author to crash on your couch/spare bed if he's in town, buying the author drinks on occasions when drinks may be purchased, complimenting anyone wearing a sweater vest on said sweater vest (lord knows I love a good sweater vest), consistently being forthright and owning up to any silent but deadly action when directly confronted on such action (if not directly confronted, you may allow the blame to lie with whatever unfortunate individual is accused), and trying your best to be excellent to each other.
There. I think that should hold up in court nicely.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I Have a Ph.D. In Sweet, Sweet Love. And Horribleness.
Okay, so now that I've tried to help you fellas sexy yourselves up, I realized that I should go one step further. After all, I have a wife who is consumed by passionate thoughts of me at all times of the day. At least I think she is. I mean, she never said that she isn't, so it seems like a fair assumption, right? Anyway, I thought I should give you guys some more advice on being romantic and junk*.
The first thing is that if you're thinking of buying a gift, consider sending it to their office or place of work. Despite the illness I feel watching the Vermont Teddy Bear ad full of squealing women, there is something to it. The ladies like to get gifts at work that show someone is thinking about them. Be wary, however. If you intend to give a gift of lingerie or, ahem, "marital aids", then don't send them to her job. This last point is particularly important, as having the bomb squad called because a package arrived vibrating is not particularly romantic, and a mistake you only make once. I've heard.
When romancing a lady, you should consider how you dress. It should be noted that when a women indicates that she would like you to dress up for Valentine's Day, what she means is put on a freshly pressed pair of pants and shirt, perhaps a jacket. What the heck, go all out and maybe shave or something. She does not mean that she wants you to show up in a fireman uniform, a cowboy outfit, or a skimpy negligee, particularly if you choose to borrow her pumps that just happen to be the right shade of pink to match that negligee, even if said pumps were perfectly fine afterward and not "all squished out of shape by your giant man-feet".
Another important skill when it comes to romance is knowing how to compliment a lady. When complimenting a woman, it is important to be specific. It isn't enough to say that she looks nice. Rather, try and point out what exactly about her appeals to you at that moment. An example might be, "Wow, that color of dress really shows off how beautiful your eyes are". It's important to remember, however, to tailor your compliment to the person you're speaking to. Despite what you may think, your favorite features of your significant other may be off limits here. Just try to avoid any compliments involving the following words: can/cans, jubblies, hooters, booty, ayus (as in "that ayus"), boobies, hoo hah...you know what, just ask yourself if you would pay the same compliment to your mother, and if the answer is no, then skip it.
Finally, just remind yourself that you're lucky to have someone. Remind yourself that you have a person who thinks about you and who cares about you. Remind yourself that this person does this on a regular basis despite the overwhelming odds that you're probably an undeserving lout, and that you should really appreciate it if your fortunate enough to have such a person in your life. Keep reminding yourself that, all day, every day, long after Valentine's has come and gone.
You keep that up and you just might get away with the fact that you forgot to start preparing for Valentine's Day until now, you schmuck.
*Disclaimer: The advice given here is obviously meant to be humorous. The author is actually a Grade-A smoove operator. Just ask your mom.
The first thing is that if you're thinking of buying a gift, consider sending it to their office or place of work. Despite the illness I feel watching the Vermont Teddy Bear ad full of squealing women, there is something to it. The ladies like to get gifts at work that show someone is thinking about them. Be wary, however. If you intend to give a gift of lingerie or, ahem, "marital aids", then don't send them to her job. This last point is particularly important, as having the bomb squad called because a package arrived vibrating is not particularly romantic, and a mistake you only make once. I've heard.
When romancing a lady, you should consider how you dress. It should be noted that when a women indicates that she would like you to dress up for Valentine's Day, what she means is put on a freshly pressed pair of pants and shirt, perhaps a jacket. What the heck, go all out and maybe shave or something. She does not mean that she wants you to show up in a fireman uniform, a cowboy outfit, or a skimpy negligee, particularly if you choose to borrow her pumps that just happen to be the right shade of pink to match that negligee, even if said pumps were perfectly fine afterward and not "all squished out of shape by your giant man-feet".
Another important skill when it comes to romance is knowing how to compliment a lady. When complimenting a woman, it is important to be specific. It isn't enough to say that she looks nice. Rather, try and point out what exactly about her appeals to you at that moment. An example might be, "Wow, that color of dress really shows off how beautiful your eyes are". It's important to remember, however, to tailor your compliment to the person you're speaking to. Despite what you may think, your favorite features of your significant other may be off limits here. Just try to avoid any compliments involving the following words: can/cans, jubblies, hooters, booty, ayus (as in "that ayus"), boobies, hoo hah...you know what, just ask yourself if you would pay the same compliment to your mother, and if the answer is no, then skip it.
