My workplace moved buildings over the last thirty days. For me, this is largely insignificant, as I've moved from cubicle to cubicle in the old building. Yes, my new space has a floor-to-ceiling window, but after 11+ years of casino lighting, I expect I'll stare wistfully outside when the weather becomes nice again. Until then, I'll merely close my shades so I'm not distracted by every car and pedestrian passing. (Why must my attention be so easily diverted?)
There are benefits of the new space, of course. The lobby is immense and contains a piano, just in case I'm suddenly overpowered by the spirit of Billy Joel. With no tip jar (and no musical aptitude), the odds of that happening are unlikely. Even so, why place a piano in an office building? It's not like the security guards have a minibar stashed behind the counter? (Or do they?)
The shower room was poorly planned by architects, but if people choose to look inside a bathroom as they pass down the hallway, they deserve whatever burns their retinas.
The oddest aspect for me is the lack of a toaster. The firm employs over 300 people, and we're not allowed to heat our pop tarts? Sure, we have a bank of microwaves with which we can nuke the tart, but I discovered yesterday that (1) a microwave makes the crust crack to the point it's un-pick-up-able, and (2) strawberry filling is one of the quickest-heating substances on the planet. It takes only 25 seconds of spinning under radiated lights to achieve a temperature comparable with molten lava.
Today's mission: deduce whether strawberry is the only filling to reach nuclear hot, or if blueberry will follow the same path. If you run into me on the street tomorrow and my lips have somehow melted together, you'll understand why.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
High Notes in Low Places
While walking through a less-than-reputable part of downtown named Printer's Alley, I noticed one of the adult entertainment clubs had constructed a new video screen to advertise their wares. Indecent bits were kept hidden, and much of it was flourescent graphics to catch eyes of unsuspecting pedestrians. The advertisement that caught me was for Naked Karaoke.
Yes, I live in Nashville, where singers are a dime a dozen, and in this recession, you can probably get a second dozen for free. Though I once experimented performing karaoke in Dallas, I'll never take an open microphone here because people take it too seriously. People move here all the time to pursue music ambitions. My wife sings. I've been known to belt a tune in the shower (though not the showers at work).
But naked karaoke? I'm so curious.
1. Do the performers start the song naked, or are they supposed to strip during their serenades? Must they pace themselves so their intimates aren't on display until the high note in the bridge?
2. Do they have to sign up with the club beforehand, or are audience members encouraged to participate? Would your friends egg you on to get on stage and let your inhibitions (and your undergarments) go?
3. While I suspect the songs are largely thought out beforehand, can you bring your own track? I'm not interested in singing "I Want You to Want Me", "Just a Gigolo", or "I Touch Myself." But I can do a mean Phil Collins "Another Day in Paradise."
4. If you pay extra, can you be individually serenaded, or must you go to a special room for a lap song and dance?
I'll never venture inside the place, so all of these questions will end unanswered for me. I do, however, have one last inquiry: when is LaserQuest going to jump on this train?
Yes, I live in Nashville, where singers are a dime a dozen, and in this recession, you can probably get a second dozen for free. Though I once experimented performing karaoke in Dallas, I'll never take an open microphone here because people take it too seriously. People move here all the time to pursue music ambitions. My wife sings. I've been known to belt a tune in the shower (though not the showers at work).
But naked karaoke? I'm so curious.
1. Do the performers start the song naked, or are they supposed to strip during their serenades? Must they pace themselves so their intimates aren't on display until the high note in the bridge?
2. Do they have to sign up with the club beforehand, or are audience members encouraged to participate? Would your friends egg you on to get on stage and let your inhibitions (and your undergarments) go?
3. While I suspect the songs are largely thought out beforehand, can you bring your own track? I'm not interested in singing "I Want You to Want Me", "Just a Gigolo", or "I Touch Myself." But I can do a mean Phil Collins "Another Day in Paradise."
4. If you pay extra, can you be individually serenaded, or must you go to a special room for a lap song and dance?
I'll never venture inside the place, so all of these questions will end unanswered for me. I do, however, have one last inquiry: when is LaserQuest going to jump on this train?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
T minus 4 days (plus lemon and honey)
I once read a story about a man trapped in a snow globe, though that revelation didn't occur until the end of the tale. Except I think it was a short film. Or perhaps a cartoon. But it's an idea I didn't think of, I can't remember well, and I don't care enough to either find it or attempt another episode along that same vein.
In this world of finite ideas where none are new, it's curious how often a concept feels inspired. Yet, I'm sitting here, rehashing faint memories of vignettes that didn't catch my eye the first time around, but linger in my subconsciousness. Today's weather was blustery (thanks, Pooh!), but not bad enough to turn my thoughts to snow. So far as I can detect, I'm not suffering from claustrophobia, nor am I waiting for some divine force to shake my world. My status remains pretty durn quo. Hmm.
My hope is my brain has slowed to focus on Nano. Similarly, my hope is that my body (at least my metabolism) has sped up for Flabberino. Both start this Saturday at midnight, and within a paltry two hours, I sacrifice 60 minutes to the ghost of daylight savings. Somewhere around that time, I intend to be surrounded by writers - who, I once again reminded myself last night, have the social skills of right-brained tech programmers. It makes sense - when you pour out your soul, your thoughts, and your brain on paper for the world to read, it's often best to leave your body somewhere said readers can't do damage.
Because we're vulnerable. At least those of us who take the time to invest energy, emotion, and care into scribing. Whereas I continue to blog about the idiocy of blogging. There's a conclusion to draw involving anti-matter or evil dopplegangers, but I can't put my finger on it. I sometimes think I am my evil twin, and there's a nice me out there somewhere. I wonder if he can write.
In this world of finite ideas where none are new, it's curious how often a concept feels inspired. Yet, I'm sitting here, rehashing faint memories of vignettes that didn't catch my eye the first time around, but linger in my subconsciousness. Today's weather was blustery (thanks, Pooh!), but not bad enough to turn my thoughts to snow. So far as I can detect, I'm not suffering from claustrophobia, nor am I waiting for some divine force to shake my world. My status remains pretty durn quo. Hmm.
My hope is my brain has slowed to focus on Nano. Similarly, my hope is that my body (at least my metabolism) has sped up for Flabberino. Both start this Saturday at midnight, and within a paltry two hours, I sacrifice 60 minutes to the ghost of daylight savings. Somewhere around that time, I intend to be surrounded by writers - who, I once again reminded myself last night, have the social skills of right-brained tech programmers. It makes sense - when you pour out your soul, your thoughts, and your brain on paper for the world to read, it's often best to leave your body somewhere said readers can't do damage.
Because we're vulnerable. At least those of us who take the time to invest energy, emotion, and care into scribing. Whereas I continue to blog about the idiocy of blogging. There's a conclusion to draw involving anti-matter or evil dopplegangers, but I can't put my finger on it. I sometimes think I am my evil twin, and there's a nice me out there somewhere. I wonder if he can write.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Sweathoggin'
My co-workers sweat a lot. So I'm told, anyway.
I used to irregularly attend yoga during my lunch hour. It wasn't entirely doing yoga, as even the basic positions are difficult to reach (nonetheless hold) for an inflexible lump such as myself. I suppose you could call it practicing yoga, so long as the connotation carries the idea of a five-year-old practicing the violin. (Not coincidentally, I made some of the same squeals.)
It isn't like I want to yoga. (Is it a verb like golf? I've never heard someone say they wanted to tennis.) But it was a way to stay in better shape, or at least attain other variants of this shape. It loosened my perpetually tight hamstrings and helped me relax some, especially during the cooldown meditation period (read: naptime) at the end of the sessions. The only attendants were the instructor, a kind, encouraging woman, two fellow students (far more accomplished and enthusiastic than myself), and me. Thankfully, I was never positioned in such a manner that I couldn't escape or unfold myself.
When I inquired about yesterday's lunch yogurt (as I term it), I was informed they're now without the instructor, opting instead to learn from a video. More disturbingly, while the video title is yoga, it "feels more like Pilates." As if yoga didn't hurt enough?
Even so, I thought I'd join yesterday's stretch-n-kvetch (and occasionally retch) session. Except, as 11:30 rolled around, I discovered I'd taken my workout shirts home. I had a pair of shorts - two, even - but no top cover. Throw me out in the middle of a field on a hot summer day, and I think nothing about removing my shirt. Skins for basketball? Done. But learning Pilates while concentrating on a video and flopping around foolishly in front of coworkers? Nah.
In lieu of sweating it up, I chose my alternative workout. How many calories do I burn chewing and swallowing M&Ms?
I used to irregularly attend yoga during my lunch hour. It wasn't entirely doing yoga, as even the basic positions are difficult to reach (nonetheless hold) for an inflexible lump such as myself. I suppose you could call it practicing yoga, so long as the connotation carries the idea of a five-year-old practicing the violin. (Not coincidentally, I made some of the same squeals.)
It isn't like I want to yoga. (Is it a verb like golf? I've never heard someone say they wanted to tennis.) But it was a way to stay in better shape, or at least attain other variants of this shape. It loosened my perpetually tight hamstrings and helped me relax some, especially during the cooldown meditation period (read: naptime) at the end of the sessions. The only attendants were the instructor, a kind, encouraging woman, two fellow students (far more accomplished and enthusiastic than myself), and me. Thankfully, I was never positioned in such a manner that I couldn't escape or unfold myself.
When I inquired about yesterday's lunch yogurt (as I term it), I was informed they're now without the instructor, opting instead to learn from a video. More disturbingly, while the video title is yoga, it "feels more like Pilates." As if yoga didn't hurt enough?
Even so, I thought I'd join yesterday's stretch-n-kvetch (and occasionally retch) session. Except, as 11:30 rolled around, I discovered I'd taken my workout shirts home. I had a pair of shorts - two, even - but no top cover. Throw me out in the middle of a field on a hot summer day, and I think nothing about removing my shirt. Skins for basketball? Done. But learning Pilates while concentrating on a video and flopping around foolishly in front of coworkers? Nah.
In lieu of sweating it up, I chose my alternative workout. How many calories do I burn chewing and swallowing M&Ms?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Top O' the Hour T'ya
Spring, summer, autumn and winter each have six letters, which is why it's confusing how people say fall. Or change it to fallow. With each season (another six-letter-er) containing six letters, that leaves two letters for each month, yet we usually abbreviate them with three letters apiece. At the rate we're going, the calendar will never switch over to the metric system. But time never tried to go that direction - 12 hours, 12 months, 3, 6, 9 on the clock's axes (axii?)... I mention all of this because yesterday was 73 days away from Christmas. Exactly one-fifth of a year, which has no designation. Ten and a half weeks isn't even 100% accurate.
I still wonder why I wonder whether time was discovered or invented. Fortunately, I no longer debate my debating over it.
At least fourteen of the next fifty hours will be spent in a minivan with my wife, three hyperactive boys, and enough styrofoam peanuts to make sure none of us shift in any transitions. Wish me luck.
Wait. No. Scrap that. Don't wish me luck. Send me cash instead. I'll make my own luck. Specifically, I'll be lucky to have rich, generous friends.
I still wonder why I wonder whether time was discovered or invented. Fortunately, I no longer debate my debating over it.
At least fourteen of the next fifty hours will be spent in a minivan with my wife, three hyperactive boys, and enough styrofoam peanuts to make sure none of us shift in any transitions. Wish me luck.
Wait. No. Scrap that. Don't wish me luck. Send me cash instead. I'll make my own luck. Specifically, I'll be lucky to have rich, generous friends.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Alternate Career Rejection Notice
I've had to come to terms with the reality that I won't be a gangsta rapper. I possess neither the street cred nor the inherent anger. Statistically, odds are I'll never pop a cap in anyone's ass. My social circle doesn't include bitches or hos, or at the very least, they successfully masquerade those reputations. My 1993 Geo Prism is too economic and fuel-efficient to be considered a hoopde, and besides, the factory cassette player is on the fritz.
Fundamentally, I lack bling. My dental insurance plan doesn't include a provision for gold teeth. Dave Ramsey's budget planning prohibits me purchasing ice for ice's sake. My ears have only the anatomical holes for hearing, and no accompanying piercings. As if this wasn't bad enough, my head is too large to fashionably exhibit the dew-rag look. My pants' waistline may be loose, but any revealing of my boxer-briefs is accidental, unintentional, and somewhat embarrassing.
