Painted With Cow's Feet, or Hoof Arted

One of my co-workers today was imparting upon me a family tale whereby one of his young relatives updated the time-honored classic "He who smelt it dealt it" with the more colloquial "The smeller is the feller". While a notable addition to the many variations that currently exist, I take issue with the rule itself. In fact, upon consideration, I think it's almost completely invalid.

Presumably, the rule is based on the classic gaseous misdirect, whereby the farter, waiting until the correct moment, casts the blame of the noxious fumes filling the area on a sitter nearby. While this does undoubtedly occur, I think it's really relegated to the area of sport among brothers, where the attempt is done not so much to hide guilt as to embarrass the accused.

Upon consideration, there are only two scenarios where a standard emission would potentially be blamed on another, and I really believe that in both cases it's the exception rather than the rule, the first case being the audible escapee. I'll give you an example. I heard an oft repeated tale in the circle of friends my parents sometimes hung around with that told of a man who, during a wedding, made the grave error of allowing a particularly noisy fart escape during a quiet moment on the ceremony. Thinking quickly, he promptly turned to his wife sitting next to him and accusingly said her name, as if appalled. Now, this is obviously a variation of the rule, and probably done for comedic purposes (that, or he had a really comfy couch at home), but really, how many would be so bold to take such actions?

The second, and more common, occurrence is the release of a traditional SBD in a crowded area. My favorite example of this is the theater or lecture hall, where people are crowded into rows of chairs. It is in this case, a case more closely related to the smelt-it-dealt-it adage in question, where the whole thing falls apart. An experienced practitioner of such deviltry will quickly point out that the correct reaction upon realizing that the rush of hot wind was indeed full of foul vapors is no reaction at all. Rather than accusing someone, it is best to wait it out. If you're lucky, the heaviness of the funk will bring the whole mess to ground level before it can spread to those around you. If the fallout does, in fact, begin to cause gasps, cries, eye watering, etc. in those around you, it is best to not be the first to react, instead reacting second or even third, thus maintaining the illusion that the wind is breaking from another direction.

This is all of course simply conjecture, as I have no first hand (cheek?) experience in such things myself. If I were to, however, I would recommend owning up to your own stink. Do not attempt to feign ignorance of what has occurred, which can lead to a habitual accusing and even shameful incidents such as my sister attempting the whole "Who farted?" routine when she and I were the only parties present (schmuck). Rather, be proud of the miracle that is your body, and the fact that it has the power to draw breath, think thoughts, create works, and clear a thirty-foot diameter circle in a crowded theater.

Just don't do it around me, 'kay?

And Can Someone Tell Superman That the Underwear Go On the Inside?

At one point I had been overthinking the bizarre circumstances surrounding superhero creation, but I had glossed over the other thing that stops me from taking most superhero comics seriously. Then someone posted this article, and I was brutally reminded that even if I could stomach the idea that every single thing that happens results in a superpower, what happens next is worse. I mean, you have just discovered that you have evolved into something more than your fellow men, and whether you decide to use this power for good or evil, one thing is almost certain:

You're going shopping for tights.



Seriously, this is where a whole world of WTF opens up to me. Why the hell would anyone outside of a circus choose to don brightly colored spandex? I mean, you could wear anything, right? So where do the tights come in? If I decided to fight crime or become an arch villain, and I felt the need for a costume to hide my identity, I'm thinking I'd go with something ninja-like. More Mortal Kombat and less Peter Pan.

So then I start wondering why they started with these things in the first place. I mean, it can't be the intimidation factor. Well, I suppose if your power is having a huge package it could, but I'm pretty sure when Thor refers to his hammer, he's being literal. I can never buy the whole "well, the tight clothing means they don't get caught up in things" line, because half of them pin on a cape.

And then it hits me: the people who write these things think that deep down, everyone wants to dress this way. They think that it's only the intimidation of peer pressure and social morays that keeps me from showing up for a day of programming wearing a purple spandex jumpsuit with gold boots and a cape is the fact that, without superpowers, I would most likely get my ass kicked. Otherwise, I'd triumphantly walk in and plunk my fabulous self down for eight hours of coding, tapping my gold boots to MC Frontalot on my iPhone. This is, of course, ridiculous.

It's what keeps me from dressing like Guybrush Threepwood.

Super Mario Superstar Will Probably Rock Though

You know, no one is happier than me that video games have become mainstream entertainment now. I'm far from one of the annoying purists who claim that games are too easy now trying to appeal to a mass audience (play the hard ones - on hard if you really want to) or that too many throwaway games are made just for cash (an issue I continue to cleverly avoid by playing only older, thoroughly reviewed games), but once in a while, I see something that makes me a little afraid.

Today, that something is Grease: the Video Game.



No, it's not a simulator where you butter pans. (You thought I was going to make a dirty joke there didn't you? Cheeky monkeys.) Instead, someone thinks that there is a portion of the market who doesn't want to pretend that they are a hero fighting villainous hordes or a puzzle solving pirate. No, they think these people really long to pretend that they are John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John, before he got all hooked on Scientology and she helped nearly single-handedly destroy the movie musical (not to mention Gene Kelley's pristine career) with a steaming pile of Xanadu, although I will admit that at least Xanadu gave us good songs, whereas Scientology seems to mostly result in conspiracy theories.

Anyway, I have to admit I'm a little thrown by the idea of taking up a Wii-mote and microphone and belting out "You're The One That I Want". It's not fear of public performance (although that particular tune, like so many others, is reserved for moments when I'm alone in my car). Rather, I'm concerned that this could become a trend, the birth of genre if you will. People will forgo the latest first person shooter for Webber's Phantom of the Opera. Piles of adventure games will collect dust while shelves reserved for Les Miserables lay empty, homes now full of the lamenting wails of downtrodden Frenchies, most likely off key.

Even more horrifying, this is for the Wii, a system that prides itself on it's wholesome, fun-for-the-whole-family image. That's all well and good but let's not forget that not all musicals are concerned with those same values. When we get to the point where someone put's together Hair: the Video Game Experience, I'm thinking that they're going to lose their E for Everyone rating, not to mention the suffering that will occur when someone walks in on Grandma singing The "Age of Aquarius" in the buff.

And thus concludes another successful "Dangerously Low On Grog Makes You Picture Something You Can Never Un-Picture" Wednesday.

The Programmer's Lament

Today, I'm going to rant, and I'm going to rant about programming. If you don't care about programming (and really, why would you?), I advise skipping off to look at something else. I'm pretty sure I heard something about a famous singer dying. Maybe someone is still talking about that somewhere.

Okay, so once in a while, a decision is made to use a third party tool. For those who don't know, a third party tool is something a company buys from another company to speed up software development. Let's say, just for a random example off the top of my head, someone makes a really cool grid control. It does all sorts of things that people would like to do with grid controls that would probably take a long time to program yourself. Well, your company shells out some cash, and then you get to download and work with that grid control.

This is all fine and well, except sometimes, the third party who provides the control forgets a step. They code up the control. They do some testing to make sure it does things. They even offer some nice tech support. What they forget is that at some point, someone should have WRITTEN SOME %@$#ING DOCUMENTATION TELLING YOU HOW TO USE THE GODDAMNED THING. Otherwise, it may be that a skilled, competent (not to mention strikingly handsome) developer, not unlike myself, might find that they are pissing away weeks of their life trying to figure out where the button is that makes the control do all of the neat things that they claim it will do.

My favorite situation is when this is brought up and someone points out that there are support forums. Again, for the uninitiated, support forums are where the suckers who purchase these products go to read questions from other suckers who purchased these products in the hopes that the previous suckers ran into the same issues that they are having. It's a gamble to be sure, but if you're willing to slog through page after page of almost-but-not-quite-the-same issues, you might find a support person who at least gives a hint to the solution to your own problem.

Anyway, I've been looking at the same %$@# for weeks now. I've sent off support requests. I've been ignored in forums. I've gotten to the point where I've downloaded their source code to look for what might be causing my problems. Unfortunately, as often happens with the decision to use such third part components, I've invested so much time into this, I no longer have enough left to simply abandon them and code the whole thing myself, which I believe probably would have been a better way to go at this point. So I have no better option that to continue scanning the things, hoping that understanding will suddenly occur.

On the bright side, I get paid no matter what I spend my time doing, so I suppose I'm still winning. Yay me?

The One Time I Did, She Came Home Whistling the Harlem Globetrotters Theme

Early last week, I heard a familiar sounds coming from my car, a sound that indicates that my front brake pads were not long for this world, and they were thinking about taking my rotors with them. Now I've replaced these things myself, assisted by my in-laws (and by "assisted by" I mean I stood there and watched and pretended to be helpful), but my time is currently at such a premium that I prefer to just pay someone to make my problems go away. Fortunately, I have found a mechanic in town who I almost trust, particularly when compared to the place I went to before I moved.