Finally, just remind yourself that you're lucky to have someone. Remind yourself that you have a person who thinks about you and who cares about you. Remind yourself that this person does this on a regular basis despite the overwhelming odds that you're probably an undeserving lout, and that you should really appreciate it if your fortunate enough to have such a person in your life. Keep reminding yourself that, all day, every day, long after Valentine's has come and gone.
You keep that up and you just might get away with the fact that you forgot to start preparing for Valentine's Day until now, you schmuck.
*Disclaimer: The advice given here is obviously meant to be humorous. The author is actually a Grade-A smoove operator. Just ask your mom.
Perhaps I Should Have Asked For a Water Pick
Today is my birthday, but as we all know, today was also the birthday of both President Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin, particularly Mr. Darwin since his seminal work was published 150 years ago. I will take a moment to plug an interesting site related to Darwin's work, and that is all I will say about this. As usual, they are all you will hear about, while my birthday will once again be ignored by the media. Pity.
Instead I'm going to talk about a ridiculous thing that happened to me this morning. I try to take care of myself, and that includes a full regiment of dental hygiene. I've always brushed, but I take it more seriously these days. I actually remember having a conversation with my father where he declared that he didn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth (apparently, whiskey kills the germs that cause bad breath - good to know), so it's not something that was pushed on me heavily as a youth.
Anyway, as part of my morning regiment, I floss. Not big thing. The issue is that I had a cavity filled a couple of months ago, and ever since, I can't properly get the floss between my two top teeth in back consistently. As a result, this morning, while attempting once again to wedge the floss in there, the floss broke, leaving a two inch piece of floss lodged firmly between the teeth. Again, I had something stuck in my teeth, and that something was dental floss.
For the life of me, I didn't know what to do.
I tried to grab it to pull it out, but wet floss is decidedly hard to grip. I tried grabbing it with a pair of tweezers, but failed miserably at that too. I seriously considered grabbing a pair of pliers, but decided that the risk of a kid walking in on me while I had a pair of pliers in my mouth might be setting a bad example. I attempted to try and send a second piece of floss in after it, a sort of rescue mission, but all other flosses died in any attempt to get in there.
Finally, I found one of those floss pick things that I ordinarily eschew for the traditional floss. I put the floss part between the teeth and bit down on it, successfully jamming it between the teeth. Then I tried to yank it out, "tried" being the key word in that sentence. So now I had a two inch length of dental floss and a green floss pick stuck between my teeth. This was not my most dignified moment.
Finally, after a yank of ridiculous proportions (I was seriously considering that I was going to spend my birthday at the dentist having yanked something out of place), I managed to dislodge both of the offending implements and move on with my day. I was just amazed at the chaos that could be cause by such a tiny thing. A seemingly innocent piece of waxed string nearly derailed my entire day.
On a side note, a similar incident is the reason that to this day I refuse to wear thongs anymore, but we can talk about that another time.
Instead I'm going to talk about a ridiculous thing that happened to me this morning. I try to take care of myself, and that includes a full regiment of dental hygiene. I've always brushed, but I take it more seriously these days. I actually remember having a conversation with my father where he declared that he didn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth (apparently, whiskey kills the germs that cause bad breath - good to know), so it's not something that was pushed on me heavily as a youth.
Anyway, as part of my morning regiment, I floss. Not big thing. The issue is that I had a cavity filled a couple of months ago, and ever since, I can't properly get the floss between my two top teeth in back consistently. As a result, this morning, while attempting once again to wedge the floss in there, the floss broke, leaving a two inch piece of floss lodged firmly between the teeth. Again, I had something stuck in my teeth, and that something was dental floss.
For the life of me, I didn't know what to do.
I tried to grab it to pull it out, but wet floss is decidedly hard to grip. I tried grabbing it with a pair of tweezers, but failed miserably at that too. I seriously considered grabbing a pair of pliers, but decided that the risk of a kid walking in on me while I had a pair of pliers in my mouth might be setting a bad example. I attempted to try and send a second piece of floss in after it, a sort of rescue mission, but all other flosses died in any attempt to get in there.
Finally, I found one of those floss pick things that I ordinarily eschew for the traditional floss. I put the floss part between the teeth and bit down on it, successfully jamming it between the teeth. Then I tried to yank it out, "tried" being the key word in that sentence. So now I had a two inch length of dental floss and a green floss pick stuck between my teeth. This was not my most dignified moment.
Finally, after a yank of ridiculous proportions (I was seriously considering that I was going to spend my birthday at the dentist having yanked something out of place), I managed to dislodge both of the offending implements and move on with my day. I was just amazed at the chaos that could be cause by such a tiny thing. A seemingly innocent piece of waxed string nearly derailed my entire day.