I suppose I could qualify my children as my posse, but they were all conceived within the boundaries of wedlock, and I'm quite happily married to the woman I adore. I don't even suffer the temptation to pursue a booty call.
On the plus side, I do curse like I was born and raised in Philadelphia. Which I was. How authentic! On the down side, secondhand smoke - be it tobacco, weed, crack, or otherwise - makes me gag, and I value my physical condition too much to experiment smoking it firsthand.
Oh yeah. And I lack rhythm.
So it'll be awhile before I take my demo to any music producers.
Fundamentally, I lack bling. My dental insurance plan doesn't include a provision for gold teeth. Dave Ramsey's budget planning prohibits me purchasing ice for ice's sake. My ears have only the anatomical holes for hearing, and no accompanying piercings. As if this wasn't bad enough, my head is too large to fashionably exhibit the dew-rag look. My pants' waistline may be loose, but any revealing of my boxer-briefs is accidental, unintentional, and somewhat embarrassing.
I suppose I could qualify my children as my posse, but they were all conceived within the boundaries of wedlock, and I'm quite happily married to the woman I adore. I don't even suffer the temptation to pursue a booty call.
On the plus side, I do curse like I was born and raised in Philadelphia. Which I was. How authentic! On the down side, secondhand smoke - be it tobacco, weed, crack, or otherwise - makes me gag, and I value my physical condition too much to experiment smoking it firsthand.
Oh yeah. And I lack rhythm.
So it'll be awhile before I take my demo to any music producers.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Self-Unjustification
One of the topics of last night's conversation between my wife and myself was this blog and the title thereof. She claimed it wasn't very inviting. Plus, once you reach the blog, you have no idea what you're looking at. I responded that the common theme is comedy, though there are sparks of commentary on blogging itself. All in all, I compared myself to Dave Barry (minus the boilerplating), Woody Allen, and Steve Martin. Absurdist humor, like my two men/table/gun/watermelon sketches. Then I recognized how I compared myself to three highly successful, bestseller-writing authors and millionaires. Which means either I'm on a track to success, or I'm pretentious and delusional. I tend to believe the latter.
It's a writer's notebook, providing a launch point for ideas to form/coagulate. More importantly, it's a venue to blog about the annoyance of attention whores screaming "LOOK AT ME! I'M BLOGGING! I BLOG! I'M BLOGGING!" (Picture Bill Murray tethered to a computer.) Which cycles around yet again to the title of this site.
If I wanted a bigger following or varied feedback, I could post these entries on Facebook, because then I'd have 250+ people ignoring me rather than only six. I could use StoryMash to post, but that'd break my self-imposed rule to... I don't really have any self-imposed rules, there. I rag on people who post un-fiction ("non-fiction" doesn't seem to encapsulate what I'm doing here).
This site will never go viral. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it can at least go bacterial.
It's a writer's notebook, providing a launch point for ideas to form/coagulate. More importantly, it's a venue to blog about the annoyance of attention whores screaming "LOOK AT ME! I'M BLOGGING! I BLOG! I'M BLOGGING!" (Picture Bill Murray tethered to a computer.) Which cycles around yet again to the title of this site.
If I wanted a bigger following or varied feedback, I could post these entries on Facebook, because then I'd have 250+ people ignoring me rather than only six. I could use StoryMash to post, but that'd break my self-imposed rule to... I don't really have any self-imposed rules, there. I rag on people who post un-fiction ("non-fiction" doesn't seem to encapsulate what I'm doing here).
This site will never go viral. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it can at least go bacterial.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Far Enough Away That It'll Never Arrive
November is a mere 24 days away, and I've already committed myself to Flabberino, and last night I signed up for NaNoWriMo. For those uninitiated, that's National Novel Writer's Month. In 30 days, I'm supposed to compose 50,000 words. With interesting characters. And a logical storyline. I figure if each blog entry I've put here is 250 words, that'd merely be 200 days worth of writing. Squeezed into 30 days. Minus the weekends, probably. Minus my wedding anniversary, the Thanksgiving holiday, and whatever other days I end up scrapping.
In other words, if things get considerably thinner here on THR, that's why. I'll try to use this to keep tabs on both. And when I brag about 50, that's the number of situps. If I brag about 225, that's my weight going down. If I brag about 2,500, that's a good day of writing. If I brag about 25,000, I'll need to come up with a reason.
Oh! I got one! But a high score on Castle Wars is hardly bragworthy.
In other words, if things get considerably thinner here on THR, that's why. I'll try to use this to keep tabs on both. And when I brag about 50, that's the number of situps. If I brag about 225, that's my weight going down. If I brag about 2,500, that's a good day of writing. If I brag about 25,000, I'll need to come up with a reason.
Oh! I got one! But a high score on Castle Wars is hardly bragworthy.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Boob Job
My family hit our medical deductible for BCBS this year, so all "required" procedures from now until December 31 are covered 100%. After speaking with my ENT M.D., I've opted to forego sinus surgery. And apparently, breast implants aren't considered a required procedure for men. At the rate I'm going, I'll have saggy chest lumps soon enough. (Sexy, no?)
November 1 is the beginning of the biannual Whiskerino event, where hundreds of men put down their razors and don't use them again until March 1. 120 days without shaving. I can't do it. I prefer kissing my wife, plus I wouldn't last two weeks with my face itching.
Instead, I'm going to start my own personal Flabberino. It'll serve as a filler for those days I'm uninspired to write anything else on the blog. I'll attempt to journal my exercise and diet, and by the end of four months, I'll see (1) how long I lasted (the over/under is November 10), (2) how much weight I lost (o/u is at 218, curious as I'm not dropping 15 pounds in ten days), and (3) how many over/unders I can incorporate in this paragraph (currently, three is a push). Gyms and/or running are both far from enticing, so I'll need to figure out my own path to svelteness. And yes, I wrote that simply to include the word "svelteness." Like someone with a speech impediment describing Walter Payton.
Start date will be 11/1, as I said, because I'm going to Philly in two weeks and God help me, I intend to scarf down an utterly unhealthy sequence of cheesesteaks. Then Halloween candy dishes, though with work's current health initiative, I wonder how many of those'll be filled with carrots and cucumber slices. No, and no.
In the same vein that you're not supposed to go to a supermarket when you're hungry, I probably shouldn't write about losing weight after consuming only a Breakfast Hot Pocket, a german chocolate brownie (with congealed coconut looking dangerously like someone sneezed on it), and a Coke. I'm pretty sure I hit none of the food groups, as I doubt anything listed would be classified as food.
We all have to start somewhere.
November 1 is the beginning of the biannual Whiskerino event, where hundreds of men put down their razors and don't use them again until March 1. 120 days without shaving. I can't do it. I prefer kissing my wife, plus I wouldn't last two weeks with my face itching.
Instead, I'm going to start my own personal Flabberino. It'll serve as a filler for those days I'm uninspired to write anything else on the blog. I'll attempt to journal my exercise and diet, and by the end of four months, I'll see (1) how long I lasted (the over/under is November 10), (2) how much weight I lost (o/u is at 218, curious as I'm not dropping 15 pounds in ten days), and (3) how many over/unders I can incorporate in this paragraph (currently, three is a push). Gyms and/or running are both far from enticing, so I'll need to figure out my own path to svelteness. And yes, I wrote that simply to include the word "svelteness." Like someone with a speech impediment describing Walter Payton.
Start date will be 11/1, as I said, because I'm going to Philly in two weeks and God help me, I intend to scarf down an utterly unhealthy sequence of cheesesteaks. Then Halloween candy dishes, though with work's current health initiative, I wonder how many of those'll be filled with carrots and cucumber slices. No, and no.
In the same vein that you're not supposed to go to a supermarket when you're hungry, I probably shouldn't write about losing weight after consuming only a Breakfast Hot Pocket, a german chocolate brownie (with congealed coconut looking dangerously like someone sneezed on it), and a Coke. I'm pretty sure I hit none of the food groups, as I doubt anything listed would be classified as food.
We all have to start somewhere.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Anticipation and Dissipation
Inspiration takes on many forms, but I've never seen it shaped like seven interlinked pretzels. Sadly, I've seen it deteriorating as my desire to write dwindles.
No, that's not accurate. I long to write. It's the actual writing I don't want to do. This has been a recurring conversation I've had with my wife, my friends, my pastor, and a plastic geranium. Thus far, I can't decide who's provided the best answer.
I want to want.
Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of things I crave: sex, food, sports, sleep, good entertainment, plenty of the standards. If I had the option to play volleyball for weeks on end, I'd be a happy (albeit sore) camper. (Oddly, if I had the option to camp for weeks on end, I would not be a happy volleyer.)
I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this on THR before, but it's the same desire I have to lose 30 pounds. As in: none. I don't want to lose 30 pounds at all. I'd really like to be 30 pounds lighter than I am. But the work, effort, diet, exercise, discipline involved in getting there? Hells no.
So I need to figure out some alternate reality where I enjoy - no, crave the writing process and don't only want a finished story. I think I do, but when I find myself behind my keyboard with a good idea (as compared to my multitude of crappy ones), I still can't conjure the push to start. Or proceed. I'm unsurprised at the variety of quitting point options, but there's no less disappointment.
Successful people do.
Do what?
Do anything.
No, that's not accurate. I long to write. It's the actual writing I don't want to do. This has been a recurring conversation I've had with my wife, my friends, my pastor, and a plastic geranium. Thus far, I can't decide who's provided the best answer.
I want to want.
Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of things I crave: sex, food, sports, sleep, good entertainment, plenty of the standards. If I had the option to play volleyball for weeks on end, I'd be a happy (albeit sore) camper. (Oddly, if I had the option to camp for weeks on end, I would not be a happy volleyer.)
I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this on THR before, but it's the same desire I have to lose 30 pounds. As in: none. I don't want to lose 30 pounds at all. I'd really like to be 30 pounds lighter than I am. But the work, effort, diet, exercise, discipline involved in getting there? Hells no.
So I need to figure out some alternate reality where I enjoy - no, crave the writing process and don't only want a finished story. I think I do, but when I find myself behind my keyboard with a good idea (as compared to my multitude of crappy ones), I still can't conjure the push to start. Or proceed. I'm unsurprised at the variety of quitting point options, but there's no less disappointment.
Successful people do.
Do what?
Do anything.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Agony of The Feet
The new debate: which do I hate more, shoe shopping or my current pair of sneakers?
My last pair was comfortable enough until the poorly-structured side ripped out. My wife found a sale at Target and brought home a new pair of sneakers, but the insoles were somehow a few millimeters too small (and unattached), so they float around while I walk. For something so small, they're disproportionately annoying - much like acne.
After a week of podiatric bother, I ventured to buy myself a new pair of sneakers. (My nature is to use synonyms, but I refuse to call them "tennis shoes." Never have, never will. I also won't call slippers "house shoes," nor will I call a bathrobe a "housecoat." (While I'm rambling, I drink soda, not pop. "Coke" is only Coca-cola, and if I ask for one at a restaurant, I don't want the waitress to ask what kind. "Roof" has the same double-o as in tooth or zoo, and doesn't rhyme with "hoof." And I'll quit the semantics and colloquialisms here to avoid riffing like an old George Carlin bit.)
I went to Shoe Carnival. (1) They almost always run a special - buy one pair, get the second pair half-0ff. (2) I had two of my boys with me, and they can shoot hoops at the basketball cage. (3) Clearance specials cover a good section of the back, and size 12.5 shoes aren't the easiest to find. When I arrived, I discovered (1) no specials beyond spinning the wheel ($1.00 off? Wow! For a cheap pair, that's like one third off the sales tax! Joy!) (2) The boys are big enough to climb into the basketball cage, and I'm too big to chase them. (3) Clearance, schmerence. Nothing my size. After perusing aisle after aisle for thirty minutes, I decide I'm not shelling out fifty bucks here. Plus, there's a mall across the street with multiple sneaker options.
Holy crap! Nikes run three figures. So do most reputable brand names. I visit three stores, check price tags, and politely depart as the salespeople dismiss me as the cheap tightwad I am.
I finally abandon this endeavor and hit the play area by the food court so the boys can expend the energy collected by walking around with their old man. And I see it: Payless.