The first time I took the car in, there were a couple of issues, including the check engine light being on. When they called to say what needed to be repaired, they told me that the catalytic converter caused the light to come on. I braced myself for the incoming request for money and asked what it was going to cost. The girl on the phone said, "Oh you don't need to replace it. It's just not running as efficiently as it could be, so it's going to turn the light on again later, but it'll still work for a long time". I actually asked her to repeat it, as I had never had a mechanic suggest that I could actively ignore a problem where money could have been involved. My previous mechanic had treated each issue as if a decision to ignore it was akin to signing a death warrant for my family and myself.

As if this was not enough, they avoid my second pet peeve about the mechanic - the random suggestion. I take my car in for brake pads and rotors, and the new place calls me and tells me what it will cost to replace the brake pads and rotors. The last place would too, it's just that then they would tell me that while they were looking, they also discovered about several hundred dollars in completely unrelated work that "you're going to want to get taken care of soon". How they could tell my serpentine belt was going to fail by taking my brakes apart I could never figure out, but then I'm not a professional mechanic.

Finally, the silliest and yet most annoying thing the old place did and the new one doesn't do was to %#$@ with my seats. Every time I went to pick up my car, there was a piece of paper on the floor and the driver's seat was pushed as far back as it would go. Maybe there is some correlation between the skills required for fixing cars and being an NBA star that I'm unaware of, but I find it hard to believe that every single time they finished working on my car, Wilt Chamberlain was the one who parked it in the ready-for-pickup lot.



Just to be safe, though, I never did sent my lovely wife to pick up the car.

I Promise I'll Only Use My New Hosing Powers For Good. Mostly.

Previously on DLOG, I discussed that we were going to replace the patio and considered some of the interesting things we might find when we dig up the current one. Well, we're making appointments and talking to landscapers, which means this is going to go down fairly soon, and I've accepted the fact that what we're most likely to find under the patio is dirt.

Once this new patio is built, however, I get to enter into an exciting new world of furniture purchases. Having never had a patio before, we are obviously lacking in anything to sit upon one. So now we get to figure out just what kind of stuff we want on our new space. I've been giving this some thought, and in addition to the standard umbrella-covered table, I have some suggestions:

• Comfortable chair for reading and playing PSP


• Patio cooler (this one has everything but a cabana boy)


• A cabana boy


• Patio-mounted Super-Soaker capable of knocking a full grown adult of a bike


• High quality telescope (good for both educational purposes and neighbors who live more than a block away)


• Mounted cannons (I suppose replicas would do, but fakes won't help ward off zombies now will they?)


• Bat signal with interchangeable symbols (Batman is great, but who wouldn't want to use low cloud cover to remind everyone to have a nice day?)


• A moat with a drawbridge (I'd add sharks, but I would just have to clean up after them)


• Stone gargoyles (but only because I don't think my lovely wife will ever let me put them on the roof)


• Nice flag posts (for showing patriotism/declaring war on the neighborhood/displaying current zombie alert levels)

I'm sure I'll think of more (plus my lovely wife probably has some ideas as well), but I think that would be a good start anyway, plus I've got other things to worry about. Having resigned myself to the idea that nothing of interest will be found upon digging up the current patio, I feel it is my responsibility to take this opportunity to bury something myself in an effort to keep future generations as weird as I can. My current favorite idea: a box containing a fully-intact frog skeleton, complete with tiny top hat and cane.



Hello my baby indeed.

Even the Ones I've Seen Pictures Of. No, Especially the Ones I've Seen Pictures Of

As I mentioned in the long, long ago when I started this thing, I like to write. Unfortunately, my efforts at fiction have thus far been found to be lacking. Admittedly, I only submitted a few stories, but it's a time consuming hobby to collect rejection letters and my fragile ego decided that my time would be better spent elsewhere. So, I write this instead, finding my talents more suited to humor than fiction.

There is one case where I am lured into using my writing talents outside of this site. See, I cannot back down from a challenge. Well, that's not exactly true. I can happily back down from a challenge if there's nothing to be gained or I think it's silly. This is what saved me from that let's-see-who-can-eat-the-most-pickled-pig's-feet-and-the-winner-gets-a-kick-in-the-junk debacle. (I find most challenges that start with a drinking contest are best avoided anyway). However, if there is a prize, it's a pretty sure bet I'll at least look into it.

This is what won my my beloved "durr" cup, as pictured below. A simple blurb writing contest for Halforum.com (which is where about 75% of my readers hail from - hey guys), and I found myself a prize winner. More importantly though, someone outside of this space and people who had proofread things for me had shown approval of my writing. Sure it was just the about us hunk, but still, it was a nice feeling.



Well, they've started another writing contest, but this time it's fiction for a bigger prize, and it's messing with me a bit. I have an entry. I don't think it's bad. It fulfills all of the contest requirements. The only problem is that I'm really weird about showing it to anyone. So I haven't had it proofread for criticism, and I'm submitting it Friday. Today I bit the bullet and asked for help from my friends on Facebook, but part of me is hoping no one replies. Oddly, I have no qualms submitting it to people I've only met online.

I guess that's the benefit of believing deep down that all everyone else on the internet is an artificial construct created by the Government to keep me distracted while stealing all my good ideas.

Big Brother Just Threw Up a Little

Yesterday, my good friends at Slashdot pointed me to a story about the city of Lancaster, Pennysylvania installing a boatload of cameras to deter crime. The story is mostly notable because it's a citizen's group watching the cameras and not "the man", but it gets the same response as the similar system they put in the UK. Specifically, people get all big-brother-is-watching, invasion-of-personal-rights about it. Personally, I'm not concerned as I see a certain amount of inevitability to it, but having given it some thought now, I see a pitfall to the whole system that could be truly catastrophic.



Sure, I can see the merit of those whining about the loss of liberties. Personally, I'm not doing anything I care about them watching. What's more, these things are always out on the street, so it's not like you're not in plain view of anyone walking by anyway. Seems to me the cameras aren't going to see anything that anyone else on the street was going to see, which is precisely where I become concerned.

See, instead of people losing liberty, I'm actually afraid of liberty being gained. Consider the following: what is the main difference between a constantly running camera and the regular flow of strangers in the average sity street? It's that with strangers, you know when they're watching, whereas with the cameras you have to assume that you're being watched all the time, which is theoretically going to stop the guy next to you from stabbing you in the head with a pencil to steal your pack of Mentos.



Why does this worry me? Well, knowing that eventually the prying eyes of strangers will go away, giving us a moment of privacy, means that we reserve certain activities until no one is around. If people start to think that they're always being watched, this decorum will be abandoned as hopeless. This means that all the little things that we like to pretend that people don't do (even though we know damned well that they probably do) will cease to be done in a clandestine manner, instead becoming a public performance.

You guys, we're talking about a serious breakdown of basic societal conventions here. No longer is that guy at the bus stop going to wait until you turn away before doing a nasal exploration and excavation. Gone are the days of the lady in line before you at a hot dog cart waiting to take care of that inappropriate itch until after she has made her purchase and found cover. We're facing the possibility of our major cities devolving into nose picking, butt scratching, wind breaking, wall whizzing, finger sniffing dens of disgustingness, and I for one want no part of it. If that doesn't worry you, consider this: the entire ritual dance that is currently being performed in an effort to fix a wedgie discreetly will be lost to our society forever.

At the very least, we need to begin filming instances of the latter every chance we get, if only for historical and socialogical purposes.

You Ever Accidentally Sit On The Remote? Well, That Just Got a Whole Lot Weirder.

Today, I've found another brilliant new technology, and I have to speak on it. Also, I'm going to use the word 'penis'. Repeatedly.

According to the link here (and my research has not unveiled it as false yet), Panasonic is experimenting with a gel remote that "stiffens" when it's used. My paraphrasing won't do it justice, so here's the line from the site:

Constructed of a soft, flesh-like gel, the remote appears cold when off. Once turned on, however, it seems to come to life. A soft light emanates somewhere from within as the center of the device begins to slowly rise and fall, mimicking the tranquil motions of breath. Left undisturbed, the remote will slumber peacefully. But should a human hand approach, sensors inside alert it to the imminent touch. It stops breathing, grows rigid - the light from within is extinguished.

And here it is:


Ordinarily, I would write this off as a joke. I mean surely no right-minded individual was looking at a remote control and thought to themselves, "Well sure it's useful, but how could I make it more like my penis?". So that means it penis-like qualities are accidental, which I would not have believed possible, but having watched the whole tea-bagging debacle unfold, I suppose my faith in human ignorance of double entendre has been restored to new heights.

Then it hits me that no, this isn't accidental at all. Someone in marketing has finally figured out a way to make men buy anything. Do you need a new remote? Of course not. You've probably got three you don't use already. But what if we can make it work just like your penis? Well, at the very least you have my attention.