On a side note, a similar incident is the reason that to this day I refuse to wear thongs anymore, but we can talk about that another time.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Misery Indeed
I have another terrible confession to make, which is good, because without terrible confessions my blog would mostly consist of links to cat pictures. Anyway, I have an intense, irrational dislike of someone, and even though I know it's for the wrong reasons, I can't shake it. Last weekend, while trying to enjoy Revolutionary Road, I once again had to deal with distraction of my disdain.
I seriously cannot stand Kathy Bates.
Being an actress, I'm sure Mrs. Bates has dealt with those who do not appreciate her work, but that's not the case for me. I think she's a great actress, and I can honestly say that I've never seen her in a role that I wasn't impressed by. Her performance in Misery alone counts her as brilliant in my mind.
What's more, she's never done anything in her personal life, that I'm aware of anyway, that I would take offense to. In fact, I know almost nothing about her, being that I don't particularly follow celebrity news. So as far as I know, she's a saint who feeds homeless people and saves puppies from burning buildings.
Still, I can't stand her.
Why (you might ask) would a seemingly rational individual such as myself harbor such a passionate yet seemingly unfounded dislike for someone? It's simple. Kathy Bates is the spitting image of my mother, the lady I stopped talking to over six years ago. So every time I see her, I have this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to her. It's bizarre, because I know that it isn't my mother, but my mind won't completely accept it. So yeah, every time I see her in anything, I can't help but feel like I'm watching my mom.
On the bright side, writing about it cause me to do my usual bit of research, and now I know not to ever, ever, ever watch At Play in the Fields of the Lord or About Schmidt.
I seriously cannot stand Kathy Bates.
Being an actress, I'm sure Mrs. Bates has dealt with those who do not appreciate her work, but that's not the case for me. I think she's a great actress, and I can honestly say that I've never seen her in a role that I wasn't impressed by. Her performance in Misery alone counts her as brilliant in my mind.
What's more, she's never done anything in her personal life, that I'm aware of anyway, that I would take offense to. In fact, I know almost nothing about her, being that I don't particularly follow celebrity news. So as far as I know, she's a saint who feeds homeless people and saves puppies from burning buildings.
Still, I can't stand her.
Why (you might ask) would a seemingly rational individual such as myself harbor such a passionate yet seemingly unfounded dislike for someone? It's simple. Kathy Bates is the spitting image of my mother, the lady I stopped talking to over six years ago. So every time I see her, I have this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to her. It's bizarre, because I know that it isn't my mother, but my mind won't completely accept it. So yeah, every time I see her in anything, I can't help but feel like I'm watching my mom.
On the bright side, writing about it cause me to do my usual bit of research, and now I know not to ever, ever, ever watch At Play in the Fields of the Lord or About Schmidt.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Did That Really Need To Be Said?
Browsing Facebook this morning, I got another notification of someone joining a cause. As far as I know, this consists of clicking a link, with no commitment other than that, but it's a nice thought, right? Anyway, the thing that got me was that it was one of the really obvious ones, and I started wondering, do we really need to point this out? I mean, really contested topics like politics or religion I can see, but some of these are just silly.
Today the cause was people against animal cruelty, and all I could think was, "Well durr". Who is it out there who reads that and thinks, "Well now wait a minute, some animals just need a good ass kicking." Really? I'm going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as something I think we can all agree on, right? Is there a group of people out there (discounting the handful of deviants) who really want to be cruel to animals and thinks that should be okay with everyone?
Even weirder is the one about getting pedophiles off of Facebook. Again, it's good to support such a cause, but really, who (other than said pedophiles) would really disagree. Can't we, as a society, determine that there are some things that we all agree are a bad idea? If so, do we really need to declare that we support these causes? Personally, I'd be more impressed if the freaks got together and put up a support group for the Facebook pedophiles. Of course I'd be all for the prompt arrest and beating of anyone who joined the group, but you get what I'm saying.
Instead of protesting, perhaps I should just join the fray and start making groups of my own. You know, let people know who I am through my public support of things that I assume we all can agree on. How about a group that supports not breaking the law? Maybe a group that unites together to agree that we should all observe gravity and not float about like balloons? Or a group that agrees that we shouldn't slam our winkies in the door, or cook bacon naked?
People against elevator flatulence unless it's really funny - now there's a cause I can get behind.
Today the cause was people against animal cruelty, and all I could think was, "Well durr". Who is it out there who reads that and thinks, "Well now wait a minute, some animals just need a good ass kicking." Really? I'm going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as something I think we can all agree on, right? Is there a group of people out there (discounting the handful of deviants) who really want to be cruel to animals and thinks that should be okay with everyone?