We enter the store, find a pair of nice, comfy, Champion sneakers that run $24.99. I try 'em on and walk around - they're not the best pair I've ever worn, but they'll work. I make the purchase and we leave.
Three days later, playing basketball, I come to a quick stop, my feet slide inside my shoes to the front, and my big toenail pushes against the leather. Not through it - which, retrospectively, I would've preferred. Instead, it pops like I just dropped a hammer on it. Black toenail. Bloody sock. New limp. The snug shoes are ten times more painful now, and I get to wait however long for the nail itself to die and fall off.
So do I buy another pair of shoes? Or do I quit my job and try to get hired by Crocs?
My last pair was comfortable enough until the poorly-structured side ripped out. My wife found a sale at Target and brought home a new pair of sneakers, but the insoles were somehow a few millimeters too small (and unattached), so they float around while I walk. For something so small, they're disproportionately annoying - much like acne.
After a week of podiatric bother, I ventured to buy myself a new pair of sneakers. (My nature is to use synonyms, but I refuse to call them "tennis shoes." Never have, never will. I also won't call slippers "house shoes," nor will I call a bathrobe a "housecoat." (While I'm rambling, I drink soda, not pop. "Coke" is only Coca-cola, and if I ask for one at a restaurant, I don't want the waitress to ask what kind. "Roof" has the same double-o as in tooth or zoo, and doesn't rhyme with "hoof." And I'll quit the semantics and colloquialisms here to avoid riffing like an old George Carlin bit.)
I went to Shoe Carnival. (1) They almost always run a special - buy one pair, get the second pair half-0ff. (2) I had two of my boys with me, and they can shoot hoops at the basketball cage. (3) Clearance specials cover a good section of the back, and size 12.5 shoes aren't the easiest to find. When I arrived, I discovered (1) no specials beyond spinning the wheel ($1.00 off? Wow! For a cheap pair, that's like one third off the sales tax! Joy!) (2) The boys are big enough to climb into the basketball cage, and I'm too big to chase them. (3) Clearance, schmerence. Nothing my size. After perusing aisle after aisle for thirty minutes, I decide I'm not shelling out fifty bucks here. Plus, there's a mall across the street with multiple sneaker options.
Holy crap! Nikes run three figures. So do most reputable brand names. I visit three stores, check price tags, and politely depart as the salespeople dismiss me as the cheap tightwad I am.
I finally abandon this endeavor and hit the play area by the food court so the boys can expend the energy collected by walking around with their old man. And I see it: Payless.
We enter the store, find a pair of nice, comfy, Champion sneakers that run $24.99. I try 'em on and walk around - they're not the best pair I've ever worn, but they'll work. I make the purchase and we leave.
Three days later, playing basketball, I come to a quick stop, my feet slide inside my shoes to the front, and my big toenail pushes against the leather. Not through it - which, retrospectively, I would've preferred. Instead, it pops like I just dropped a hammer on it. Black toenail. Bloody sock. New limp. The snug shoes are ten times more painful now, and I get to wait however long for the nail itself to die and fall off.
So do I buy another pair of shoes? Or do I quit my job and try to get hired by Crocs?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pressure for Intelligent Substance
A few minutes ago, I posted on Ebert's blog. (I'd say Roger Ebert's blog, but I assume the surname is sufficient, as if he was a female pop singer or South American soccer player.) I could link his blog here, but my [miniscule] readership is intelligent enough to use Google, plus if you're one of the people that came here because of my link there, you need only hit your Back button.
On the off-chance you (1) were transported here from clicking my name on Ebert's blog and (2) haven't yet hit said Back button, I feel like I should prepare a worthwhile welcome -- something witty and sincere, something to convey the care I may or may not feel about you. It should portray this blog as the meaningless writer's idea book that it sometimes is, and you should think to yourself, "With a lifetime of practice and polish, this Becker guy's drivel could resemble a lesser draft of a Steve Martin piece." After all, we should all have aspirations.
If, however, you didn't travel to my corner of cyberspace via the Ebert link, odds are you're one of the six people I already know. As such, I should reward you for being stalwart followers of my babble, consistently encouraging me to greater heights (allowing me to bang my head against this blog's glass ceiling even harder). With every abusive slam, my brain swells, a side effect of which is mind growth and potential for more ideas to reside up there in the new expansion. Because of "friends" like you, I'll eventually be able to have... I dunno... SEVEN people follow me. (If too many people stalk, will it be as if I have my own Verizon network. They'd be creepy when I want a quiet moment with my wife.)
So to all the people who have made it this far, I salute you. I've never served in the military, I wasn't a cub scout, I didn't root for the Denver Broncos in the late 90s, and though I've done many a Bronx salute, I'll spare you that indignity. But consider yourself saluted.
Salud!
(And with that, I can safely state I failed in my endeavor for intelligent substance. At least I'm consistent.)
On the off-chance you (1) were transported here from clicking my name on Ebert's blog and (2) haven't yet hit said Back button, I feel like I should prepare a worthwhile welcome -- something witty and sincere, something to convey the care I may or may not feel about you. It should portray this blog as the meaningless writer's idea book that it sometimes is, and you should think to yourself, "With a lifetime of practice and polish, this Becker guy's drivel could resemble a lesser draft of a Steve Martin piece." After all, we should all have aspirations.
If, however, you didn't travel to my corner of cyberspace via the Ebert link, odds are you're one of the six people I already know. As such, I should reward you for being stalwart followers of my babble, consistently encouraging me to greater heights (allowing me to bang my head against this blog's glass ceiling even harder). With every abusive slam, my brain swells, a side effect of which is mind growth and potential for more ideas to reside up there in the new expansion. Because of "friends" like you, I'll eventually be able to have... I dunno... SEVEN people follow me. (If too many people stalk, will it be as if I have my own Verizon network. They'd be creepy when I want a quiet moment with my wife.)
So to all the people who have made it this far, I salute you. I've never served in the military, I wasn't a cub scout, I didn't root for the Denver Broncos in the late 90s, and though I've done many a Bronx salute, I'll spare you that indignity. But consider yourself saluted.
Salud!
(And with that, I can safely state I failed in my endeavor for intelligent substance. At least I'm consistent.)
Friday, September 25, 2009
Audience of Me
For an extra challenge, try completing today's newspaper's crossword puzzle using a Magnum marker.
Last night, I stopped at WalMart to buy ink cartridges for our printer. Black ink runs $21/box, and the tri-color collection will drain your account $38.88 (dunno what it is about rollback prices having repeated digits, but that's not the only reason I'm not a marketing guru). So I could've spent over $60 (after tax) and walked out with two cartridges. Or, as the result ended up, I could walk out of the store with a brand new printer complete with color and B&W cartridges for $32. Somewhere, environmentalists will freak out at all the once-used printers discarded because re-equipping was cheaper than re-upping ink. If there was thought or logic involved in pricing, I don't want any of these people elected to public office.
Last night, I stopped at WalMart to buy ink cartridges for our printer. Black ink runs $21/box, and the tri-color collection will drain your account $38.88 (dunno what it is about rollback prices having repeated digits, but that's not the only reason I'm not a marketing guru). So I could've spent over $60 (after tax) and walked out with two cartridges. Or, as the result ended up, I could walk out of the store with a brand new printer complete with color and B&W cartridges for $32. Somewhere, environmentalists will freak out at all the once-used printers discarded because re-equipping was cheaper than re-upping ink. If there was thought or logic involved in pricing, I don't want any of these people elected to public office.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I Want a Robot
My robot will dispense (and never run out of) M&Ms of whatever flavor I crave, be it peanut, krispie, new strawberry/peanut butter, or coconut. Does M&M have a headquarters where they distribute every flavor, like the Coca-Cola Museum in Atlanta?
My robot will provide GPS for errant golf shots I hit. It will also send out an inaudible, low-frequency pitch that negatively effects the backswing and follow-through of anyone I play with. Neither of these will help me break 120.
My robot will smell like freshly cooked cinnamon buns.
My robot will run two steps faster than I do, but it won't complain or hurt either of us when I tackle the crap out of it.
My robot will inspire and motivate me to compose the backlog of stories I have which would otherwise sit in my writer's notebook as idea seedlings. (What exactly is a seedling? Isn't a seed a baby plant? Do we need baby babies?)
My robot will provide traffic reports at the proper moments while I'm driving. No more receiving the report after I've poorly chosen the path with the looming jam. No more hearing the report fifteen minutes before I reach the intersection requiring a choice, since the entire pattern has changed since then. These traffic reports will be interspersed with my personal iPod which works by voice command. My robot will recognize the word "Kajagoogoo."
My robot will have a cooler that supplies tapioca pudding and Big Dog Root Beer on separate taps.
My robot will sense when my wife is angry at me, since I have such difficulty figuring this out early enough. It will also offer me intelligent suggestions for things to say, rather than egg me on sarcastically. My robot will slap me upside the head in front of my wife, sufficiently hard enough to appease her but not painful enough to inflict permanent damage.
My robot will transform into a go-cart which can safely bounce off other cars' tires along the highway with no fear of causing any accidents.
My robot will remember everything I forget. It will not remind me unless I ask it to.
My robot will be eco-friendly, whether that means solar power, rechargeable batteries, or better yet, perpetual motion. My robot will also possess an off-switch and it won't resist me killing its power.
My robot will read and record my dreams, calculate the precise moment when my sleep cycle would allow me to wake up feeling well-rested, and gently play wake-up music that encourages me to get out of bed. Or Sade, if it senses a good morning.
My robot will supply blog entries when I have nothing better to write about than robots.
My robot will provide GPS for errant golf shots I hit. It will also send out an inaudible, low-frequency pitch that negatively effects the backswing and follow-through of anyone I play with. Neither of these will help me break 120.
My robot will smell like freshly cooked cinnamon buns.
My robot will run two steps faster than I do, but it won't complain or hurt either of us when I tackle the crap out of it.
My robot will inspire and motivate me to compose the backlog of stories I have which would otherwise sit in my writer's notebook as idea seedlings. (What exactly is a seedling? Isn't a seed a baby plant? Do we need baby babies?)
My robot will provide traffic reports at the proper moments while I'm driving. No more receiving the report after I've poorly chosen the path with the looming jam. No more hearing the report fifteen minutes before I reach the intersection requiring a choice, since the entire pattern has changed since then. These traffic reports will be interspersed with my personal iPod which works by voice command. My robot will recognize the word "Kajagoogoo."
My robot will have a cooler that supplies tapioca pudding and Big Dog Root Beer on separate taps.
My robot will sense when my wife is angry at me, since I have such difficulty figuring this out early enough. It will also offer me intelligent suggestions for things to say, rather than egg me on sarcastically. My robot will slap me upside the head in front of my wife, sufficiently hard enough to appease her but not painful enough to inflict permanent damage.
My robot will transform into a go-cart which can safely bounce off other cars' tires along the highway with no fear of causing any accidents.
My robot will remember everything I forget. It will not remind me unless I ask it to.
My robot will be eco-friendly, whether that means solar power, rechargeable batteries, or better yet, perpetual motion. My robot will also possess an off-switch and it won't resist me killing its power.
My robot will read and record my dreams, calculate the precise moment when my sleep cycle would allow me to wake up feeling well-rested, and gently play wake-up music that encourages me to get out of bed. Or Sade, if it senses a good morning.
My robot will supply blog entries when I have nothing better to write about than robots.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Functional Wardrobe
I’m wearing pants with a hole at the crotch. The tear along the seams runs about an inch long. This isn’t the first time I noticed the gap – in fact, I’ve probably worn these slacks a dozen times since discovering it. What I can’t discern is my motivation. I sit at a desk most of the day with my lap hidden safely underneath, so it’s not that I’m trying to show off my boxer briefs to co-workers. While a lack of desire (or ability) to sew might explain why the hole still exists, such lack doesn’t justify my wearing the pants.
Over time, I've donned more than my fair share of holy socks and even a dress shirt or three with a rip. As I don't want to hand in my man-card yet, I own plenty of boxer-briefs with tears beneath the elastic waistband (do they use genetically-modified, weaker cotton there?). But these are the only slacks with a defect that could get me in trouble, should someone happen to spot the spot.