This could lead to a whole new world of products. Penis flashlights. Penis pens. Penis kitchen utensils. A tool chest full of flaccid gadgets awaiting your firm grip to spring to life. Don't even get me started on the world of possibilities when it comes to the world of weaponry. Aim and fire indeed.

Of course, there is a risk inherent in such a product line (beyond the obvious embarrassment that would occur when you tried to show it off only to discover the batteries had died, leaving you unable to perform your channel changing). One of the great battles in any household is who is the keeper of the remote. In my house, we actually run a two party system, with my lovely wife controlling volume while I run the DVD player, to avoid the issue. Now imagine the battle should we invest in a universal remote of this type. You know how sometimes one of you can make the remote work better than the other one can? What if you had this remote, and somehow she was just better with it?

I would continue, but I've just been informed by the ghost of Sigmund Frued that I've officially taken it too far. There's one more reason I should remember not to leave the Ouija board out.

Assuming the Intelligence/Deliciousness Correlation Holds True, Of Course

This morning, in an effort to not appear as dead to the world as I really am, I made the first of many treks to the office coffee machine. In passing through the dining area, I came across what would ordinarily not even register. In my exhausted state, however, it caught my imagination to the point where I actually felt the need to take the following picture:



Now I've noted my fascination with the idea that office folk will eat any baked goods set before them without question. Never before, however, have I stumbled across found food that sparked my imagination like this. All sort of questions surround this mystery melon.

For starters, did the forsaker of the fruit start out with the intention of doing so? I personally am of the ilk that when I begin eating something, I do so with the intention of completing the job. You won't find a half eaten apple or a partial bag of chips at my desk. If I start it, you can be damned sure I'm going to finish it. That's just how I roll. So I personally would never start a food with the intention of leaving half of it to office vultures.

Still, it's hard for me to imagine the alternative. I mean, who sits down to a melon and, after finishing half of it, looks at the remainder and thinks to themselves, "Man, that was good, but I just don't know if I can eat another half." I mean, it's a melon for Pete's sake. You eat melon in units of chunks or slices (or, if it's something you're comfortable with, balls, although I personally cannot hear someone say "melon baller" without giggling like a schoolgirl). Unless you find yourself lost in the jungle and devoid of sustenance, it is not, of itself, a proper serving size.

Anyway, I left it where I found it, resisting the urge to take a big bite out of it first (my urges get weirder and sillier as sleep is reduced). A little later I discovered that someone had divided it into proper units (chucks), which I could see being a little more tempting. Having brought in my own fruit for lunch, I still just walked by, as coffee is much more effective than melon for staying awake at one's desk.

If it had been half a cake, however, I'd of been on that like zombies on Stephen Hawking.

I Actually Envy "That Kid Who Farted Each Day During Story Time"

This morning, I faced one of those delicate parenting situations that I dislike. The Princess, having successfully dressed and brushed her teeth and whatnot, finished her morning by brushing her hair. All good so far. Then she tried to put a braid in her hair that involved the hair wrap she got at Disney (the thing where they wrap string around a small patch of hair, add a few beads, and then charge you the price of a small, foreign car for it), with the end result making her hair bunch and gather and basically look like that of a wild woman.

Now she was pretty proud of herself, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I could not in good conscience let this go. See, as a youth I was left pretty unaware of anything by way of fashion sense. This is bad, but the fact is that my mother, who was responsible for selecting clothing for me, had some questionable habits, really pushed it into weird territory.

First, my mother had this habit of buying painter pants for me. This alone isn't offensive (although I still think it's odd that I didn't actually own a pair of jeans until late middle school). The issue was that she bought them in colors that do not flatter...well anyone. Serously, I wore plaid pants to my first three years of elementary schools. Multiple kinds of plaid. Plurals of plaid. Years later, when I run into people from that town (it's only that we moved that allowed me to achieve a decent social life), they honestly only remember me as "the kid with the plaid pants". Nice.

Now this alone could be overcome assuming that at some point I took up golf, which is the only socially acceptable excuse for plain pants so far as I can tell, but things got worse. See, she bought most of my clothes from the local Goodwill. I'm not sure why she had an obsession for Goodwill, but she did. As a result, I frequently ended up with an odd assortment of clothes that others had gotten rid of. Oh sure, some of them were disposed of because someone had grown out of them, but some were clearly a decision based on something more fashion oriented. Anyway, it resulted in things like me being the only kid I knew in a used, red Micheal Jackson jacket long after there was even a potential for such a thing to be cool.

So yeah, I feel the need to protect my daughter from this kind of thing. It's not that I want her to think that the way you look is the most important thing in the world. At the same time, it's disingenuous to pretend that you're not going to get judged on it by some people, and just working from my own experience, I can tell you the following is true:



Seriously, it's a wonder I didn't get beat up more often than I did.

Only the Jokes Are Dangerously Cheesy

On numerous occasions, I've taken the opportunity to show off my status as a snack food aficionado. It is with this in mind that I must address a concern. As this issue has reared its ugly head in my own home recently, I can let it go no further.

These are Cheetos:

Cheetos are delicious, crunchy little stems of delight. They only have two flavor variants that I am aware of: Jalapeno and Flaming. Both burn in a good way. (Apparently, in Japan, you can get strawberry and milk chocolate as well. Japan is weird.) They come in two colors, namely the standard bright orange that cannot be found in nature or the Flaming red. If you turned my work keyboard over, a delightful confetti of red and orange Cheeto dust would rain down in a celebration of cheesy goodness. I choose not to do so, but rather keep this as a reserve in case I find myself trapped at work and in need of sustenance during the zombie apocalypse.

Anyway, recently upon being offerred her choice of a snack product to bring home for some celebration, my daughter chose Cheetos. I was, of course, proud, as any American father would be. Tastier than a potato chip, less risky than a random Dorito flavor, not one of those creepy, health-nut veggie chips (blech)...it was a fine choice. Well, almost.

See, what she picked were these:

These are Cheetos only in name and color. Unlike their perfect, crunchy counterparts, these are not acceptable. When you eat one of these, instead of getting a satisfying cruch, you get a dissolving mass of cornmeal that, if chewed, forms a plasticine layer over your teeth, a layer that will only gather in strength should you choose to continue. Eat a handful, and you'll find that your jaw no longer wishes to open, as the layer has begun to weld your teeth shut.

So, just to review, these are Cheetos:


These are packing material:


Any questions?

Walt Disney World: The Short Form

Okay, instead of dragging this out forever, I'm going to shoot out a vacation highlight reel and then move on. So, without further ado (because lord knows I hate it when there's too much ado), I give you my Walt Disney World highlights:

Biggest disappointment: Gay Day at The Magic Kingdom
Considering the brouhaha I had seem from certain church groups online, I expected the park to be like a day-long pride parade full of mesh shirts and tiny disco shorts. Instead, it was just a bunch of people in red shirts. It was a lot like I imagine heaven to be in the Star Trek universe. I went the entire day, and only saw one couple making out under the fireworks, and as they didn't violate the cardinal rule regarding public displays of affection (try not to make out in public if you're ugly), it was largely inoffensive.

Ride most like being on drugs: It's a Small World
Seriously, I went through the whole ride with my jaw hanging open. I still can't really find words to describe how delightfully weird it is. The best I can do is say that when people drop acid, this is what they are hoping to achieve.

Favorite ride: The Haunted Mansion
What can I say? I love me some Haunted Mansion. I went twice, and I loved it both times. This time, I had the added bonus of having someone point out to me that at the back of the pet cemetery outside the mansion, a grave has been erected for Mr. Toad, whose wild ride (the second best ride after the Haunted Mansion when I was five) was refitted for a sadly dull Winnie the Pooh ride in 1998.



Hottest park: Disney's Animal Kingdom
Okay, you would think that a theme park made up like a jungle, complete with tree shade throughout most of the park, would be cooler than it's counterparts. Instead, you get the Animal Kingdom, where the whole place feels twenty degrees hotter than the surrounding area, and half the attractions seem to involve walking paths. We did breakfast, the safari, two air conditioned shows, and watched a parade, and then took off for someplace cooler. Like Hell.

Coolest special event: Star Wars Weekend at Hollywood Studios
This was awesome. Star Wars sets. Stormtroopers patrolling. Chewbacca (what a wookie). The actors who portrayed Boba Fett, Jengo Fett (and countless clones), and the one and only Darth Vader on parade. Very, very nerdcore.

Best character meal: Cinderella's Royal Table
Okay, now the Tusker House Breakfast that we attended to celebrate the Moose's third birthday was cool, and the kids got their pictures with the full set of Mickey, Donald, Goofy, Daisy, and Minnie, but Cinderella's won for two reasons. First, not only did the kids get a great professional picture with Cinderella, but during dinner, there were more characters performing as well. If this wasn't enough, the kids got toys - a princess wand for her, and a sword for him. To emphasize that last point: they gave a freakin' three year old a sword at the dinner table. I would say the highlight of the meal for me was discussing our dietary restriction with the chef, and seeing my son take his little sword and poke the chef right in the junk with it. The fact that I didn't laugh out loud still astounds me.