Even weirder is the one about getting pedophiles off of Facebook. Again, it's good to support such a cause, but really, who (other than said pedophiles) would really disagree. Can't we, as a society, determine that there are some things that we all agree are a bad idea? If so, do we really need to declare that we support these causes? Personally, I'd be more impressed if the freaks got together and put up a support group for the Facebook pedophiles. Of course I'd be all for the prompt arrest and beating of anyone who joined the group, but you get what I'm saying.
Instead of protesting, perhaps I should just join the fray and start making groups of my own. You know, let people know who I am through my public support of things that I assume we all can agree on. How about a group that supports not breaking the law? Maybe a group that unites together to agree that we should all observe gravity and not float about like balloons? Or a group that agrees that we shouldn't slam our winkies in the door, or cook bacon naked?
People against elevator flatulence unless it's really funny - now there's a cause I can get behind.
Monday, February 9, 2009
When Only the Best Will Do - Me
Once again, this weekend found me making the hour and a half trek from my home to that of my in-laws who were graciously hanging out with the tots so we could get some stuff done. Since my lovely wife was working on the way (we didn't get our stuff done), I had plenty of time to take in all of the sights of a thawing Michigan landscape. Having used up that fifteen minutes, I spent the rest of the time thinking about weird things.
One of these things is billboards. First, a lot of billboards need to be worded better. I'll give you an example. On this drive, I pass by a billboard that tells me that every twenty minutes a child is diagnosed with autism, and every time I think to myself, "Well, maybe his parents ought to write it down or something so they can stop diagnosing him over and over. I mean, the kid's got to have better things to do that hanging around doctor's offices waiting to be diagnosed with autism again.". No, I do not think it in Seinfeld's voice.
More interesting to me though are the blank ones. Given the current economy, I see a lot of blanks that say "Your ad could be here for $500", and I think to myself, "Dude, I could find $500 for a billboard". Think about it. There's nothing that says that I, as a random yahoo, could not cough up the dough to get myself a prime piece of billboard space alongside interstate 94.
What does one do with such a space though? Well, my first idea was a straightforward ad for myself. Just a picture of me, perhaps in a suit, with a tagline like "Isn't it time you tried Roger?" or "Nine of ten doctors agree - Roger". Maybe instead I could use one of those really mysterious things that don't say anything at all but sound really interesting, like "Don't you owe it to yourself to know Roger?" or "Roger. Because you're worth it."
Because, really, aren't you?
Even better, I could use the space as a public service. "Roger says, 'Remember kids, when sharing the highway, try not to be a dick'." would be helpful for example. I also like "Studies show that male tailgating is a form of latent homosexuality." (That one came to mind during the drive home, when the car behind me was attempting to re-enact the Ned Beatty scene from Deliverance). I could wear a lab coat and hold a clipboard for that one.
Finally, I had an epiphany. If I was going to spend the money, I should really be using that money for something truly worthwhile. Therefore, I'm going to start a fund so I can buy up all of these blank billboards and fill them with good, common sense zombie preparation tips. Just the basic stuff, like "Remember, an axe never needs to be reloaded." or "I know it looks like grandma, but better safe than sorry.". Maybe we can can get backing from Max Brooks. Bruce Campbell could be our spokesman. We could change the world people!
I...I may have finally found my purpose in life.
One of these things is billboards. First, a lot of billboards need to be worded better. I'll give you an example. On this drive, I pass by a billboard that tells me that every twenty minutes a child is diagnosed with autism, and every time I think to myself, "Well, maybe his parents ought to write it down or something so they can stop diagnosing him over and over. I mean, the kid's got to have better things to do that hanging around doctor's offices waiting to be diagnosed with autism again.". No, I do not think it in Seinfeld's voice.
More interesting to me though are the blank ones. Given the current economy, I see a lot of blanks that say "Your ad could be here for $500", and I think to myself, "Dude, I could find $500 for a billboard". Think about it. There's nothing that says that I, as a random yahoo, could not cough up the dough to get myself a prime piece of billboard space alongside interstate 94.
What does one do with such a space though? Well, my first idea was a straightforward ad for myself. Just a picture of me, perhaps in a suit, with a tagline like "Isn't it time you tried Roger?" or "Nine of ten doctors agree - Roger". Maybe instead I could use one of those really mysterious things that don't say anything at all but sound really interesting, like "Don't you owe it to yourself to know Roger?" or "Roger. Because you're worth it."
Because, really, aren't you?
Even better, I could use the space as a public service. "Roger says, 'Remember kids, when sharing the highway, try not to be a dick'." would be helpful for example. I also like "Studies show that male tailgating is a form of latent homosexuality." (That one came to mind during the drive home, when the car behind me was attempting to re-enact the Ned Beatty scene from Deliverance). I could wear a lab coat and hold a clipboard for that one.