But then... wouldn't reporting a crotchal discrepancy be as much a mark on the reporter's record as mine? It's one thing to comment on a sprig of broccoli in someone else's teeth, but how can someone approach their supervisor to tattle on this kind of problem? Would it be considered sexual harassment somehow? I realize HR departments have to keep reporter's identities anonymous, but man, figuring out whosaidit would make my workdays more mysterious. Worth it? Dunno.
'Course, I'm the guy who drove to Blockbuster's drop-box last night at 11:45 in my boxer shorts and nothing else. And I don't park in my garage. (My neighbors may soon revisit the adage about good fences...)
Over time, I've donned more than my fair share of holy socks and even a dress shirt or three with a rip. As I don't want to hand in my man-card yet, I own plenty of boxer-briefs with tears beneath the elastic waistband (do they use genetically-modified, weaker cotton there?). But these are the only slacks with a defect that could get me in trouble, should someone happen to spot the spot.
But then... wouldn't reporting a crotchal discrepancy be as much a mark on the reporter's record as mine? It's one thing to comment on a sprig of broccoli in someone else's teeth, but how can someone approach their supervisor to tattle on this kind of problem? Would it be considered sexual harassment somehow? I realize HR departments have to keep reporter's identities anonymous, but man, figuring out whosaidit would make my workdays more mysterious. Worth it? Dunno.
'Course, I'm the guy who drove to Blockbuster's drop-box last night at 11:45 in my boxer shorts and nothing else. And I don't park in my garage. (My neighbors may soon revisit the adage about good fences...)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Inspired to Puke
Oatmeal flakes, popcorn shells and coconut shavings. Preferably not combined.
98% of the food I consume passes between my lips, gets processed by my teeth, moves through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. The above trio shares a distinct trait: fragments get stuck against my gums, between my teeth, or on the walls of my throat. I don't have as much difficulty with coconut, but I understand that's why my sister-in-law complains about the texture.
Popcorn, on the other hand, offers a tricky conundrum. If I'm willing to spend five bucks at a movie theater for a small bucket, must I also splurge another fiver for three pounds of ice and 6 ounces of Dr. Pepper? If I don't, I can guarantee a shard of kernel skin will lodge against my epiglottis or near my uvula. If I resisted conceding at the concessions stand, I can either gag incessantly for the duration of the movie or excuse myself and find the germ incubator known as a water fountain. (I'm not much of a germaphobe, but that's a lot of kids licking metal...) My other (and usually chosen) option is to perform a popcornotomy on myself, fishing around my mouth with my finger-tweezers, hoping I don't trigger my hypersensitive upchuck reflex. (Notice I don't refer to it as a gag reflex; I wish I could stop at that stage.)
So why do I persist eating the threesome of tormenting foods? I don't like hot drinks or spicy foods, and even the thought of an eggshell in my french toast can ruin my entire appetite. It isn't like popcorn or oatmeal is a fine cuisine that'll cause me to wake in the middle of the night with cold sweats, yearning for the flavor. (Maybe coconut, but as I mentioned, I've no problems there.) I don't know.
In life, 'tis best to leave some mysteries unanswered.
(Ooh. I feel like I just wrote a daily devotional, complete with horrible illustration that doesn't relate to anything. I'll stop here.)
98% of the food I consume passes between my lips, gets processed by my teeth, moves through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. The above trio shares a distinct trait: fragments get stuck against my gums, between my teeth, or on the walls of my throat. I don't have as much difficulty with coconut, but I understand that's why my sister-in-law complains about the texture.
Popcorn, on the other hand, offers a tricky conundrum. If I'm willing to spend five bucks at a movie theater for a small bucket, must I also splurge another fiver for three pounds of ice and 6 ounces of Dr. Pepper? If I don't, I can guarantee a shard of kernel skin will lodge against my epiglottis or near my uvula. If I resisted conceding at the concessions stand, I can either gag incessantly for the duration of the movie or excuse myself and find the germ incubator known as a water fountain. (I'm not much of a germaphobe, but that's a lot of kids licking metal...) My other (and usually chosen) option is to perform a popcornotomy on myself, fishing around my mouth with my finger-tweezers, hoping I don't trigger my hypersensitive upchuck reflex. (Notice I don't refer to it as a gag reflex; I wish I could stop at that stage.)
So why do I persist eating the threesome of tormenting foods? I don't like hot drinks or spicy foods, and even the thought of an eggshell in my french toast can ruin my entire appetite. It isn't like popcorn or oatmeal is a fine cuisine that'll cause me to wake in the middle of the night with cold sweats, yearning for the flavor. (Maybe coconut, but as I mentioned, I've no problems there.) I don't know.
In life, 'tis best to leave some mysteries unanswered.
(Ooh. I feel like I just wrote a daily devotional, complete with horrible illustration that doesn't relate to anything. I'll stop here.)
Monday, September 21, 2009
Exit Strategory
I posted a blog entry on Friday. It was personal and a little too transparent for me to keep somewhere public for anyone to read. Morose, depressing, and a genuine side of myself I don't care to share. Fortunately, it doesn't appear often and the circumstances to conjure my response have since subsided. This morning, I deleted Friday's post. Gone. There's probably a cyberpirategeek somewhere who could infiltrate my system/network and retrieve the file, though I'd prefer it if they didn't.
It brings to mind another consideration, though: Storage. This entire blog has been self-contained, as I've not saved any of the entries anywhere else. Should Blogspot suddenly vanish off the planet, so will these thoughts. My response to which is simple...
So?
No, I'm not quoting Peter Gabriel album titles. But has anything here done more than provide three minutes of bathroom reading material? Is there a post worthy of a search engine tracking me down and offering me a job as a humorist/satirist/house mother for Big Brother XIII? Doubtful.
The idea hit me - I could delete one post every day. By the end of -- I think I'm in the fifties now, but I'm nervous navigating away from this page lest I lose what little I've typed this sitting - however many days, I'd be back to ground zero. As if it never existed. Seems appropriate. Also seems like a sociological experiment conducted by a needy attention-whore. Hmm. Semantics, I suppose.
I doubt I'll delete them, but when I finally decide I've got nothing left to say about nothing, I know one avenue to take. Yep, me and The Neverending Story. Like that needed another sequel. Phew.
It brings to mind another consideration, though: Storage. This entire blog has been self-contained, as I've not saved any of the entries anywhere else. Should Blogspot suddenly vanish off the planet, so will these thoughts. My response to which is simple...
So?
No, I'm not quoting Peter Gabriel album titles. But has anything here done more than provide three minutes of bathroom reading material? Is there a post worthy of a search engine tracking me down and offering me a job as a humorist/satirist/house mother for Big Brother XIII? Doubtful.
The idea hit me - I could delete one post every day. By the end of -- I think I'm in the fifties now, but I'm nervous navigating away from this page lest I lose what little I've typed this sitting - however many days, I'd be back to ground zero. As if it never existed. Seems appropriate. Also seems like a sociological experiment conducted by a needy attention-whore. Hmm. Semantics, I suppose.
I doubt I'll delete them, but when I finally decide I've got nothing left to say about nothing, I know one avenue to take. Yep, me and The Neverending Story. Like that needed another sequel. Phew.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Buy Me a Drink?
Cold oatmeal. Cold English muffins. Cold fried eggs. A three-course breakfast gone horribly wrong. Can English muffins be eaten without being toasted? Fresh, out of the bag? For that matter, why are they best when slightly overtoasted, and a few of the tips are dark brown?
The above meal nutritionally surpasses my standard morning fare of cheddar goldfish and Coke. Orange juice is my favorite beverage, but it doesn't compliment the variety of other foods as well as I'd prefer. OJ and pretzels sounds disgusting. Heck, I have trouble switching back and forth between cereal and OJ, since the combination with milk reminds me too much of Heathers. Maybe it's just me.
Also on my top five beverage is Dogs and Suds Root Beer - ideally, the BIG DOG can (20 oz.) A quick Google search informs me D&S is an actual fast food chain in the midwest (mostly north), though I don't foresee making a road trip solely to visit one. Sadly, the lone Nashville supermarket that sold it closed about two years ago, so I'll have to find alternatives to get it again.
Hmm. Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer. It's red. It's sweet. It has sasparilla. What more could you ask for? (Besides national distribution.)
Barq's French Vanilla Creme soda. Both this and the above birch beer only come in two-liter bottles. Is this a deliberate conspiracy (as compared to a coincidental conspiracy?) by soft drink manufacturers to keep me from transporting my favorite drinks in airplane carry-on luggage? Methinks the flight attendant protest too much.
Stewart's Orange Creme soda. Only good when really cold. Tastes like someone melted a creamsicle and shoved it in a bottle. Gooood stuff.
By now, you should notice a trend toward sodas once you pass OJ. There was (and remarkably, is an orange juice soda on the market: Orangina. Complete with minimal pulp. Absolutely revolting. Looks like someone backwashed in the bottle. Yuck.)
Started this blog entry two hours ago and left the window open while I did other work. Now the English muffin is soggy and feels like a cold sponge in my mouth. So this is what people are talking about when they refer to British cuisine? I understand the reputation now.
The above meal nutritionally surpasses my standard morning fare of cheddar goldfish and Coke. Orange juice is my favorite beverage, but it doesn't compliment the variety of other foods as well as I'd prefer. OJ and pretzels sounds disgusting. Heck, I have trouble switching back and forth between cereal and OJ, since the combination with milk reminds me too much of Heathers. Maybe it's just me.
Also on my top five beverage is Dogs and Suds Root Beer - ideally, the BIG DOG can (20 oz.) A quick Google search informs me D&S is an actual fast food chain in the midwest (mostly north), though I don't foresee making a road trip solely to visit one. Sadly, the lone Nashville supermarket that sold it closed about two years ago, so I'll have to find alternatives to get it again.
Hmm. Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer. It's red. It's sweet. It has sasparilla. What more could you ask for? (Besides national distribution.)
Barq's French Vanilla Creme soda. Both this and the above birch beer only come in two-liter bottles. Is this a deliberate conspiracy (as compared to a coincidental conspiracy?) by soft drink manufacturers to keep me from transporting my favorite drinks in airplane carry-on luggage? Methinks the flight attendant protest too much.
Stewart's Orange Creme soda. Only good when really cold. Tastes like someone melted a creamsicle and shoved it in a bottle. Gooood stuff.
By now, you should notice a trend toward sodas once you pass OJ. There was (and remarkably, is an orange juice soda on the market: Orangina. Complete with minimal pulp. Absolutely revolting. Looks like someone backwashed in the bottle. Yuck.)
Started this blog entry two hours ago and left the window open while I did other work. Now the English muffin is soggy and feels like a cold sponge in my mouth. So this is what people are talking about when they refer to British cuisine? I understand the reputation now.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
10 For Tuesday (on Wednesady)
She's a bottomless pit of information. Which is to say she can never retrieve anything I teach her.
Who wears tall, pointed, conical hats? Wizards, dunces, partygoers. Try as I might, I'm unable to draw a connection without a sharpie.
One type of Scotch tape claims to be invisible. It fell out of my Office Depot bag and now I can't see it anywhere.
Has anyone invented a sailboat with a detachable sail usable for parasailing? The boat would also come equipped with a power-motor. Glide all you want, and when you finish, enjoy a relaxing sail. Bonus uses if boating near tall waterfalls.
While I imagine the difference between hair and fur is an issue of density, I doubt any scientist has a definitive follicle per square inch ratio correlating to each.
Music sidekicks like John Oates or Andrew from WHAM! - if I ran into one of them at the supermarket, would I recognize them? Would they want me to?
I'm not slouching. I'm positioning myself aerodynamically in case my monitor tranforms into a giant turbine. I'm surprised OSHA hasn't come after those people with "proper" posture.
Sure, they call them life jackets, but have you ever seen a jacket perform CPR? I think not.
I shall now alphabetically list the letters in list: I, L, S, T. I shall now leave the chronological list up to someone else.
There must be an opposite of epiphanies, where someone is filled with brilliant ideas and suddenly, they vanish! I'm sure I suffer from this malady.
Who wears tall, pointed, conical hats? Wizards, dunces, partygoers. Try as I might, I'm unable to draw a connection without a sharpie.
One type of Scotch tape claims to be invisible. It fell out of my Office Depot bag and now I can't see it anywhere.
Has anyone invented a sailboat with a detachable sail usable for parasailing? The boat would also come equipped with a power-motor. Glide all you want, and when you finish, enjoy a relaxing sail. Bonus uses if boating near tall waterfalls.