Best country at Epcot: Germany
Oh sure, I could have gone with Mexico for the food, or America for my country, or Canada for...I don't know, Martin Short I guess. Instead, Germany wins out. It had good chocolate, good beer, and clocks that little, toy people come out. Man those crack me up, especially after the good beer.

Scariest ride: Dumbo
It's a little car with a tiny seat belt, there's not really a door on the outside, and how high you go is typically decided by the kid sitting next to you. %#$@ that noise.

So there you have it. There was more - a lot more, and I'm sure it will come up in time, but overall, it was an excellent trip. Now I just need to get rested up, because Disney is fun, but it leaves you a bit hung over.

Okay, the whiskey probably helps, but mostly, it was Disney.

I'm Going, and Yet I'm Not Going To Go There

As mentioned yesterday, the family and I are headed for Walt Disney World. Well, we're arriving tomorrow, the first week in June. For those that don't know (the only reason I know is that I was clued in by a more Disney savvy co-worker), this is actually a special day annually at the Magic Kingdom park. For tomorrow culminates Gay Days, a whole week of...well, I'm not sure what, and I'll be damned if I'm going into a bunch of research online for it. The line must be drawn somewhere, and I'm still hurting from the dinosaur junk thing.

Seriously though, the bit of looking I did do doesn't concern me much. Apparently Gay Day started as a grass roots effort by a guy named Doug Swallow (assuming that's true, and it's on WikiPedia, so it must be, that is the most unfortunate name that could be associated with such an event). It's not an official Disney thing. The guy wanted to get a day when a bunch of the LGBT community would show up at Disney in red shirts (one would assume that the cross section of the LGBT community and Star Trek fans would have protested, but whatever), just to be seen. It got a lot bigger over the years, and apparently now attracts over 135,000 people. Yikes.

Now, ordinarily this is the part where I would make a bunch of jokes about this, but I'm not going to, and not just because my lovely wife put a hiatus on me making jokes about wearing chaps without pants underneath after an unfortunate indecent on Facebook. No, I'm not going to make jokes because thanks to our good friends in California, that would force me to count myself amongst the haters, and I can't do that. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - once we work past this ridiculous "debate" (it seems I find very few people actually debating about anything), people are going to look back on this controversy of ours the way we look back on segregation. So I, who ordinarily takes the stand that pretty much anyone or anything is open for joking about so long as it's relatively good-natured, is backing off this one time.

I hate to admit it, but this is killing me. This shouldn't really surprise anyone. I'm a big fan of the easy joke, and this whole thing is rife with potential. As stated, however, I will stand resolute. No princess jokes. No Chip and Dale jokes. Nothing. Once in a while, even I feel the need to take a stand.

Just to reassure you all, though, if it was Furry Day at Disney (which, let's face it, actually makes a lot more sense), there would be no mercy shown. &$%#ing freaks.

You There - Laugh At My Joke and Then Get Me a Cup Of Coffee.

So, as I alluded to a couple of days ago, the family and I are going on vacation next week. This was not by choice. Rather, two men in dark suits arrived at our doors, mentioned the ages of our children, noted how much vacation time my wife and I currently had built up (how they knew that I have no idea), and explained that we had nearly exceeded the time allowed until we were due for a family vacation. They handed us a package on Walt Disney World, issued a stern warning about not wanting to have to come back, and left. Through the tinted windows of the car they drove in, I'm pretty sure I could make out someone smoking a cigar in the back seat - someone with two perfectly circular ears sticking out from the top of their head. It was...bizarre.

It was an undeniable fact, however, that with the Princess nearing seven years of age, our family has never managed to go on so much as weekend trip. We have done a couple of day excursions, but that's been it. This isn't because we didn't want to, but rather a side effect of our general schedule. We're lucky to pull off an overnight visit to grandma's house.

Anyway, we saved up and we're going. What's funny is that, when I mention this to people, I feel like I need to explain. What with the economy being what it is, it feels wrong somehow to be going off on a big vacation. The fact that we're in Michigan just makes it worse. Whenever it comes up, I'm always afraid it's going to be followed by someone telling me they just lost their job and their house and their car and they're piling up medical bills and their dog ran away to go live with some family doing better. It hasn't happened yet, but in these times, every conversation has the potential to end as a county song. It's best to be prepared.

So there you have it. Next week, you'll all have to get your fix of general silliness somewhere else. Sorry, but that's what happens when your entire editorial staff consists of one guy waiting for code to build. Maybe I should get an intern. "You - I'll be out next week. Write something funny each day. Mock a celebrity if you can." That would be cool.

Of course I'd have to explain who the new kid sitting at my desk was, but I think I've reached a degree of awesome that justifies an entourage, don't you?

Maybe We Should Exchange Gifts At a Mexican Restaurant

When I was a younger man, I would do the things a younger man is supposed to do when it came to celebrating events with my wife. I would buy gifts or cards or whatever, and give them hoping that she would be pleased. I'll leave it at that, as we like to run a nice PG-13 outfit here, but you all get the idea. There was a reaction that I was hoping for.

I've found that this is still true, but at some point it changed dramatically. I still want my lovely wife to be pleased, obviously, when I send her a note or buy her a gift or whatever, but at some point I set the bar in such a way that has made things kind of difficult. At some point, I found that what I really wanted was to achieve something that seemed totally counter-intuitive to my actual goals.

In essence, I'm not happy until someone cries.

This wouldn't work on me, because depending on my level of exhaustion, an overly sentimental dog food commercial can make me cry. My wife is made of stronger stuff, however, so I can only think of a few occasions where she has broken down on the basis of sentimentality. Each of these that I was the cause of stand out as a total win in my mind.

Of course, it's not always easy, and sometimes it turns out badly. Wrapping gifts in onion skin, for example, didn't work like I thought it would. The time I gave her a bowling ball and "accidentally" dropped it on her foot when handing it to her, likewise, did not give me the same thrill. Let's not even discuss the I-got-you-some-jewelry-and-oops-the-pepper-spray-misfired incident. That one landed my on the couch for a week, despite the fact that she really seemed to like the jewelry.

So yeah, it's not easy, but it's something to strive for. I guess I have to stick to the traditional methods of actually giving thought to the gifts I purchase. I'll also still be stuck reading each and every card in the Anniversary section of the local Hallmark store until I find something that suitably expresses my fondness for my lovely wife, or, giving up that quest (it's easy to eliminate anything that rhymes, but after that I have to think), actually write something on my own.

It's a good thing I found the one woman in the world who's worth all this effort. Happy anniversary, love.

Baby, It's Time To Fight Like a Cow Again

My wife has given me many things. Support, love, two beautiful children...there are too many thing to count here in a simple entry. She has effected my life in ways I could have never predicted, and now, so close to our anniversary, one of those things she has shared with me has returned, and I could not be happier.

For it was my lovely wife who introduced me to Monkey Island.

I had always been a gamer. Atari 2600, Nintendo Entertainment System, Odyssey, Sega Genesis...I was in there. My parents, however, never owned a computer, so I had not experienced anything beyond the standard shoot-em-up, collect the coins, save the princess/skate park/world type games. I didn't know there was anything else.

When I got older and managed to finally get a PC, my lovely wife asked if I had ever played The Secret of Monkey Island. I had no idea what she was talking about, so we scored a copy and ran through it. It was, in a word, amazing. It was everything I loved about games and didn't know it. It had puzzles. It had humor everywhere. It had monkeys. It had a story that actually made sense. (Seriously, after the third castle the princess wasn't in, why didn't Mario take a step back and ask for directions to the correct one? Men.)

After that, I was into anything with an action menu. Loom. Grim Fandango. Total Throttle. Sam and Max Hit the Road. The 7th Guest and The 11th Hour. Above all, of course, the next three installments in the Monkey Island series. These games are the reason that even hack-and-slash action games have to have at least half a story to hold my interest. The bar was set, and it was set high.

Now, after years of pining for a return to the Tri-Island area, I'm finally getting back in, for they've returned. As if a return wasn't enough, they're back with a vengeance. I get the fifth installment, Tales of Monkey Island, but I get a completely new version of the original Secret of Monkey Island, now full of voice-over goodness. I'm not kidding when I say that I was giddy at this development.



So it is with great satisfaction that I look forward to putting in my first ever pre-orders to ensure that, come July, my lovely wife and I will sit down at the computer and spend time with old friends. Once again we'll help Guybrush Threepwood overcome the vile LeChuck. Once again we'll seek advice from the Voodoo Lady, get swindled by Stan, and convince someone that there is a three-headed monkey behind them. Once again, we will seek out swag, for no swag means no grog, and ladies and gentlemen, we are getting dangerously low on grog. And for all of this, I owe my lovely wife a debt of eternal gratitude.