Finally, I had an epiphany. If I was going to spend the money, I should really be using that money for something truly worthwhile. Therefore, I'm going to start a fund so I can buy up all of these blank billboards and fill them with good, common sense zombie preparation tips. Just the basic stuff, like "Remember, an axe never needs to be reloaded." or "I know it looks like grandma, but better safe than sorry.". Maybe we can can get backing from Max Brooks. Bruce Campbell could be our spokesman. We could change the world people!
I...I may have finally found my purpose in life.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Call Me When We're Back To Skinned Knees
Our entire family is sick. This is not unusual, and pretty well consists of the typical, long winter illnesses. I have a wicked sinus infection. My lovely wife and kids are working the sniffles, with an added cough for the Moose. No big deal.
Well yesterday I get a call at work from my lovely wife telling me the school nurse called about the Princess. She didn't sound especially freaked, so I knew my little girl was alright, and figured maybe she threw up or fell down or something. I wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I can handle it.
Instead, she reports that the Princess went to her teacher complaining that went she went potty, there was blood.
Again, my lovely wife's voice is calm, so I'm assuming that I'm not supposed to be freaking out. Internally, however, I was freaking the %#$@ out. As a guy, when I hear someone is urinating blood, I naturally assume that she's either been punched in the kidney or shanked (those elementary school playgrounds are a lot tougher than you think). Still, I took my cue from my wife's calm and asked how we should proceed.
She took our daughter to the pediatrician where it was declared that she's working a urinary tract infection. Apparently this is more common among the ladies, hence my wife's calm. She gets a prescription and a bottle of cranberry juice, and apparently all will be well.
I'm not sure what the lesson to take from all of this is. I guess it's that every time I get comfortable with the idea that I can handle the whole parenting thing, something shows up and reminds me that I am far from knowing everything I'm going to run up against. I'm just glad I have my lovely wife to supplement my feeble knowledge of this stuff. I mean, I would have found out eventually if I had taken her to the doctor myself.
There's a chance though that I would have shown her how to sharpen the end of a toothbrush and given her the talk about making your enemies suffer so as to not lose street cred first, and I really wanted to save that one until she's at least seven.
Well yesterday I get a call at work from my lovely wife telling me the school nurse called about the Princess. She didn't sound especially freaked, so I knew my little girl was alright, and figured maybe she threw up or fell down or something. I wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I can handle it.
Instead, she reports that the Princess went to her teacher complaining that went she went potty, there was blood.
Again, my lovely wife's voice is calm, so I'm assuming that I'm not supposed to be freaking out. Internally, however, I was freaking the %#$@ out. As a guy, when I hear someone is urinating blood, I naturally assume that she's either been punched in the kidney or shanked (those elementary school playgrounds are a lot tougher than you think). Still, I took my cue from my wife's calm and asked how we should proceed.
She took our daughter to the pediatrician where it was declared that she's working a urinary tract infection. Apparently this is more common among the ladies, hence my wife's calm. She gets a prescription and a bottle of cranberry juice, and apparently all will be well.
I'm not sure what the lesson to take from all of this is. I guess it's that every time I get comfortable with the idea that I can handle the whole parenting thing, something shows up and reminds me that I am far from knowing everything I'm going to run up against. I'm just glad I have my lovely wife to supplement my feeble knowledge of this stuff. I mean, I would have found out eventually if I had taken her to the doctor myself.
There's a chance though that I would have shown her how to sharpen the end of a toothbrush and given her the talk about making your enemies suffer so as to not lose street cred first, and I really wanted to save that one until she's at least seven.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
And To Think I Just Cut My Hair Short
As we come up on yet another Valentine's Day, I have decided that I want to work on being romantic. As such, I took advantage of having to wait for the pharmacy to open this morning so I could score more Sudafed and perused the selection of romance novels for sale at the grocery store. Unfortunately, I am saddled with sufficient dignity that I refuse to actually read said novels, so I am forced to base my potential upgrade purely on the covers.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of shirts. Despite popular opinion, women apparently don't really care for a well dressed man. Rather, they long for partially dressed men. Should a man choose to wear a shirt, that shirt should be unbuttoned at least down to his navel. What really struck me about this was that the other clothing worn was irrelevant. If, for example, you are a vampire prowling around on a damp summer evening (which is apparently sexy despite the fact that it's probably going to end with someone getting eaten) and you decide to throw on a trench coat to ward off the evening chill, you're not supposed to take the time to put a shirt on. Not a sartorial decision I would make, but I guess that why I am consistently overlooked in People's sexiest man alive issue. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that George Clooney probably constantly has a cold from going about half dressed all the time.