While I imagine the difference between hair and fur is an issue of density, I doubt any scientist has a definitive follicle per square inch ratio correlating to each.
Music sidekicks like John Oates or Andrew from WHAM! - if I ran into one of them at the supermarket, would I recognize them? Would they want me to?
I'm not slouching. I'm positioning myself aerodynamically in case my monitor tranforms into a giant turbine. I'm surprised OSHA hasn't come after those people with "proper" posture.
Sure, they call them life jackets, but have you ever seen a jacket perform CPR? I think not.
I shall now alphabetically list the letters in list: I, L, S, T. I shall now leave the chronological list up to someone else.
There must be an opposite of epiphanies, where someone is filled with brilliant ideas and suddenly, they vanish! I'm sure I suffer from this malady.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Appetite for Restructure
A biologist studied and experimented enough with fruit genetics to create a Clementine orange that doesn't have seeds. I know of seedless grapes as well, and I've heard of seedless watermelons (though that would deprive the only reason for eating them). My limited knowledge recalls the only way for fruits to reproduce is with new seeds. If we keep conviencing ourselves of picking out the spitters, are we not reducing the flora on our planet? Who decided it was okay to play God and de-seed the garden of eatin'?
This morning, I ate two packages of Quaker oatmeal, Cinnamon Roll flavor. Later, I grabbed a leftover cinnamon roll from an attorney meeting. What are the odds of winning a lawsuit against Quaker oatmeal for false advertising?
My car radio crapped out months ago. It sporadically turns on, sometimes at full (and unadjustable) volume. Heaven only knows what station it will tune to, and it only plays a few minutes before going mute again. Last night, I adjusted my car antenna, so if I can't listen to bad music or sports radio, at least I can warn the planet about potential alien invasions. I'm generous in that (and only that) way.
My brother-in-law claims that I enjoy torturing small animals. Hmm. I need better parameters for "small."
At some point, candy manufacturers will start wrapping M&Ms individually. Then M&M minis. Seriously. How far can they go to make consumers believe they're not eating something bad for them? NEWSFLASH: If you buy something from an aisle that includes Mallo Cups, Big League Chew and Whatchamacallits, you're not a health nut. Let us eat, you nutritionist Nazis. And stop teasing us at Halloween with mini-bite-size-1/2 ounce morsels, or else I'm loading my leaf blower with Granola and coming to your house.
This morning, I ate two packages of Quaker oatmeal, Cinnamon Roll flavor. Later, I grabbed a leftover cinnamon roll from an attorney meeting. What are the odds of winning a lawsuit against Quaker oatmeal for false advertising?
My car radio crapped out months ago. It sporadically turns on, sometimes at full (and unadjustable) volume. Heaven only knows what station it will tune to, and it only plays a few minutes before going mute again. Last night, I adjusted my car antenna, so if I can't listen to bad music or sports radio, at least I can warn the planet about potential alien invasions. I'm generous in that (and only that) way.
My brother-in-law claims that I enjoy torturing small animals. Hmm. I need better parameters for "small."
At some point, candy manufacturers will start wrapping M&Ms individually. Then M&M minis. Seriously. How far can they go to make consumers believe they're not eating something bad for them? NEWSFLASH: If you buy something from an aisle that includes Mallo Cups, Big League Chew and Whatchamacallits, you're not a health nut. Let us eat, you nutritionist Nazis. And stop teasing us at Halloween with mini-bite-size-1/2 ounce morsels, or else I'm loading my leaf blower with Granola and coming to your house.
Monday, September 14, 2009
An Apples and Oranges a Day
Said it before and I'll say it again: Stupid people piss me off.
Do they know they're morons? Is there a subsect of self-awareness that includes enligtened stupidity? Or is ignorance a prerequisite, lest they sense a nagging to improve their intelligence (or lack thereof)? It's not a lower IQ that bothers me; it's the deliberate life choices that supply proof for the argument against Darwinism. Better yet are the self-righteous few who preach their idiocy from pedestals and achieve support groups to encourage them toward greater accomplishments in the realm of dumb (the dumbdom?)
Today's example: I take two nasal decongestants. Veramist and P...nase. (The name escapes me, but while a crappy memory correlates with an impenetrable skull, it doesn't necessarily make me one of them.) The P-nase is to be taken in the morning. Veramist at night. One of the side effects of P-nase is sleepiness. Veramist can cause restlessness.
Thanks, Dr. Pharmacist. Imbecile.
Do they know they're morons? Is there a subsect of self-awareness that includes enligtened stupidity? Or is ignorance a prerequisite, lest they sense a nagging to improve their intelligence (or lack thereof)? It's not a lower IQ that bothers me; it's the deliberate life choices that supply proof for the argument against Darwinism. Better yet are the self-righteous few who preach their idiocy from pedestals and achieve support groups to encourage them toward greater accomplishments in the realm of dumb (the dumbdom?)
Today's example: I take two nasal decongestants. Veramist and P...nase. (The name escapes me, but while a crappy memory correlates with an impenetrable skull, it doesn't necessarily make me one of them.) The P-nase is to be taken in the morning. Veramist at night. One of the side effects of P-nase is sleepiness. Veramist can cause restlessness.
Thanks, Dr. Pharmacist. Imbecile.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sleepometer
With the seemingly unlimited technology we possess, has a machine yet been invented that quantifies the amount of sleep a person needs on a nightly basis? I underwent a sleep study two years ago for sleep apnea; doctors observed and videotaped me snoring and determined I stopped breathing twenty or so times every hour, which explained my grogginess at the time. Since then, I've worn the tube+mask apparatus on my face nightly, which makes it all but impossible to get a decent goodnight kiss.
Sure, there's the arbitrary "some people require only four hours of sleep, while most need a solid eight" guideline. I've also heard that too much sleep leaves you just as tired as not enough. If it hasn't yet been created, someone needs to build a contraption that considers comfort, time, REM (the one without Michael Stipe), stress, and whatever other factors, then derives an exact figure. If I was positive the ideal amount of sleep was seven hours and twelve minutes - and any more or less would make waking up like escaping quicksand - you can bet your sweet bippy (like I need anyone's sweet bippy?) I'd set my alarm clock appropriately and I'd leave the snooze untouched.
The other variable I only now considered is falling asleep. Though I've been tired enough lately to hit the pillow and feel the embrace of slumber within moments, that's not always the case. How many times have I stared at the illuminated red numbers beside my head to tell me I'm down to five hours and twenty-one minutes before the ugliest sound in the world pierces my ears? We need to have off-switches. Computers have sleep mode; why can't we?
Would waking up to an enjoyable noise make me happier in the morning? I used to possess a CD-player alarm clock, so I could set it to play whatever song I wanted. I utilized Duncan Sheik or something relatively smooth and calm, and I often woke up to the sound of the disc spinning as the gadget powered up so as not to wake my wife. I also slept through the first three tracks on occasion.
Methinks I need to take the Thomas Edison route. Wasn't he the inventor who took naps whenever and wherever he wanted?
Restaurant waiter: How would you like your steak, sir? Sir?
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Wife: Medium rare for him, please. And if you have any quilts in the back, he's a big tipper.
Sure, there's the arbitrary "some people require only four hours of sleep, while most need a solid eight" guideline. I've also heard that too much sleep leaves you just as tired as not enough. If it hasn't yet been created, someone needs to build a contraption that considers comfort, time, REM (the one without Michael Stipe), stress, and whatever other factors, then derives an exact figure. If I was positive the ideal amount of sleep was seven hours and twelve minutes - and any more or less would make waking up like escaping quicksand - you can bet your sweet bippy (like I need anyone's sweet bippy?) I'd set my alarm clock appropriately and I'd leave the snooze untouched.
The other variable I only now considered is falling asleep. Though I've been tired enough lately to hit the pillow and feel the embrace of slumber within moments, that's not always the case. How many times have I stared at the illuminated red numbers beside my head to tell me I'm down to five hours and twenty-one minutes before the ugliest sound in the world pierces my ears? We need to have off-switches. Computers have sleep mode; why can't we?
Would waking up to an enjoyable noise make me happier in the morning? I used to possess a CD-player alarm clock, so I could set it to play whatever song I wanted. I utilized Duncan Sheik or something relatively smooth and calm, and I often woke up to the sound of the disc spinning as the gadget powered up so as not to wake my wife. I also slept through the first three tracks on occasion.
Methinks I need to take the Thomas Edison route. Wasn't he the inventor who took naps whenever and wherever he wanted?
Restaurant waiter: How would you like your steak, sir? Sir?
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Wife: Medium rare for him, please. And if you have any quilts in the back, he's a big tipper.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
No, I Don't Speak Droid
Star Wars and Transformers have cross-platform toys. I know this because, last night at Target, I perused an aisle where I could buy some kind of transport ship (no chance of me remembering the name) that could reconfigure into a robot. I'm trying to figure out which would be worse: George Lucas writing the script for such a film or Michael Bay directing it?
A friend wants to sit down and watch Episodes I-VI in order in one day. I think if I could go a lifetime without seeing The Phantom Menace again, I'd be a happier person. While I enjoyed Star Wars as much as the next guy, I'm no fanboy. I owned about a dozen action figures, the land speeder (with retractable wheels!), and a couple t-shirts. I had to play with other kids who owned the Millenium Falcon or the next-to-impossible-to-find blue Snaggletooth. I've probably seen the 1977 movie a dozen times total, I made the buzzing light saber sound while waving sticks, and I may have debated whether or not the Force was with me at age 10.
For Justin's birthday, he received a Lego set to build a ship. (Again, without the box in front of me, I can't tell you what it was.) I'm estimating there are 300 individual Legos to build this. The instruction manual is rougly 50 pages long. This is a toy? Don't get me wrong; it's nice to share a bonding moment every night where my eldest can laugh at his old man for not finding four 1x1 light grey pieces (not dark grey, those are for a different component). When [read: if] this masterpiece is completed, it'll be roughly the size of a softball. With 300 pieces. And heaven forbid they try to play with it, as Scooter will invariably explore the intricacies of space dogfights and collide the ship into a wall/the piano/the ceiling fan, sprawling THREE HUNDRED Legos across our living room.
My brother-in-law works at Hasbro in the Star Wars toy department. He's to blame.
Writing that reminds me that in life, it's not as important to find a solution to our problems as it is to accuse a scapegoat. I feel better now.
A friend wants to sit down and watch Episodes I-VI in order in one day. I think if I could go a lifetime without seeing The Phantom Menace again, I'd be a happier person. While I enjoyed Star Wars as much as the next guy, I'm no fanboy. I owned about a dozen action figures, the land speeder (with retractable wheels!), and a couple t-shirts. I had to play with other kids who owned the Millenium Falcon or the next-to-impossible-to-find blue Snaggletooth. I've probably seen the 1977 movie a dozen times total, I made the buzzing light saber sound while waving sticks, and I may have debated whether or not the Force was with me at age 10.
For Justin's birthday, he received a Lego set to build a ship. (Again, without the box in front of me, I can't tell you what it was.) I'm estimating there are 300 individual Legos to build this. The instruction manual is rougly 50 pages long. This is a toy? Don't get me wrong; it's nice to share a bonding moment every night where my eldest can laugh at his old man for not finding four 1x1 light grey pieces (not dark grey, those are for a different component). When [read: if] this masterpiece is completed, it'll be roughly the size of a softball. With 300 pieces. And heaven forbid they try to play with it, as Scooter will invariably explore the intricacies of space dogfights and collide the ship into a wall/the piano/the ceiling fan, sprawling THREE HUNDRED Legos across our living room.
My brother-in-law works at Hasbro in the Star Wars toy department. He's to blame.
Writing that reminds me that in life, it's not as important to find a solution to our problems as it is to accuse a scapegoat. I feel better now.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Odd Antennae
I have a crop of skin tags where my right shoulder connects with my neck. They itch today. But I'm hesitant to scratch them, lest I accidentally pry one off beneath a fingernail. I've done it before, and (1) they bleed a LOT, plus (2) somehow, a disproportionate number of nerves squeeze into each tiny flap of skin, so blotting away the torrent of blood stings. A long time ago, when I was feeling particularly stupid/tired/annoyed/like myself, I performed some amateur surgeries with a pair of nail clippers. To my not-so-stupid/tired/annoyed eyes, I can't determine if the tags I severed grew back; the unnecessary (and unwanted) skin garden has a variety of sizes and shapes.