Oh, and the kids and the love and support and stuff. Those are nice too.

Eventually, My Knowledge Of Programming Will Save The Day. I Hope.

There are times when I, as someone who doesn't eat meat or dairy, have it a lot easier than others. For example, let's say you're planning a trip to a major theme park. Most of you would have to face a tough decision of where you would like to eat each meal. For my family and I, we simply have to identify the one place that serves something we can eat, and we're locked in.

Okay, there's a hint of sarcasm there. In reality, this is another one of those areas where we're kind of punished for not eating like everyone else. The fact is, we have to spend an entire day planning out where and when we're going to eat, scouring online menus, just to ensure that our kids aren't going to go hungry at these places. (Well, my lovely wife had to anyway, which we owe her for tremendously). What's awesome is that she actually could do that. All of this information is online, so instead of waiting until we get there to figure it all out, she can plan it out now.

At if that wasn't enough, she actually found instances where we have options other than the veggie burger. Don't get me wrong - I love me some veggie burgers, and appreciate the fact that I occasionally get to eat at a restaurant without special ordering something (or worse, just letting them put the cheese on it and suffering the inevitably musical consequences later). When you're facing, say, six days of two veggie burgers a day however...well, options are nice. I mean beyond condiments, that is.

Anyway, she was very successful, and we owe her a debt of gratitude for taking the time to do it. I'm not someone who's big on preparations and whatnot, so I would have likely spent half our trip wandering from restaurant to restaurant until I found one with an item we could order. This leads to crankiness as people get hungry and tired of waiting to eat, and I want to avoid as much cranky on vacation as possible. Now, I get to actually take happy kids on rides and stuff.

The lesson: my vacations, not unlike my life in general, are so much better when I leave the planning to someone more qualified.

It's One Of The Reasons I'm Afraid To Watch King Kong, Actually

Yesterday, as promised, I served as an escort for a field trip to the Toledo Zoo for the day. I am, as usual, glad I did so for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I really don't trust other people, particularly when it comes to taking care of my kids. The bigger reason, though, is that I freaking love going to the zoo.

The first thing I observed is that, like most trips to the zoo, it largely involved watching animals sleeping. Take the lions for example. Everyone always get's excited to see the lions, and when you finally get to them, what you see is a small pile of lions taking a nap on a rock. If you're lucky, one of them might roll over. When looking for entertainment, one should never count on a cat unless you have a way to taunt it. Just one I want to go in there with a little remote controlled car made to look like a rabbit.

Nevertheless, the whole zoo scene never fails to fascinate me. I love to look at the animals that are actually conscious and try to figure out what they're thinking about. As someone who thinks almost entirely in words, it boggles my mind to try and even consider what's going through a monkey's brain as it sits there looking at us. Does it wonder about us? Does it care? Or is it simply sitting there processing it's current systems? (Do I have to go to the bathroom? Nope. Do I feel like eating? Nope. Should I pick this up and fling it at someone? Maybe later.)

Of course there is always the temptation to think of them as deeper than they probably are, particularly the monkeys. I stood there with my little girl, and this monkey sat on his rock looking back, and as it watched us, I wondered what his impression of me and my daughter might be. Then he turned around, dropped a duece, and proceeded to start walking away from it, only to see his little doody out of the corner of his eye and, looking vaguely surprised, turn to inspect it. Three times.

God I love me some monkeys.

Overall the trip was a rousing success. The hippos played and pulled leaves from the trees. The seals did tricks in the water for us. The wolves chased each other around. The lions and tigers...well, they slept, but one of tigers rolled over, which is kind of a win. The kids had a good time. In fact, there was only one thing that really bothered me about the whole trip.

I don't mind that the gorillas insist on touching themselves, but why to they have to look me right in the eye when they're doing it?

The Cop Out

Sorry, kids, but I'm escorting a field trip to the Toledo Zoo today. In place of my usual ramblings, I'm offering an alternative bit of entertainment. I give you Advanced Cat Yodeling:

And By Inactive, We Mean "Oh God...it burns! "

So, I'm going through a particularly pesky allergy season this year. For whatever reason, the case of the sniffles I got cleaning out the garage (just one more case of the dangers of housework) has now become a week and half of...well, let's just say that I'm now fully on board with the whole head irrigation system. Anything to avoid another sinus infection.

I know it's allergies, however, because my eyes are driving me nuts. They're always red, and they itch and hurt all the time. I constantly want to either shut them or claw them out. It's like I'm constantly watching Uwe Boll movies.

Being a strong believer of self medication, I stopped by my local pharmacy and looked over the eye drops in an effort to alleviate this annoyance. I saw the typical array of products, but then at the end I saw something shiny. It was a new eye drop called Rohto. Being a sucker for shiny, I looked them over, picked one, and moved on.

Now, I'm not the best in the world about looking over labels before trying something new. I'm pretty much satisfied that if they say it will fix something, it will. This has led to learning the hard way that, say, taking a Benedryl in the early afternoon will lead to me staring vacantly and perhaps drooling slightly by mid-afternoon (interestedly, also not unlike watching watching Uwe Boll movies). Well, here again I might have taken a moment to notice that what makes Rohto V.Ice icy is that they put ^#%$ing menthol in it. I didn't notice because they list it an an inactive ingredient.

Far from inactive, putting these things in my eyes is...well, it's hard to describe. Icy is probably a fair assessment. It's not unlike having a chilled oil poured onto one's eyes. I'm blinded for a minute or so, during which I can only imagine I'm making a variety of funny faces while trying to determine if it's safe to open my eyes again or if I should be grabbing a tissue to make it stop. After that, however, my eyes actually feel better for an hour or two. Odd.

Nevertheless, I can assure you that if the good people at Rohto decide they want to get into the enema business, I'm going to go ahead and steer clear of that action.

One Wonders If They Checked On Paul Rueben's Availability

Well, I warned NASA that without another target, they would feel the brunt of the angry legions of Joss Whedon fans. Fox, proving that they can learn from past mistakes, went ahead and renewed Dollhouse, so there was no chance of redirecting their anger in that direction, and I have yet to hear anything about that warp drive, so it was looking pretty bad for NASA. Fortunately, the rumor mill may have saved them.

See, someone has had the bright idea of making a Buffy the Vampire slayer movie. This would be a welcome thing, as those of us who followed the show would joyously cough up ten bucks to see how everyone is doing, and since most of us choose to either ignore or deny the existence of the first movie, it's long overdue. So, there should be much rejoicing, right?

Well, there's only two problems with the pitch as it stands. First, they are supposedly not interested in bringing in the supporting cast. I like Sarah Michelle Gellar and all, but a large part of the show's charm was the interaction between Buffy and her friends and foes. If true, this drains a lot of the excitement from such an announcement. Don't get me wrong - it could still be great, just not as great as it could be. If that was the only issue, there would still be rejoicing. Unfortunately, it isn't.

See, apparently the people who think this is a good idea haven't actually bothered to see if Joss is interested. Now this doesn't mean he's not, but realize the implications of what they are saying. If he's busy, or not interested, or whatever, they will go forward without him.

So there you have it, NASA. You're off the hook. I guarantee that right this moment, the nerd rage is already growing. Fingers are furiously typing tirades against the concept that this will go forth without their Lord Whedon's involvement. Should the brain trust behind this decide that the chance of money is too good, or that Sarah Michelle Gellar is enough of a draw, to proceed, the internet will light up with the vehemence typically reserved for Jar Jar Binks and aliens with crystalline bone structures. Boycotts will be called for. Blogs will fill up with indignant bile aimed at these people. Forums will have whole section dedicated to nothing but disgust with this decision. Me personally, I'm almost hoping they do it, just to watch the fallout, but I felt the show ended just right (also, I'm sort of sick that way).

Now if they lay one finger on Doctor Horrible, their suffering will be legendary, even in Michigan.

Unless You Count That Kathy Bates Thing, Which I Still Haven't Forgiven My Wife For

I am in the interesting position of knowing people who make movies and music. This is perhaps not so unusual, except that I have neither heard the music nor have I seen the movies. See, both operate on a limited venue. The movie was released in local theaters, and the music is obviously performed live. This combined with my hermitic lifestyle means I'm missing out.

Naturally, I've questioned these people on how I can get a hold of their stuff. It never struck me that getting CDs or DVDs made is probably an expensive pain the tuckus. I mean, I'm a programmer. Any hack can put together a piece of software or a website, throw a link up somewhere on the internet, and distribute that content to their heart's content, whether it's worth seeing or not. (You know what, let's not think about that too much.)