Okay, so I have to stop wearing so many shirts. I'm not really comfortable with that, but with dieting and exercise, I suppose I could learn to adapt. The real issue is that all the open shirts reveal the same thing - men who seem to completely lack body hair. I'm not sure what women have against chest hair, but on the novels I was looking at, there was nary a hair on the ten or fifteen bare chests I saw. Bizarre. I think I'll wait for an actual request from my good lady wife before I commit to the epic waxing that this would require.
The next big change, again based on the covers, is my demeanor. I try to be pretty laid back, and rely a lot on my sense of humor. Apparently this is a mistake. The key to being romantic is glowering. Fortunately for me, I've actually been working on this. I recently became aware of the fact that when I look at myself in the mirror, I tend to flex my jaw and narrow my eyes, probably due to subliminal training of mall posters and the very novels I'm referring to here. That or I'm angry with myself and, sometime in the near future, will bust out and kick my own ass. Only time will tell. Either way I need to start expressing such a dark demeanor to my lovely wife, as it is apparently very romantic.
Finally, I have another issue with my wardrobe. When shopping, I have, in the past, consistently chosen pants. Apparently this is a mistake, and I should have by now purchased several kilts. At least two of the covers featured long-haired Scotsman standing boldly in their kilts (and no shirt of course). I recall this coming up in The Thornbirds, but wrote it off at time. Clearly this was a mistake as it would seem that women find this romantic. After all, someone probably researches this stuff and writes based on that, right? Last I checked, sheep don't read, so someone must dig the kilt look.
So there you go fellas. I have done the research required to help shape us all into the romantic ideal that our women desire. We just need to shape ourselves into gloomy, kilt-wearing, freshly waxed, blousally challenged dreamboats.
Yeah...I think I'm going to just go with buying flowers or something.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of shirts. Despite popular opinion, women apparently don't really care for a well dressed man. Rather, they long for partially dressed men. Should a man choose to wear a shirt, that shirt should be unbuttoned at least down to his navel. What really struck me about this was that the other clothing worn was irrelevant. If, for example, you are a vampire prowling around on a damp summer evening (which is apparently sexy despite the fact that it's probably going to end with someone getting eaten) and you decide to throw on a trench coat to ward off the evening chill, you're not supposed to take the time to put a shirt on. Not a sartorial decision I would make, but I guess that why I am consistently overlooked in People's sexiest man alive issue. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that George Clooney probably constantly has a cold from going about half dressed all the time.
Okay, so I have to stop wearing so many shirts. I'm not really comfortable with that, but with dieting and exercise, I suppose I could learn to adapt. The real issue is that all the open shirts reveal the same thing - men who seem to completely lack body hair. I'm not sure what women have against chest hair, but on the novels I was looking at, there was nary a hair on the ten or fifteen bare chests I saw. Bizarre. I think I'll wait for an actual request from my good lady wife before I commit to the epic waxing that this would require.
The next big change, again based on the covers, is my demeanor. I try to be pretty laid back, and rely a lot on my sense of humor. Apparently this is a mistake. The key to being romantic is glowering. Fortunately for me, I've actually been working on this. I recently became aware of the fact that when I look at myself in the mirror, I tend to flex my jaw and narrow my eyes, probably due to subliminal training of mall posters and the very novels I'm referring to here. That or I'm angry with myself and, sometime in the near future, will bust out and kick my own ass. Only time will tell. Either way I need to start expressing such a dark demeanor to my lovely wife, as it is apparently very romantic.
Finally, I have another issue with my wardrobe. When shopping, I have, in the past, consistently chosen pants. Apparently this is a mistake, and I should have by now purchased several kilts. At least two of the covers featured long-haired Scotsman standing boldly in their kilts (and no shirt of course). I recall this coming up in The Thornbirds, but wrote it off at time. Clearly this was a mistake as it would seem that women find this romantic. After all, someone probably researches this stuff and writes based on that, right? Last I checked, sheep don't read, so someone must dig the kilt look.
So there you go fellas. I have done the research required to help shape us all into the romantic ideal that our women desire. We just need to shape ourselves into gloomy, kilt-wearing, freshly waxed, blousally challenged dreamboats.
Yeah...I think I'm going to just go with buying flowers or something.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
For My Next Trick, I'll Pull A Kidney Out Of My...Wait...What?
It's been a while since I brought you any truly bizarre news around here (yesterday didn't count - dammit, people are hurting out there), so let's rectify that today. According to the recent news, in an effort to make kidney donation less invasive, doctors successfully removed a donor's kidney through her vagina. Apparently, it heals faster and there is no visible scar ( or at least it isn't visible to anyone not packing a speculum).