I don't think there are any medical concerns beyond my wife's nausea when she gives me shoulder massages. So having a real doctor examine and remove them would be considered an elective procedure, causing me to pay. (I reached my 2009 medical deductible just before Independence Day, and I'm trying to figure out what other ailments I need now that they're free.)
In related news, I had another instance of brainfreeze today. That's nothing unusual by itself, but this one carried an odd sense of deja vu. So not only did I know that I knew the song I couldn't think of, but I felt like I couldn't remember it before. Jumping into the wayback machine before internet searching made everything easy, no one could ever remember Naked Eyes was the band that did "Always Something There to Remind Me" (technically, a remake of a Motown track). Today's tune was finally tracked down: Sundown, by Gordon Lightfoot. Weird. I knew I'd be embarrassed asking people what it was because I had to sing a few bars, but thankfully, the melody is distinguishable enough. Can't imagine I'll hear Mr. Lightfoot sampled by any rappers anytime soon. Maybe Weird Al?
I ate lunch at a restaurant with prepackaged music today. All 80s. As crappy as the music the electronic era may have produced, it's still the decade of nostalgic radio. I also recalled a talk show segment asking for a big pop star who everyone knew (and some must have enjoyed), but no one ever owned their albums. Suggestions were Kool & The Gang and Eddie Money. I figured out a third today: REO Speedwagon. They're appearing in concert, along with Styx. What must it be like to go through your entire career as an opening act?
Hey! I have a story idea!
I don't think there are any medical concerns beyond my wife's nausea when she gives me shoulder massages. So having a real doctor examine and remove them would be considered an elective procedure, causing me to pay. (I reached my 2009 medical deductible just before Independence Day, and I'm trying to figure out what other ailments I need now that they're free.)
In related news, I had another instance of brainfreeze today. That's nothing unusual by itself, but this one carried an odd sense of deja vu. So not only did I know that I knew the song I couldn't think of, but I felt like I couldn't remember it before. Jumping into the wayback machine before internet searching made everything easy, no one could ever remember Naked Eyes was the band that did "Always Something There to Remind Me" (technically, a remake of a Motown track). Today's tune was finally tracked down: Sundown, by Gordon Lightfoot. Weird. I knew I'd be embarrassed asking people what it was because I had to sing a few bars, but thankfully, the melody is distinguishable enough. Can't imagine I'll hear Mr. Lightfoot sampled by any rappers anytime soon. Maybe Weird Al?
I ate lunch at a restaurant with prepackaged music today. All 80s. As crappy as the music the electronic era may have produced, it's still the decade of nostalgic radio. I also recalled a talk show segment asking for a big pop star who everyone knew (and some must have enjoyed), but no one ever owned their albums. Suggestions were Kool & The Gang and Eddie Money. I figured out a third today: REO Speedwagon. They're appearing in concert, along with Styx. What must it be like to go through your entire career as an opening act?
Hey! I have a story idea!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Probably Productive Time
In case you've not deduced it yet, I fancy myself a writer. I know the clues leading to such a conclusion were sparse, and I'd hate to think you were still wandering aimlessly in your missive to figure out why I was put on this planet. (Rest assured, this is the only planet I've burdened with my presence.)
So Friday afternoon, I engaged in a serious discussion about the value of Facebook. My co-worker is closer to retirement age, and he doesn't understand how people can waste so much time updating people with "I'm going to do the laundry," "The clothes are in the washer," and "Thank God for stain removers." I agreed that the consistent status changes announcing every trivial event was overwhelming in volume and underwhelming in substance. I also don't use FB for games, discovering which of Snow White's seven dwarfs/how many 1964 album covers I can identify/learning what my name says about my personality type. While I am having fun with Gilthe Ghoul, I really only use my main profile for chatting with friends. (And, of course, comparing my number of friends with others to inflate my superiority complex.)
My argument was if people weren't wasting away on FB, they'd be sitting on their couches watching crappy TV programs. Which was where I believed the perpetual updating stemmed - our heightened sense of voyeurism. With over a decade's barrage of "reality" programming, people have determined their importance by parodying themselves (or, in most cases, being a pitifully laughable character that is themself). By twitting/incessant posting, they develop the belief that other people care about Downy's ability to remove strained carrots from a polyester blouse.
In other words: if people weren't devolving on FB, they'd be eroding from TV. My co-worker was disappointed, nearly appalled that society could let so much valuable time go to waste when they could be doing something worthwhile. Like what? Working out? Is it for health or vanity? Sports? Again, upon what foundation? Although we agreed that people create more memories from sports and face-to-face interaction than they ever will online. I can't think of a single instance where I've resurfaced a chat... "Do you remember when you typed....?" Nope.
After a solid 30 minutes of back-and-forth, he brought up how he's finishing his CPA license/degree/certification/shows how good my listening skills are. He recently attended law school - just for the hell of it. Didn't finish, but put two years in to get a better idea of how the legal mind operates. The more I learned of his escapades, the more I realized he was one of those people.
And I am not.
After all, the time I'm using writing this blog could be better invested in writing a novel. That way, someone else would have my book to read on the couch while their body and mind atrophies. My little contribution to the worsement (opposite of betterment?) of society.
So Friday afternoon, I engaged in a serious discussion about the value of Facebook. My co-worker is closer to retirement age, and he doesn't understand how people can waste so much time updating people with "I'm going to do the laundry," "The clothes are in the washer," and "Thank God for stain removers." I agreed that the consistent status changes announcing every trivial event was overwhelming in volume and underwhelming in substance. I also don't use FB for games, discovering which of Snow White's seven dwarfs/how many 1964 album covers I can identify/learning what my name says about my personality type. While I am having fun with Gilthe Ghoul, I really only use my main profile for chatting with friends. (And, of course, comparing my number of friends with others to inflate my superiority complex.)
My argument was if people weren't wasting away on FB, they'd be sitting on their couches watching crappy TV programs. Which was where I believed the perpetual updating stemmed - our heightened sense of voyeurism. With over a decade's barrage of "reality" programming, people have determined their importance by parodying themselves (or, in most cases, being a pitifully laughable character that is themself). By twitting/incessant posting, they develop the belief that other people care about Downy's ability to remove strained carrots from a polyester blouse.
In other words: if people weren't devolving on FB, they'd be eroding from TV. My co-worker was disappointed, nearly appalled that society could let so much valuable time go to waste when they could be doing something worthwhile. Like what? Working out? Is it for health or vanity? Sports? Again, upon what foundation? Although we agreed that people create more memories from sports and face-to-face interaction than they ever will online. I can't think of a single instance where I've resurfaced a chat... "Do you remember when you typed....?" Nope.
After a solid 30 minutes of back-and-forth, he brought up how he's finishing his CPA license/degree/certification/shows how good my listening skills are. He recently attended law school - just for the hell of it. Didn't finish, but put two years in to get a better idea of how the legal mind operates. The more I learned of his escapades, the more I realized he was one of those people.
And I am not.
After all, the time I'm using writing this blog could be better invested in writing a novel. That way, someone else would have my book to read on the couch while their body and mind atrophies. My little contribution to the worsement (opposite of betterment?) of society.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Crowd Ignorance
Know your audience. It’s a cardinal rule of writing, so long as you’re not a humble monk or a pretentious rock lyricist claiming apathy toward their following. Strangely, as I wrote “cardinal,” the Catholic hierarchy popped into my mind. Reinforced by the idea that even a monk would have an audience – specifically, God. And yet, one Biblical meaning of “know” has a connotation that means knowing an entire audience would minimally be disturbing, and potentially lead to a bevy of lawsuits and personal appearances on the Maury Povich show. Running that tangent one step further, I had the bad fortune of seeing Nick Cage’s “Knowing” in the theater over the summer. Contradictory to the word, I’ve no clue why I did that.
I wonder whether it’d be worth my while to re-spew my Kitty Pool reports here. Rod was a former participant, Sue’s husband is a current player, and Jim Curran used to play football on Sunday afternoons before D&D marathons at the Lansdowne Library. That’s 50% of my followers with some tie-in to football. Recognizing my predestined inability to please all the people all the time (even if I knew them), shouldn’t half be sufficient to reprint my weekly commentary?
I suspect it’d be like retelling people about a fantasy football team. Which is pathetic. I could cross-culture my audience and tell the 20 Kitty poolers they have to get their updates here. With 20 people, that’d get me one/one-billionth towards Ashton Kutcher’s Twitterheads. Good. The less I have in common with Kelso, the happier I am.
After thinking (and still not conclusively knowing), methinks I’ll keep the entities separate. I’ll pen weekly football commentary, post here weekdaily, twice weekly with Gilthe, and occasionally submit something to SM. Plus I have five years of my original ten-year promise to myself to produce one of the plays I’ve written. And I haven’t submitted a children’s story for publication to a magazine in months. Ideas abound, but all ideas are crap until they’re written out.
I suppose I could be inspired/persuaded/funded to write something for a particular audience. So, for the minor disservice of this blog, please send me a dollar. With six of you, that’s a Happy Meal with an upgrade to a milkshake. Joy.
In the long run, here I am – unsurprisingly – babbling about nothing again. It’s a gift. In fact, it’s my exclusive, free gift to you. You’re welcome.
I wonder whether it’d be worth my while to re-spew my Kitty Pool reports here. Rod was a former participant, Sue’s husband is a current player, and Jim Curran used to play football on Sunday afternoons before D&D marathons at the Lansdowne Library. That’s 50% of my followers with some tie-in to football. Recognizing my predestined inability to please all the people all the time (even if I knew them), shouldn’t half be sufficient to reprint my weekly commentary?
I suspect it’d be like retelling people about a fantasy football team. Which is pathetic. I could cross-culture my audience and tell the 20 Kitty poolers they have to get their updates here. With 20 people, that’d get me one/one-billionth towards Ashton Kutcher’s Twitterheads. Good. The less I have in common with Kelso, the happier I am.
After thinking (and still not conclusively knowing), methinks I’ll keep the entities separate. I’ll pen weekly football commentary, post here weekdaily, twice weekly with Gilthe, and occasionally submit something to SM. Plus I have five years of my original ten-year promise to myself to produce one of the plays I’ve written. And I haven’t submitted a children’s story for publication to a magazine in months. Ideas abound, but all ideas are crap until they’re written out.
I suppose I could be inspired/persuaded/funded to write something for a particular audience. So, for the minor disservice of this blog, please send me a dollar. With six of you, that’s a Happy Meal with an upgrade to a milkshake. Joy.
In the long run, here I am – unsurprisingly – babbling about nothing again. It’s a gift. In fact, it’s my exclusive, free gift to you. You’re welcome.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Site seeing
For those of you stuck at a computer with too much downtime and not enough brain cells to know any differently, here are a list of websites I frequent. If you choose to believe we are all sums of our experiences, you probably had a built-in excuse for failing math class.
Funny pages:
comics.com - 9 Chickweed Lane, Big Nate, Cow & Boy, Get Fuzzy, Frazz, Liberty Meadows, Monty, Pearls Before Swine, Scary Gary, Working Daze
ucomics.com - The Duplex, Basic Instructions
xkcd.com
Sporty Spice:
espn.page2 - especially Gregg Easterbrook, Bill Simmons, DJ Gallo
700level.com
mlb.com - weird, since I don't care much about baseball
No Explanation Possible:
awkwardfamilyphotos.com
kongregate.com - especially Castle Wars
StoryMash.com - nashvillebecker
rogerebert.com
duel2.com
SCADshorts.com
theonion.com
despair.com
Blogs I follow/ed
nortonnews.weebly.com
thegodoflove.blogspot.com
oneyearonearth.com
inklingx.com
What? A list? Seriously, I'm resorting to a lame list like this as my entire post? How pathetic is that?