Well, it would seem that someone wants to make the same kind of thing available to musicians and filmmakers. Amazon, the place where I choose to do most of my non-food related shopping, now offers on-demand publishing. Seriously, you upload your movie, music - heck, they even do books - and they seem to do the rest. Do a little setup, and then they sell them on demand, only pressing a copy when someone actually orders it. The latest addition, the ability to sell CDs, costs a little over thirty dollars annually. The musician gets 40% of the cash for each sale, meaning if a ten dollar CD nets a four dollar check. Sell nine a year, and you've got profit.

Does this mean the end of the RIAA and MPAA and their evil, lawsuit-happy ways? Of course not. Realistically, their services include promotion and whatnot, which the independent artist would be left to do on their own. What is does end, however, is a little bit of their power. If artists start figuring out how to promote themselves through new channels, they might well make more money on their work that was previously being handed off to others. Plus, it gives artists who may never get the chance of catching a studio's attention a way to get their work out anyway.

So there it is you guys (and you know who you are). Have at it. I want downloadable content. I want to drop ten or twenty bucks to order a copy of your work. I'm guessing I'm probably not the only one. Just please, be responsible about it, okay?

I've managed to remain steadfast in my policy of not witnessing pornographic or near-pornographic content that involves anyone I know (barring lookalikes, thank you very much), and I intend to remain that way.

I Swear, It Called To Me

The Moose and I were sent to Lowes last weekend for bug killer and a hose sprayer. Not being familiar with the whereabouts of the Lowes seasonal equipment, I had to wander a bit. As is often the case, my wanderings took me past the shovels, spades, and axes, which I like to peruse and price in an effort to figure out which household implements will best serve me should there be a zombie apocalypse (in all seriousness - I really, really do this). Ordinarily, I end up coming to the usual conclusion - an axe and a heavy-handled shovel are really all one could hope for.

And then I saw it - the Briar Axe Brush Cutter.

I was amazed. It was like the good people at True Temper were sitting around trying to come up with an ideal weapon to fight off the hordes of the undead. In fact, I really couldn't even consider what purpose they were claiming it would fulfill when clearly it was designed for just one thing.

The long, heavy handle, allowing for a more controlled two handed usage (something that keeps me from investing in a machete). The heat-treated steel blade, long enough to remove the moaning head of an undead aggressor, and thoughtfully sharpened on both sides to allow for a back swing to dispatch a second beast. Clearly, this was designed for a purpose, and that purpose did not involve brush. Frankly, unless you're storming the castle holding Sleeping Beauty, I can't imagine the brush you'd be dealing with that would require such a thing.



Unfortunately, the lone review said that the handle was weaker than it seemed, so you'd probably have to replace it with something sturdier. Nonetheless, I was enthralled, and promptly began an inventory of my yard to find some excuse for such a purchase (as discussed previously, not everyone shares my concern when it comes to undead hordes). Unfortunately, my lovely wife tends to keep things pretty neat, so me efforts were in vain. I had to hesitantly put it back on the shelf, vowing that one day, it will hang on my garage wall. For now, I'll just have to rely on dropping hints in the hopes that I get it as a gift.

Hey, isn't Father's Day coming up here pretty soon?

Another Good Reason Not To Shake Hands

Yesterday, I had one of those moments that always throws me for a loop. I'm in the restroom at work, I'm washing my hands, and I hear a flush. (Yes it's another bathroom post. What do you want from me? Nothing interesting happens when I'm sitting at my desk.) Dude walks out of a stall, looks at himself in the mirror, and tips out the door. He didn't so much as run his hands under the water. He just smiled at himself and then bailed.

Now I'm hardly a neat freak. I'm actually one of those people who believe that we over-encourage hand washing to a fault. I prefer that my kids go ahead and get a little dirty and pick up a few bugs, allowing their bodies to build defenses to those bugs. I sometimes fear that all of our antibacterial soap is doing is breaking down these defenses, allowing some new strain of bug to come along and bam, we've got a pandemic. Zombie apocalypses don't start from nothing, you know.

There are exceptions to this, though (the hand washing thing, not the zombies). Getting ready to prepare food? Wash your hands. Thinking about performing surgery? Wash your hands. Thinking about jamming a camera up my hind end to check for God knows what? Wash everything in the room. Twice. Probably give it a good once over afterward as well.

Well if you haven't figured it out yet, another exception is if you've just used the bathroom in any capacity, but especially if you were there to get some reading done. It's hard to express the horror I felt when I realized that the dude was just going to wander off. I had to resist the urge to cry out in alarm. For the life of me, I wanted to step out of the bathroom, point at him, and let fly with one of those screeches from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, alerting everyone before the perpetrator touched a coffee pot or put his filthy hands into our kitchen utensils.



Of course, I could have just politely suggested that he wash his hands, but my way would have had a more long term effect, don't you think?

Oh Sure, I Could Start a Necklace, But It'll Take Years To Finish

Yesterday morning, the Princess came out of the bathroom announcing loudly that her tooth was really loose. As I've been hearing about her tooth being loose for about two months now, I showed polite interest to keep her happy but expected the same, not-moving tooth I'd been looking at so far. The she opened her little mouth and pushed her tooth with her tongue, and sure enough, the tooth gave.

We've already bought into the whole tooth fairy thing (I don't know where she got it, but she believes it), so now I have a conundrum to face, that being the exchange rate on a tooth. When I was a kid, I think I may have pulled down a quarter for each one. She may very well be satisfied with that, but it seems a bit stingy for some reason. Inflation and all.

I tried to get more information, but to no avail. Instead I got a creepy history of the fable's origins. One day I'm going to learn not to look this stuff up. The highlights were the feeding of baby teeth to rats and mice for two reasons - to keep them from witches (obviously) and because the adult teeth would grow in like those of the animal that ate them (I guess they were shooting for yellow and pointy - I would've gone with a shark, but whatever). Anyway, apparently in France they got themselves a tooth mouse, and at some point someone wrote a story about a fairy turned into a mouse that involved teeth somehow and...well, eventually we get a tooth fairy. Once in a while, it boggles my mind that all of this stuff we do mostly stems from weird superstition. At the same time, my mind is boggled by cheese food in a spray can, so maybe that's not saying much.

Either way, I was left without a definitive source as to the proper amount of cash to slip under a pillow. I've always enjoyed the elegance of a coin, so I'm thinking maybe a dollar coin will fit the bill. I'll naturally have to confer with my lovely wife to determine the final course of action (or leave it up to her, thus washing my hands of the responsibility). Of course this does nothing to solve the other problem.

What the &#%$ am I supposed to do with the tooth I'm about to buy?

As Opposed To Jumping or Being On a Cracker

A brief anecdote today, as I am unbearably busy. The Moose is still pronouncing certain things in the toddler way, which results (much to my amusement) with him seeing advertisements for Chuck E. Cheese's and saying, "Daddy, I see Chuck E Jesus." This is gold every time.

Anyway, the other day the Princess is doing a little dance during dinner. I asked if she was feeling funky, and she replied in the affirmative, saying that she was a funky kid. This naturally led to the Moose, who must mimic her whenever possible, to declare, "And I a funky Jesus."

I'm pretty sure not even George Clinton has claimed that.

It'll Make a Great Story For the Trash Collector, Once He Changes His Pants

There comes a time when, as a parent, some particularly noisy toy is going to be given to your child. Often, the noisiest of these will invariably come without benefit of an off switch or volume control. As such, one occasionally has to make the hard decision to jettison these toys without letting the little ones realize that the toy is gone.

Today was such a day.

Now, this requires a certain amount of planning and decision making, starting with how high profile the item is. As an example, my daughter received a saxophone once that makes me near insane, but both her and now her brother love it so that I've actually had to repair it when it broke from typical playtime abuse. There's no way I could safely get rid of this, instead having to be satisfied with the fact that the giver is preparing for their first baby, and Uncle Roger can't wait to start preparing the little lady for a future as a musician. Today, the item was a pair of talking eggs from an Easter basket (sorry, Grandma, but we don't want daddy on top of a tower with a sniper rifle) which, while immediately the favorite of both kids, were easily slipped out of view.

This brings me to part two of the process, which is the testing phase. During the testing phase, you remove the offending item to a secure location to see how badly it's going to be missed. On more that one occasion I've attempted this only to learn quickly that the toy in question was far more dear than I had previously gathered. The testing phase prevents you from having to lie to your kids ("Huh, I guess I accidentally threw it out.") and then buying a replacement, adding insult to injury as you pay to replace this scourge on your peace and quiet.

Once enough time has passed that you are reasonable sure you're in the clear, you can finally make the big move and transport the item to the trash. Do not, I repeat DO NOT put it in the garbage can inside your home. The toy will invariably get bumped at an inopportune moment, thus alerting the kids and once again forcing you to either fib or simply fess up and try to bargain with the child to allow the disposal to go forth (not bloody likely). Instead, transport the toy directly to the bin outside (or your car trunk for those worthy of donation), thus greatly reducing the chance of being busted in this manner.