As usual, what I really want to hear is the brainstorming session that came up with this:
Hmm. Well, I suppose if it convinces someone to donate that otherwise wouldn't, great. What throws me is this excerpt from another article on the subject:
You know what, if I was considering donating anything, and the doctor involved suggested that it might be better to remove the needed organ through my anus, I'll be out the door faster that George W. Bush at someone else's inauguration. I don't care about scar tissue or the pain involved. You are not pulling anything out of my heiny that was not previously a food product. That I ate no less.
And I'd still look damned fine in a bikini.
As usual, what I really want to hear is the brainstorming session that came up with this:
"I want to donate a kidney, but not if it's going to ruin bikini season."
"Well, what if we pulled your kidney out through your hoo-hah?"
"Oh, well that's different. Let's do this thing."
Hmm. Well, I suppose if it convinces someone to donate that otherwise wouldn't, great. What throws me is this excerpt from another article on the subject:
Dr. Anthony Kalloo, the director of the Division of Gastroenterology at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, has revealed that the operation conducted on January 29 was one of a family of new surgical procedures called natural orifice translumenal endoscopic surgeries (NOTES), which use a natural body opening to remove organs and tissue.
The pioneer of NOTES has also revealed that the most common openings used are the mouth, anus and vagina.
You know what, if I was considering donating anything, and the doctor involved suggested that it might be better to remove the needed organ through my anus, I'll be out the door faster that George W. Bush at someone else's inauguration. I don't care about scar tissue or the pain involved. You are not pulling anything out of my heiny that was not previously a food product. That I ate no less.
And I'd still look damned fine in a bikini.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Once Again, Seinfeld Proves Prophetic
In hard economic times, it's easy to forget that there are people out there who have troubles worse than your own. Today, I was reminded of a group of people who suffer quietly, a group who lives with unnecessary shame and degradation because of a society that puts too much pressure on looks. Even worse, this affliction affects only men, a group who is traditionally branded as "having it easy" because with age comes a supposed dashing maturity. Unfortunately, for millions, it's not so easy.
I am referring, of course, to Flappy Old Hootie syndrome, or FOH.
Once thought to be contained to areas of Florida and Southern California, it is now known that FOH strikes one out of every three men over 50*. These men have to hide their shame beneath baggy sweatshirts or multicolored sweaters, always fearing the discovery of their droopping moobs. Fortunately, the tireless work of the paparazzi has now made it public knowledge that even the manliest of men are likely to succumb to FOH.
So why is FOH such a difficult thing for men to deal with? Well, the fact is that while much attention is paid to the effects of media on the way women view themselves, little is said about the same thing with men. The truth is that men are faced with the same barrage of images that women face. Young, fit men lounging on beaches (including the American President), musclebound wrestlers oiled up and flexing, action stars tearing their shirts open, revealing their bulging, perfectly formed chests all put unrealistic expectations on our aging male population**.
Fortunately, some celebrities have stepped forward to aid in the cause. Even Ricardo Montalban, prior to his recent passing, confessed regret in agreeing to wear the prosthetic chest as Kahn in the second Star Trek film. He acknowledged the fact that it put unfair pressure on the already self-conscious nerd crowd to hide their FOH, an affliction Montalban himself lived with***.
Fortunately, there is hope. Huge advances have been made in the field of pectoral implants. Also, some cultures have begun to accept men's needs, and are now showing the support required. What's really needed, though, is public acknowledgment that FOH is a natural part of aging, and nothing to be ashamed of. Our older generation needs to be empowered to throw off their jerseys and flannel and proudly declare, "I am a man with flappy, old hooties, and I will not be ashamed anymore!".
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do a %#$@load of push ups.
*Facts quoted here are completely made up, and should be taken at least as seriously as any you might hear from, say, a talk radio pundit.
**Did that come off as a little gay? It did, didn't it?
***These statements are also false, and meant in jest. We here at DLOG have the utmost respect for Montalban, and hope that these statements are taken for the humor intended and will lead to neither lawsuits from his family or an ass kicking from William Shatner.
I am referring, of course, to Flappy Old Hootie syndrome, or FOH.
Once thought to be contained to areas of Florida and Southern California, it is now known that FOH strikes one out of every three men over 50*. These men have to hide their shame beneath baggy sweatshirts or multicolored sweaters, always fearing the discovery of their droopping moobs. Fortunately, the tireless work of the paparazzi has now made it public knowledge that even the manliest of men are likely to succumb to FOH.
So why is FOH such a difficult thing for men to deal with? Well, the fact is that while much attention is paid to the effects of media on the way women view themselves, little is said about the same thing with men. The truth is that men are faced with the same barrage of images that women face. Young, fit men lounging on beaches (including the American President), musclebound wrestlers oiled up and flexing, action stars tearing their shirts open, revealing their bulging, perfectly formed chests all put unrealistic expectations on our aging male population**.