26.3%
Funny pages:
comics.com - 9 Chickweed Lane, Big Nate, Cow & Boy, Get Fuzzy, Frazz, Liberty Meadows, Monty, Pearls Before Swine, Scary Gary, Working Daze
ucomics.com - The Duplex, Basic Instructions
xkcd.com
Sporty Spice:
espn.page2 - especially Gregg Easterbrook, Bill Simmons, DJ Gallo
700level.com
mlb.com - weird, since I don't care much about baseball
No Explanation Possible:
awkwardfamilyphotos.com
kongregate.com - especially Castle Wars
StoryMash.com - nashvillebecker
rogerebert.com
duel2.com
SCADshorts.com
theonion.com
despair.com
Blogs I follow/ed
nortonnews.weebly.com
thegodoflove.blogspot.com
oneyearonearth.com
inklingx.com
What? A list? Seriously, I'm resorting to a lame list like this as my entire post? How pathetic is that?
26.3%
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Exercises for a Flabby Mind
I graduated from an art college, so I have no excuse for my lame drawings. One sketching exercise I did was blind contour drawing, where I would focus on the object/model (often, my non-drawing hand) and never look away, transmitting the ideas from my brain to my right hand. (I've also said before that I have a left arm so I don't walk in circles.) Today, I recognized the similarities between blind contour drawing and typing, where I'm not supposed to look at the screen, rather expending all my focus on the page. Free writing is another exercise, where I ponder an object and write anything and everything I can about it with no editing and no stopping for sixty seconds.
I shall now attempt a blind free writing exercise. Today's topic: Inflatable pool toys.
(Closes eyes.)
I an't understand how Wal-Mart and some other big box stores are capable of selling inflatable toys for $.99 a piece, when they have hte sabig rraft transluscent, the kind you approach from below Jaws, fold in half, and they never work proerly again. Instead of placing a label on them that warrns children not to ingest the plastic (or put their head inside the packing bag), they should tell consumers not to fold their raft in haf, unless they never want it to inflate completely again. Tubes are largely the same thing, and I've laways been the guy friends recruit to blow stuff up. I do have asthma, so I'm not sur if it's the jstupid faces I make or the possibilty that I'll die that encourages my friends to encourage me to pucker my lips around some foreign plstic object nad blow until my interior cheeks hurt. (Please don't quote me out of context on that.)
(All done.)
Wow. I reread the above; besides the typos, it carries some coherency, but not enough to separate it from any other entry I've posted. Similar to the blind contour drawings, I'll most likely never use this. Unlike the corresponding sketches, I'm going to post this so everyone can see it.
Was I the only student who was embarrassed to show the nude models my final drawings? Doing the sketch wasn't the part I was ashamed of, but if they didn't think their body was configured the way I portrayed, they were probably right. On the flipside, it was one time where I could say "Whether or not it's the truth, you do look fat in this."
I shall now attempt a blind free writing exercise. Today's topic: Inflatable pool toys.
(Closes eyes.)
I an't understand how Wal-Mart and some other big box stores are capable of selling inflatable toys for $.99 a piece, when they have hte sabig rraft transluscent, the kind you approach from below Jaws, fold in half, and they never work proerly again. Instead of placing a label on them that warrns children not to ingest the plastic (or put their head inside the packing bag), they should tell consumers not to fold their raft in haf, unless they never want it to inflate completely again. Tubes are largely the same thing, and I've laways been the guy friends recruit to blow stuff up. I do have asthma, so I'm not sur if it's the jstupid faces I make or the possibilty that I'll die that encourages my friends to encourage me to pucker my lips around some foreign plstic object nad blow until my interior cheeks hurt. (Please don't quote me out of context on that.)
(All done.)
Wow. I reread the above; besides the typos, it carries some coherency, but not enough to separate it from any other entry I've posted. Similar to the blind contour drawings, I'll most likely never use this. Unlike the corresponding sketches, I'm going to post this so everyone can see it.
Was I the only student who was embarrassed to show the nude models my final drawings? Doing the sketch wasn't the part I was ashamed of, but if they didn't think their body was configured the way I portrayed, they were probably right. On the flipside, it was one time where I could say "Whether or not it's the truth, you do look fat in this."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Anatomy of anatomy
It is next to impossible to type with jazz hands.
My Mr. T. chia-head has a cleft forehead; both eyebrows have rainbows above them, but there's a definitive crease down the center. As he sports a beard, I can't determine whether or not he also has a cleft chin. Though the cartilege of his nose might hide such a thing, is it possible he has a cleft skull?
What is the maximum price of something I could purchase using only loose pennies? I must have a dollar or two in copper in my car's junk tray (shows my opinion). Over time, they've accumulated a greasy coating. Dunno if that's a natural pennies-in-sunlight byproduct, or if my kids sneezed on them and the slippy goo is the chemical reaction. Another instance where ignorance is bliss.
I've managed to break the nose pads off at least three pairs of my sunglasses. My sons are responsible for damaging dozens of pairs. I have a sizeable cranium to begin with, so it's hard enough to find shades that don't resemble John Lennon specs when I wear 'em. Checking mirrors, I can see they're often crooked. Yet no one informs me of this. Is "You're glasses are crooked" along the same line as "You have food stuck between your teeth," in that you need an established relationship to inform the unknowing sufferer? Are none of my friendships quality enough to reveal that information? I'm going with option B: all my friends think the glasses are straight and my head is crooked.
Had a speck of sleepdust in my eye pocket (the part of your eye socket closest to your nose where gunk accumulates and crystallizes overnight). Rubbed it out and scratched the skin - for a miniscule thing, it was sharp. Better to suffer the discomfort now; had I left it unremoved, it could've potentially grown like rock candy and wedged my eyeball straight out of my head.
Color test: blood is red. Veins are blue. What color wire do I cut so the bomb in my circulatory system doesn't detonate?
My Mr. T. chia-head has a cleft forehead; both eyebrows have rainbows above them, but there's a definitive crease down the center. As he sports a beard, I can't determine whether or not he also has a cleft chin. Though the cartilege of his nose might hide such a thing, is it possible he has a cleft skull?
What is the maximum price of something I could purchase using only loose pennies? I must have a dollar or two in copper in my car's junk tray (shows my opinion). Over time, they've accumulated a greasy coating. Dunno if that's a natural pennies-in-sunlight byproduct, or if my kids sneezed on them and the slippy goo is the chemical reaction. Another instance where ignorance is bliss.
I've managed to break the nose pads off at least three pairs of my sunglasses. My sons are responsible for damaging dozens of pairs. I have a sizeable cranium to begin with, so it's hard enough to find shades that don't resemble John Lennon specs when I wear 'em. Checking mirrors, I can see they're often crooked. Yet no one informs me of this. Is "You're glasses are crooked" along the same line as "You have food stuck between your teeth," in that you need an established relationship to inform the unknowing sufferer? Are none of my friendships quality enough to reveal that information? I'm going with option B: all my friends think the glasses are straight and my head is crooked.
Had a speck of sleepdust in my eye pocket (the part of your eye socket closest to your nose where gunk accumulates and crystallizes overnight). Rubbed it out and scratched the skin - for a miniscule thing, it was sharp. Better to suffer the discomfort now; had I left it unremoved, it could've potentially grown like rock candy and wedged my eyeball straight out of my head.
Color test: blood is red. Veins are blue. What color wire do I cut so the bomb in my circulatory system doesn't detonate?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Misquotable Mementos
Bad comedy sketch - The Flipper Family: Similar to the 80's travesty "The Dinosaurs," have people dress up in dolphin costumes and live anthropomorphically, with every joke incorporating some form of "I did that on porpoise!" It's horrid. And probably appearing on SNL this weekend.
Once again pondering the reason behind doing this blog. It isn't that I need the justification - heck, my following has expanded at a pace that should reach infinity by infinity. But why would someone search out this particular blog? The title, while brilliant, doesn't really describe the content. I'm not consistently writing fiction, nor how-to advice, nor enough comedy to qualify as humor. I'm amassing a strange collection of essays without any common thread beyond the author. Yet, if someone Googles "Jim Becker blog," I don't pop up on the first page of results. (I'll leave it up to Curran, my crack research team, to figure out if/where I appear.) On a whim, I tried "Nash Becker Blog" and discovered I'm not even alone in that field.
As much as anything, this is a quest for meaning. I've outlasted my expectations, and while I'm not yearning to type in my latest post, I'm also not dreading the monotonous chore of developing a thought into a half-dozen paragraphs. So what is The Hypocrite's Refuge... that's funny. Minor faux pas: while I was typing in "Refuge," I mistyped "Refuse." The Hypocrite's Garbage. Considering the cornucopia of content squeezed together here (and rotting), it may be pertinent for me to alter the title.
Are Freudian slips always supposed to have some sexual connotation? I don't know whether they're as misused as the concept of irony; if so, how ironic would that be? (Answer: not at all.)
I could always post my blog updates on my Facebook status, which would give me something to do with my own profile (as compared to Gilthe's). Or I could do commentary on my "friends" status updates. Better yet, I could do theme weeks. Like the Discovery Channel, except mine won't involve elephants procreating or the predators of the deep.
For someone who detests the idea of writing for the internet, I sure do a lot of it. (Ah yes, there's that title again.) It isn't like I'll be walking up the street (as most people walk down it) and some stranger will recognize me from this website, then pay me $100 for my autograph. For the six of you reading this: if you can convince some stranger to pay me $100 (that didn't somehow come out of my bank account to begin with), I'll happily give you a percentage. A finder's fee of sorts.
I know the answer. This blog is something people will dig up after (1) I get famous and/or (2) I die. Hopefully the former won't require the latter.
Once again pondering the reason behind doing this blog. It isn't that I need the justification - heck, my following has expanded at a pace that should reach infinity by infinity. But why would someone search out this particular blog? The title, while brilliant, doesn't really describe the content. I'm not consistently writing fiction, nor how-to advice, nor enough comedy to qualify as humor. I'm amassing a strange collection of essays without any common thread beyond the author. Yet, if someone Googles "Jim Becker blog," I don't pop up on the first page of results. (I'll leave it up to Curran, my crack research team, to figure out if/where I appear.) On a whim, I tried "Nash Becker Blog" and discovered I'm not even alone in that field.
As much as anything, this is a quest for meaning. I've outlasted my expectations, and while I'm not yearning to type in my latest post, I'm also not dreading the monotonous chore of developing a thought into a half-dozen paragraphs. So what is The Hypocrite's Refuge... that's funny. Minor faux pas: while I was typing in "Refuge," I mistyped "Refuse." The Hypocrite's Garbage. Considering the cornucopia of content squeezed together here (and rotting), it may be pertinent for me to alter the title.
Are Freudian slips always supposed to have some sexual connotation? I don't know whether they're as misused as the concept of irony; if so, how ironic would that be? (Answer: not at all.)
I could always post my blog updates on my Facebook status, which would give me something to do with my own profile (as compared to Gilthe's). Or I could do commentary on my "friends" status updates. Better yet, I could do theme weeks. Like the Discovery Channel, except mine won't involve elephants procreating or the predators of the deep.
For someone who detests the idea of writing for the internet, I sure do a lot of it. (Ah yes, there's that title again.) It isn't like I'll be walking up the street (as most people walk down it) and some stranger will recognize me from this website, then pay me $100 for my autograph. For the six of you reading this: if you can convince some stranger to pay me $100 (that didn't somehow come out of my bank account to begin with), I'll happily give you a percentage. A finder's fee of sorts.
I know the answer. This blog is something people will dig up after (1) I get famous and/or (2) I die. Hopefully the former won't require the latter.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Lollipops and Duck Sauce
Throwing a curveball to myself, as somehow I'm pulling the Bugs Bunny stunt of playing both pitcher and catcher. Today's twist: start with the title and concoct a post to justify it. It's similar to a drill we used in improv comedy, when it was essential to fake being an authority on everything.
I accidentally stabbed myself in the head with a low-hanging tree branch over the weekend. Or invisible squirrels lowered the twig an instant before I stepped forward. I prefer the latter, as invisible squirrels are more fun to blame than personal stupidity. Plus, with the proper alliance between varmints and termites, a I can hold the entire virtual forest conspiracy responsible. Theoretically I could look up when I walk to make sure I won't jab my skull, but what happens when caterpillars join forces and stuff their cocoons into my nostrils with hopes of suffocating me to death (or at the very least, using my sinus cavities to grow an army of butterflies to wreak havoc on my internal organs)? God only knows how many no-see-ums I've ingested over the years; it's possible I was subconsciously influenced by insects to wander into the woods in the first place. Logic dictates I was pursuing an errant frisbee throw, but if the bug kingdom controls my brain, they could've forced my hand to release the disc early, knowing full-well how I'd chase after it like a robot with a pre-programmed itinerary.