Follow these rules, and you too can remove those pesky noisemakers from your home without drawing the ire of your offspring. Like me this morning, you can put out your trash bins for pickup secure in the knowledge that no longer will you have to suffer the headaches that come from whatever talking, singing, blaring, honking cacaophany that was created from that small bit of plastic and wires. You can be satisfied that your children will go on unaware of this maneuver, and thus a peace, albeit momentary, may be achieved in your happy household.

Of course in hindsight, I suppose I should have taken the batteries out first, but hey, how much trouble could come from the garbage men picking up the bin and hearing the easter eggs from within it say in a child's voice, "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Let me out. Let me out."?

Of Course, If Wearing a Fez Is Involved, I'm In

Can someone explain to me what the hell goes on in "lodges"? It seems like every town I live in has a couple of these things, and I never know what they're for. I can't recall ever seeing anyone going into or coming out of one, so all I've got to go on is their reader boards boasting some band playing or spaghetti dinner. This is not much to go on.

I started rooting aroung, and their websites aren't adding a lot of information. Apparently, they do things, and they represent other...things. Here, let me give you an example. This is the mission statement from the Fraternal Order of Eagles website (which may have the most Bond-villianesque URL ever):

The Fraternal Order of Eagles, an international non-profit organization, unites fraternally in the spirit of liberty, truth, justice, and equality, to make human life more desirable by lessening its ills, and by promoting peace, prosperity, gladness and hope.

Huh. So they are...fraternal. Oh, and they enjoy truth, justice, liberty, equality, and seem to dislike...ills I guess. Okay. So that means that they...I mean, clearly what they do is...nope, I got nothin'.

So I figure maybe the problem is that I'm looking at the wrong lodge. I mean, sure the Eagles had a hut near my old apartment, but it's not like I've heard any conspiracy theories about them. I decided to set my site on a bigger target and see what I could learn about the Masons.

Having looked up the Grand Lodge of Michigan and found just as mysterious a vision statement (it's like the other one, with a shout out to God), I decided to check them out in WikiPedia. If I'm reading it correctly, it's basically a group of people (menfolk, specifically) who have come together and follow a bunch of rules because...well, they just do. I'm sure there's more to it, but I'll be damned if I can figure out what. It's almost like a bunch of guys were sitting around one day and said, "You know, I enjoy church and all, but there just aren't enough rules for me to follow. I wish I had a place where I could gather with other men and come up with a bunch of policies that others would have to follow if they wanted to join us. We could make them go through an elaborate initiation ceremony and everything. Who's with me?"

Seems like a lot to go through for a little bluegrass and "All-you-can-eat Fish Fry" night, but hey, who am I to judge, right?

Someplace To Sit and Think While Plotting and Laughing Maniacally

We're talking about replacing our patio with something that's less...falling apart I guess. Our current patio is a homebrew not of our making, and while I like the style (big, flat stones), in its current form it's an ususable hazard. As such, we've talked to at least one person about suggestions for replacing it, and he said that what I should do is take out a couple of stones and start digging to see how far down the construction-type filler used to hold the stones in place goes to see if I could just rebuild it correctly. Then my lovely wife pointed out that during a previous discussion with a neighbor, it was revealed that there was once a concrete patio, and that there is a chance that the concrete one is still under there.

Unfortunately, these things got into my brain, as things tend to do, and I started wondering what else I might find as I dig this thing out. I've come up with the following list of things I hope I find when I start digging out my current patio:

• A dinosaur skeleton (those things sell for plenty)


• Aincient ruins (preferrably with a throne room, as I'm having trouble convincing my lovely wife that I need to add one onto the house)


• The Ark of the Covenant (I promise I won't open it)


• A missile silo (hopefully without deep crows)


• A nice underground lair that includes a fully outfitted laboratory (see throne room explanation above)


• A treasure chest full of swag (no swag means no grog, and we're getting...well, you know the rest)

Similarly, I've been forced to consider things I'd rather not find:

• That they only moved the headstones. THEY ONLY MOVED THE HEADSTONES!


• Oil (I don't need anyone invading my yard on a "peace keeping mission", thank you very much)


• Cheese


• That we have a backup septic system


• An underground entrance to anything not mentioned above (I simply don't have time for adventuring right now)


• An actual concrete patio that would have to be destroyed and removed

So there you have it. I know that the most likely scenario is that what I find will lead to the loss of more money, time, and effort on my part, but hey, you can't blame a guy for hoping. Maybe I'll let you know when I'm going to do it so you can combine your powers of hope to help me find what I want.

Come on underground lair!

I Should Really Charge For This Advice

Last weekend we did the long drive to and from the in-laws to celebrate Mother's Day. As my lovely wife has discovered the joy of gaming on the iPhone, a habit I encourage (anything to bring her back into the fold), I had some quiet time to think, which is typically not a good thing in my case as my mind is a dangerous place to wander alone. Anyway, while looking for things to distract me from the quiet and occasional cursing from my wife having issues with grenades or something, I saw one of my favorite logos on the side of a semi-truck, that of the Sherwin Williams people.



I'm all for tradition, and I understand that after 100 years, it's hard to consider rebranding (the current logo was, according to their site, creating in the late 1800s). Nonetheless, this...this doesn't jive with the current tree hugging, hippy vibe the country, nay the world, is currently embracing. In fact, I think this is possibly the least environmentally friendly marketing I've seen since the ill-fated Hummer campaign last year ("Sure the worlds running out of oil, but by then you'll be dead anyway. %#$@ the future." Wow that a bad idea.)

My complaint isn't even the slogan "Paint the World" (although that could use some work for sure). No, it's this image. I mean, we've all had it drilled into our heads that pollution is bad. A lot of us equate pollution with horrible stories of large corporations dumping chemicals into waterways, leading to frogs with extra limbs or rivers catching afire. Clearly, you guys are aware of these concerns, but I think it's time to finally commit and roll out a new logo. That or go ahead and come up with a slogan that matches the current image.

Might I suggest the one that comes into my head each time I see this: "Sherwin Williams - Buy our paint or we'll drown your world in a crimson bath of despair."?

Why I Forgot Your Birthday

This weekend, I went through something I can only describe as...disturbing. See, I'm the father of a six year old girl. As a result, I am frequently bombarded by a barrage of images arranged by the good people at Disney. Ordinarily, this isn't a big deal, but there is a new show that she's been particularly excited about, as have her little friends at school, so to be a supportive father I've been watching it with her, which led to the aforementioned disturbance.

Saturday night, I had a dream about the Jonas Brothers.

It wasn't anything freaky or dirty (which, for legal reasons, I would claim for two out of three of them whether it were true or not, but realistically, if it were dirty, I assure you I would never speak of it in the first place), they were simply present. I understand, however, the implications of such a thing. When I dream and it's not a nightmare, that means that my brain is organizing things that I see and do in an effort to arrange them for long term storage. That means that the Brothers Joni are potentially now part of my brain in the long term.

Now I don't dislike them or anything. I mean, of the Disney rot that I sit through, they are so far one of the least offensive. They don't include a laugh track, which is a tremendously bold move. They don't seem to take themselves seriously, which is always a plus with me. Most of all, while they are far from actually achieving it, I think they may have the potential to channel the Monkees, which would be a total win for those of us stuck watching it on a Saturday night with our offspring.

This does not give them permission, however, to set up permanent residence in my already cramped cranium. I have potentially just lost one of the few childhood memories I have left, or maybe something really important like my anniversary date (checking...checking...no, that seems intact) for three troubadours. What's really scary is that I will probably never know what tidbit of information my brain felt was expendable to make room for Nick, Joe and Kevin. See! Right there! Why do I know their first names? I don't need to know that. We are not, nor do I believe we ever will be, on a first name basis with each other.

No matter how dreamy they think I am.

Off To The Great Expansion Pack In The Sky

Today, we gather to mourn the passing of a hero. A man who fought tirelessly to rid the world of mad scientists and invading aliens through any means necessary, pausing only to release an infected individual, pass a few dollars to an unfortunate working girl, and maybe wipe his shoe. A man who, despite years of efforts, could not successfully be saved.

Today, we celebrate the life of Duke Nukem.

Duke's rise to fame began in 1991. Back then, Nukem worked with the CIA to stop a robotic army. While he proved to be an efficient asset, he was accused of being a little too serious. There were even those who suggested he was a bit two-dimensional. Still, he served well, saving the world on two separate occasions.



Despite his works, he lived in relative obscurity until 1996, when an alien invasion caused him to take up arms again. This time, his flamboyance, use of unusual technology, misogynistic tendencies and blatant theft of various catchphrases caused knowledge of his works to skyrocket. All over the world, people would sit at their computers watching him fly around with his jet pack, destroying the alien horde (and much of the scenery) in ways that had not been seen before. Unlike so many heroes of the time, he could look to the sky. No seriously - the others couldn't look up.