Fortunately, some celebrities have stepped forward to aid in the cause. Even Ricardo Montalban, prior to his recent passing, confessed regret in agreeing to wear the prosthetic chest as Kahn in the second Star Trek film. He acknowledged the fact that it put unfair pressure on the already self-conscious nerd crowd to hide their FOH, an affliction Montalban himself lived with***.
Fortunately, there is hope. Huge advances have been made in the field of pectoral implants. Also, some cultures have begun to accept men's needs, and are now showing the support required. What's really needed, though, is public acknowledgment that FOH is a natural part of aging, and nothing to be ashamed of. Our older generation needs to be empowered to throw off their jerseys and flannel and proudly declare, "I am a man with flappy, old hooties, and I will not be ashamed anymore!".
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do a %#$@load of push ups.
*Facts quoted here are completely made up, and should be taken at least as seriously as any you might hear from, say, a talk radio pundit.
**Did that come off as a little gay? It did, didn't it?
***These statements are also false, and meant in jest. We here at DLOG have the utmost respect for Montalban, and hope that these statements are taken for the humor intended and will lead to neither lawsuits from his family or an ass kicking from William Shatner.
Monday, February 2, 2009
If You Read This In The Next Twenty Minutes, You Can Read It Again Totally For Free
As someone who doesn't watch a ton of television, I get to avoid a lot of commercials. Nevertheless, I am of course familiar with Billy Mays, the huckster of such products as Orange Glo and OxiClean, the latter of which has saved countless outfits that my offspring has attempted to destroy. Billy, with his endless enthusiasm and clean cut look, has come to be someone I listen to, someone who I will almost trust when he's pushing a product.
Just look how happy he is, and this is over an OxiClean Ball thing. I don't get that excited for my birthday, and I %#$@ing love my birthday.
There is, however, a new act in town, and I think he may be on to something. I refer to one Vince Offer, the man who initially pushed the ShamWow, and now can be seen shilling the SlapChop. Vince brings something new to the game. He talks fast. He moves around too much. He acts like you're a shmoe for having not ordered yet. I listen for about five seconds before I know you can't trust him.
But I still listen.
Have a look at the man selling the SlapChop. It's such a load. All of your troubles will melt away now that you can...I don't know. Cut stuff I guess.
I love the contrast between these two guys. Mays is the sort of person you can count on. You would call him for advice. He would help you move or install a toilet. He's someone you could ask about taxes or the best car to buy. You would trust your kids with him.
If I needed to call someone from jail, however, I'm guessing that Offer is the guy who would have the necessary knowledge.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to cast aspersions on the guys character necessarily. I'm just thinking he'd be more fun to go to the bar with. He knows where you can get a good burger at two thirty in the morning. He's the guy you want running co-op in Halo. He's funnier. I mean come on, the guy worked the phrase, "You're gonna love my nuts." into a nationally run commercial, and don't tell me it was an accident. That was art.
Anyway, I look forward to seeing if his brand of hucksterism will catch on. His act is so ridiculously transparent that one has to assume that it's intentional. I wonder at what point he and Billy will be competing for sponsors.
What I really wonder, though, is who would Ron Popeil pass his torch (or Showtime Rotisserie) to.
Just look how happy he is, and this is over an OxiClean Ball thing. I don't get that excited for my birthday, and I %#$@ing love my birthday.
There is, however, a new act in town, and I think he may be on to something. I refer to one Vince Offer, the man who initially pushed the ShamWow, and now can be seen shilling the SlapChop. Vince brings something new to the game. He talks fast. He moves around too much. He acts like you're a shmoe for having not ordered yet. I listen for about five seconds before I know you can't trust him.
But I still listen.
Have a look at the man selling the SlapChop. It's such a load. All of your troubles will melt away now that you can...I don't know. Cut stuff I guess.
I love the contrast between these two guys. Mays is the sort of person you can count on. You would call him for advice. He would help you move or install a toilet. He's someone you could ask about taxes or the best car to buy. You would trust your kids with him.
If I needed to call someone from jail, however, I'm guessing that Offer is the guy who would have the necessary knowledge.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to cast aspersions on the guys character necessarily. I'm just thinking he'd be more fun to go to the bar with. He knows where you can get a good burger at two thirty in the morning. He's the guy you want running co-op in Halo. He's funnier. I mean come on, the guy worked the phrase, "You're gonna love my nuts." into a nationally run commercial, and don't tell me it was an accident. That was art.
Anyway, I look forward to seeing if his brand of hucksterism will catch on. His act is so ridiculously transparent that one has to assume that it's intentional. I wonder at what point he and Billy will be competing for sponsors.
What I really wonder, though, is who would Ron Popeil pass his torch (or Showtime Rotisserie) to.
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