Left broken after the alien invasion (not to mention several expansion packs), Duke retired. Still, rumors of his return circulated. Near constant reports surface of his being rebuilt, faster, stronger, better. Images would find their way on the internet. Even video footage could be found that suggested that Duke was preparing for a future war of some kind. As years passed, however, many lost hope that Duke would return.



Now we know the truth: any hopes of Duke's return have been laid to rest. And so today we gather to celebrate the life of a man who worked tirelessly to defend the human race, only to disappear into a world of rumor and speculation. Hopefully, we can all learn from his life. Take the lessons that he laid out for us. Don't try to run through a room of aliens after you've been shrunk. Try not to step in alien doo-doo. Using all the good lines from other peoples works is a surprisingly effective way to endear yourself to the public.

But mostly, don't start promising the world a %#$@ing awesome game until you thing that there is a chance in hell that you might actually get around to coding and releasing said awesome game.

Now If You Could Get a Tiny Ascot and Pipe, Well That Would Be Different

Recently, I had occasion to be hanging around the old Babies R Us, which frankly is not my favorite place. I love babies, so that's not the part that bothers me. Rather, it's that when I'm in the place, it's because my lovely wife is looking for something for someone else, so I'm typically pushing the Moose around in a cart trying to keep him entertained. Between this and the fact that, unlike Toys R Us, Babies R Us doesn't really have any toys I want to play with, it gets old quick.

A few years ago, when I was preparing for the coming of the Princess, I noted that some of the baby products were...how do I put this? Silly and extravagant. Let me give you an example. There were wipe warmers. They do exactly what you might think. They warm wipes. I'm not sure how many complaints people were getting from infants, but I felt this was a bit much. Besides, you don't really want to make the whole diaper changing thing too pleasant, lest the little tot decide to continue producing output in this manner instead of learning to use the potty. In fact, I may very well throw our wipes in the fridge when I get home.

Another one that drives me nuts are all the little things people buy because they're cute. Example - the tiny bathrobe. Yes, it's adorable. Yes, you'll probably score one really cute picture of the baby all wrapped up in it. And yes, you're spending twenty dollars on something the kid will grow out of in about four months. Let me tell you, when you get to the hundredth well-baby visit, you're gonna wish you had that twenty bucks back, cute picture or not.

Anyway, I thought those were silly, but what I saw last weekend beat them by a mile. They now have an spa and shower bathtub for infants, complete with whirlpool action. I know that they say that you're supposed to spoil babies, and I agree, but come on people. The baby isn't really going to benefit from a whirlpool. As I recall, baby bath time mostly revolved around quickly washing the little thing up before they could make in the tub. When the baby does add a little something to the water (and they will) I'm thinking I'd prefer not having the "motorized jet" stirring things up.

This is similar to my reasoning behind being a smidge uncomfortable with public hot tubs now that I think about it, but we can talk about that another time.

Taste the Nightlife

As we all know, I have an issue with snack foods. Specifically, Doritos, and their habit of rolling out freaky flavors. My unnatural interest in such things has led to me getting burned before, so I've at least learned to stop trying them (well, usually anyway). Still, their marketing carries on, and their new attempts at catching the eyes of America has my attention: Doritos Late Night.

Currently, the sub-brand sports only two flavors: "Tacos at Midnight" and "Last Call Jalapeno Poppers". At first I wasn't sure what the target demographic is for these things, as people who actually go out late at night have access to real tacos at midnight and jalapeno poppers. I figure, maybe they're trying to lure in the underage crowd with the mystique of late night shenanigans, but as usual they have been far too tame in their endeavors. It is for this reason that I offer the good people at Frito Lay some additional late night flavor suggestions that they should consider adding to their roster:

Warm Beer and Cigarette (speaks to why the experienced drinker either never puts down his bottle or simply drinks from a glass)

Doritos (it's kind of a meta thing - very high concept)

Bourbon and Disappointment

Denny's Breakfast

Regret (I'm thinking this would be a fruity, girl drink flavor, not unlike Quest Doritos, which is the flavor I most associate with regret)

Donut

Bathroom Floor (really a morning after flavor, but it kind of fits the theme)

White Castle Sliders

Six-Dollar Cola (this may also be the first time a snack chip could incorporate glitter into a flavor)

Strange Flesh (oh it's edgy, but make no mistake, this will sell more than any snack product that has come before it)

Yeah, that ought to bring in the kids.

I'd Have Prefferred To Hear About His Truck

As I may have mentioned before, I'm no fan of country music. I can listen to it and recognize the talent of the people involved, it's just not my bag. Like my inability to grasp the idea that anyone would purposely watch people turning left for over three hours straight, the allure of it somehow just escapes me. I can't really explain it better than that.

Anyway, there are rare occasions where I will allow it to continue, one of those occasions being when the music is part of A Prairie Home Companion, the radio show that I listen to when I can on the weekends. For some reason, if it's good enough for Garrison Keiller, I'll tolerate it long enough to get to the news from Lake Wobegon or the adventures of Guy Noir. It was such an occasion this weekend, as I drove alone to return my daughter's overdue library book.

Now before I continue, you have to understand my state of mind at that moment. See, I've been sick (again), and between the latest antibiotic and Sudafed, I had basically not slept nearly enough in about a week. So I was exhausted, and as such perhaps a smidgen overemotional.

So Garrison introduces this Brad Paisley guy, and not being part of the country scene, I don't really know what to expect. The guy breaks into a tune about how he's having a baby boy, and all the things that are going to happen if the kid is like him. I think I may have made it up to the point where the kid gives his mom a hug and shakes his dad's hand as he's leaving home before I was fully blubbering like an idiot. To make matters worse, I was driving through our little town on a Saturday night, so there were throngs of people along the streets. Okay, maybe like half a throng (it's a pretty small town), but you get the idea.

This is not the first time I've fallen for this. One thing I will say about the small amount of country music that I've listened to is that the subject matter is very...human. It's not all love songs, or music raging against the machine. It's just about people being people. Maybe that's one of the reasons I don't listen to it. I get plenty of people being people in real life.

When I'm looking for entertainment, I want songs about people being evil geniuses.

Of Course, Things Would Be Different If Lincoln Had Ever Fought Wolverine

Today, the Wolverine movie is released. I would love to see it, as for some reason I seem to be capable of suspending my disbelief and enjoying the Marvel movies in ways that no longer seem to apply to standard action movies (I think I may have a crush on Hugh Jackman, but in a manly way). I probably won't for a while, but I would like to.

What has surprised me most about the new movie is that, while I'm familiar with the topic of nerd rage, this movie has really brought out the beast in some people over a character that, quite frankly, I had never heard of before. See, the movie brings in one of my favorites, Ryan Reynolds as an early incarnation of a character called Deadpool. Not being a big comic book guy, I hit the WikiPedia entry (which, as a testament to the combined power of the internet and geeks is nearly as long as the one for Abraham Lincoln) to read his origin story, which is apparently altered in the new film, much to the chagrin of Deadpool fans. I like the idea of a character that's a little crazy, and exhibits his insanity by occasionally being aware of the fact that he's in a comic. It's a risible construct, and I'm sure if I was a regular comic reader, this is the sort of thing that would hook me.

Anyway, I read his origin story as part of the entry, and I realized something that can be difficult for those who become fans of such things (myself included). See, we get into a story, involve ourselves with a character, and then just flow through the rest. Sometimes, I think this leaves us a little blind to certain things. His story (which you can go read if your really interested) is very involved and detailed, would take a ton of time to cover in any other format, and...well, I'm not sure how to say this.

It's a little silly.

Now I realize that I've opened myself up for fanboy attack, and if I could get a set of trade paperbacks and actually read the story in its original form I probably would feel differently. The thing people have to realize is that when these big, sweeping comic arcs are condensed down into a couple of paragraphs on the internet (or a couple of hours on screen), they lose a lot of what made them great in the first place. It's like me trying to explain Buffy the Vampire Slayer to someone - without the wit, characters, or dialog, it just kind of sounds silly. So when someone comes along and desecrates your memories in the name of a film, it's not necessarily disrespect to the character. It's just that when moving to a new medium, some of the details have to change to make it accessible to those who would not otherwise get into it. On the bright side, maybe some of those people, like myself, will take enough interest to start looking up who these characters are, and eventually share the pleasure that you yourself took in the original work.

If it makes any of you feel better, given the way my time works I'm way more likely to read said paperbacks than I am to get to a movie any time soon. As such, I will actually be in your shoes, viewing the movie through the eyes of someone who has read the source material. If, at that time, I find myself in your place, disgusted at the treatment of the character, I will embrace my inner nerd, and together we will rage. I promise to write up a post chastising everything that anyone involved with the movie has done before or since.

Well, all except for Jackman, who simultaneously seems really nice while being able to kick my ass all over the place. I think we'll leave him out of it.