(I need only check prior blog entries to discover the damage to my head created no discernable change in my writing style. If, however, I'm finally inspired to author a novel and the subject matter is seven-year cicadas, I'm checking with a shrink.)
Writing incorporates a similiar momentum as running, especially when authors utilize run-on sentences. Sit behind a keyboard long enough and you'll potentially experience a release of hormones that provide a "writer's high," the euphoria that makes you think you can write forever. Retrospectively, you'll discover the feeling was more likely a culminated sugar high from this morning's diet of Pop Tarts, Coke, and a Snicker's mini. Different delirium, same result: you end up trying to figure out how you ended up with toe-blisters and bloody nips.
Considering the challenge I set out for myself in the first paragraph, I'd have to call this a sub-epic failure. The best I got: I've seen "suk" on Chinese menus and lollipops are suckers. Weak, I know.
I accidentally stabbed myself in the head with a low-hanging tree branch over the weekend. Or invisible squirrels lowered the twig an instant before I stepped forward. I prefer the latter, as invisible squirrels are more fun to blame than personal stupidity. Plus, with the proper alliance between varmints and termites, a I can hold the entire virtual forest conspiracy responsible. Theoretically I could look up when I walk to make sure I won't jab my skull, but what happens when caterpillars join forces and stuff their cocoons into my nostrils with hopes of suffocating me to death (or at the very least, using my sinus cavities to grow an army of butterflies to wreak havoc on my internal organs)? God only knows how many no-see-ums I've ingested over the years; it's possible I was subconsciously influenced by insects to wander into the woods in the first place. Logic dictates I was pursuing an errant frisbee throw, but if the bug kingdom controls my brain, they could've forced my hand to release the disc early, knowing full-well how I'd chase after it like a robot with a pre-programmed itinerary.
(I need only check prior blog entries to discover the damage to my head created no discernable change in my writing style. If, however, I'm finally inspired to author a novel and the subject matter is seven-year cicadas, I'm checking with a shrink.)
Writing incorporates a similiar momentum as running, especially when authors utilize run-on sentences. Sit behind a keyboard long enough and you'll potentially experience a release of hormones that provide a "writer's high," the euphoria that makes you think you can write forever. Retrospectively, you'll discover the feeling was more likely a culminated sugar high from this morning's diet of Pop Tarts, Coke, and a Snicker's mini. Different delirium, same result: you end up trying to figure out how you ended up with toe-blisters and bloody nips.
Considering the challenge I set out for myself in the first paragraph, I'd have to call this a sub-epic failure. The best I got: I've seen "suk" on Chinese menus and lollipops are suckers. Weak, I know.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Mother Nature Hates You Too
Dear Mr. Weatherman:
It has become increasingly difficult to respect you and your profession. I tend to hold the institution more responsible than the individual, as your counterparts on rival stations spew the same misinformation as you; indeed, even the misnamed weather.com assures me that I should only carry an umbrella on the sunniest of days. I'd think you collect royalties from Isotoner (Tote's is a subsidiary), except you throw curveballs and recommend I leave the umbrella in my closet when it rains.
Summer weather should be easy. It's either sunny or rainy. Yeah, there are different degrees (by now, you should infer all puns are intentional) of each, but it's either doing to be dry or wet.
With your high-fangled technology, you go so far as to provide hourly predictions, so I can plan accordingly for the difference between a 5% chance and a 40% chance of T-storms. Maybe that's your loophole - technically, you don't spell out what the T stands for. Tidy? Tepid? Tuesday?
I've seen weathermen for years, and never once have I heard one apologize for offering bad advice. Rather, you paste on your plastic smile, recite jokes worse than those I spew in this blog, and self-righteously wink as you send it back to the anchor desk. You're a fraud.
My son has football practice thrice weekly, and I - like a sheep - faithfully check your forecast to see whether thunderstorms will cancel the session and free up our evening. For the better part of August, you confidently promised 30-40% storms. Mathematically, if you're calling for 35% chance of rain, then you should be right at least one out of three times, right? Yet no practices have been called off. Zero.
Only today, when it was supposed to be sunny and beautiful did I wake up to find dark clouds, wet pavement, and bumper-to-bumper driving on the highways because local idiots don't know how to drive when the sky is falling, the sky is falling!
Today. The day of my son's sixth birthday. Y'know, the day of the party where we have 30 people coming to our house for outdoor fun and games.
You shouldn't earn any money beyond tips charitable people leave you - out of pity. Or, maybe when your tarot cards and tea leaves happen to deal out an accurate prediction, you get paid. Otherwise, suck it up. Put your money where your mouth is.
There's a 30-40% chance I'll hold the party outside tonight anyway. And when I say "outside," I mean in your yard. You may want to cover your carpet with towels, because that's a lot of muddy feet. If you're lucky, we may give you a piece of cake. Jerk.
Sincerely,
Nash
It has become increasingly difficult to respect you and your profession. I tend to hold the institution more responsible than the individual, as your counterparts on rival stations spew the same misinformation as you; indeed, even the misnamed weather.com assures me that I should only carry an umbrella on the sunniest of days. I'd think you collect royalties from Isotoner (Tote's is a subsidiary), except you throw curveballs and recommend I leave the umbrella in my closet when it rains.
Summer weather should be easy. It's either sunny or rainy. Yeah, there are different degrees (by now, you should infer all puns are intentional) of each, but it's either doing to be dry or wet.
With your high-fangled technology, you go so far as to provide hourly predictions, so I can plan accordingly for the difference between a 5% chance and a 40% chance of T-storms. Maybe that's your loophole - technically, you don't spell out what the T stands for. Tidy? Tepid? Tuesday?
I've seen weathermen for years, and never once have I heard one apologize for offering bad advice. Rather, you paste on your plastic smile, recite jokes worse than those I spew in this blog, and self-righteously wink as you send it back to the anchor desk. You're a fraud.
My son has football practice thrice weekly, and I - like a sheep - faithfully check your forecast to see whether thunderstorms will cancel the session and free up our evening. For the better part of August, you confidently promised 30-40% storms. Mathematically, if you're calling for 35% chance of rain, then you should be right at least one out of three times, right? Yet no practices have been called off. Zero.
Only today, when it was supposed to be sunny and beautiful did I wake up to find dark clouds, wet pavement, and bumper-to-bumper driving on the highways because local idiots don't know how to drive when the sky is falling, the sky is falling!
Today. The day of my son's sixth birthday. Y'know, the day of the party where we have 30 people coming to our house for outdoor fun and games.
You shouldn't earn any money beyond tips charitable people leave you - out of pity. Or, maybe when your tarot cards and tea leaves happen to deal out an accurate prediction, you get paid. Otherwise, suck it up. Put your money where your mouth is.
There's a 30-40% chance I'll hold the party outside tonight anyway. And when I say "outside," I mean in your yard. You may want to cover your carpet with towels, because that's a lot of muddy feet. If you're lucky, we may give you a piece of cake. Jerk.
Sincerely,
Nash
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Impersonal Assistance
Desk clutter reproduces. I'm sure of it. I can't tell which pages, paper clips, and other assorted crap is male and which is female; I've no clue if, similar to worms or the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, my office supplies can singularly produce offspring; I don't know if or how genetics are passed from one generation of sticky note to the next.
There was a carnival game growing up where the barker handed the rube three red discs, with which the mark was supposed to cover an oversized white circle in its entirety. Easiest game on the runway, requiring no skill or luck. Do it once and you should be able to do it every time.
I could never do it. Never in a zillion years. While I seem to remember reading something about fairness and how fixing games was illegal, I've lived a lifetime without hearing overwhelming support for carny ethics.
So here I sit in my cubicle, watching the useless paperwork spread, leaving little spots of formica visible. The movement is glacial, which is to say I never witness it, but the nightly evolution leaves less workspace every morning I arrive. Could there be busywork sprites, the paper-pusher's equivalent of cobbler's elves? If so, how can I appease them enough to leave me alone?
At the rate I'm going, my keyboard will soon disappear beneath a sea of memos and fliers. But even the memos are useless, the kind addressed to "All Staff" about dress code and parking garage closures. I fear the thought that something important might be buried within this fire hazard. Is it better self-preservation to search the mess or toss it all in a recycling bin under the hope that if it's so important, it will be resent? If so, how would the reminder (God help me if it's a final notice) swim to the surface so it could be seen?
I just located my rip-off-a-day calendar. Top date? Thursday, July 16. Eesh.
There was a carnival game growing up where the barker handed the rube three red discs, with which the mark was supposed to cover an oversized white circle in its entirety. Easiest game on the runway, requiring no skill or luck. Do it once and you should be able to do it every time.
I could never do it. Never in a zillion years. While I seem to remember reading something about fairness and how fixing games was illegal, I've lived a lifetime without hearing overwhelming support for carny ethics.
So here I sit in my cubicle, watching the useless paperwork spread, leaving little spots of formica visible. The movement is glacial, which is to say I never witness it, but the nightly evolution leaves less workspace every morning I arrive. Could there be busywork sprites, the paper-pusher's equivalent of cobbler's elves? If so, how can I appease them enough to leave me alone?
At the rate I'm going, my keyboard will soon disappear beneath a sea of memos and fliers. But even the memos are useless, the kind addressed to "All Staff" about dress code and parking garage closures. I fear the thought that something important might be buried within this fire hazard. Is it better self-preservation to search the mess or toss it all in a recycling bin under the hope that if it's so important, it will be resent? If so, how would the reminder (God help me if it's a final notice) swim to the surface so it could be seen?
I just located my rip-off-a-day calendar. Top date? Thursday, July 16. Eesh.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
License to Drive Me Bonkers
I moved to Nashville in 1996 and I still haven't gotten used to the fact that any route you take will either use Old Hickory Boulevard, Briley, and/or Harding, or you'll cross them all. Apparently, the transportation counsel decided it wasn't important for street names to remain intact from one end of the street to the other, nor was it essential that they stay straight. Case in point: to get to my house from the west, you take Old Hickory Boulevard, then turn right on Old Hickory Boulevard. If you continued straight - on a 45 MPH, two lanes each way, plus a suicide turning lane - you'd be on Bell Road. If you turned left, you'd end up on Benzing. The logic (or lack thereof) is astounding.
So this morning, I'm driving to work and I have to turn from the first OHB. I approach the traffic light, wanting to turn right. As this is a looong light with a moody sensor which often chooses to ignore vehicles, I opt to head east on Bell Road. I can turn on red if need be - and the need almost always bes.
I'm slowing down and a car originally in the left turn lane (to continue on OHB instead of going straight into Benzing) (I know I just stated that above, but it's absurd enough to repeat) decides she needs to go another direction. Without using those pesky, distracting turn signals, she whips into my lane in front of me. I'm not close enough to slam on my brakes, but it's a better wakeup call than the Coke I'll drink when I arrive at the office.
She inches into the intersection and aims her car toward Bell. If my car was directly behind hers, we'd be 6:10. She's seriously that far into the road. But she won't move. Her engine's running, she's watching the empty street. I see no cell phone, and if she's on a bluetooth or hands-free, she's not talking. Apparently, it's more important to her to simply clog the road and disillusion other drivers from their thoughts of timely arrivals.
I figure if I didn't honk my horn when she cut me off originally, I should probably hold back now. But after a solid minute of sitting in a car with no working radio, I nudge the horn. She either can't hear or ignores me. Unsurprising.
The light finally turns green and I appreciate the chance at a new morning, since I can pass her on Bell Road. Nope. She continues to watch the non-existent oncoming traffic that would have to wait at their red light if they were there. I debate swerving around her sportscar so I won't have to endure another cycle.
Suddenly, she sweeps a wide loop to the left after the last car on my OHB makes their turn. Whew. No clue how many other folks she confused/annoyed/collided with this morning, but I was thankful she was no longer playing Spy Hunter along my route.
So this morning, I'm driving to work and I have to turn from the first OHB. I approach the traffic light, wanting to turn right. As this is a looong light with a moody sensor which often chooses to ignore vehicles, I opt to head east on Bell Road. I can turn on red if need be - and the need almost always bes.
I'm slowing down and a car originally in the left turn lane (to continue on OHB instead of going straight into Benzing) (I know I just stated that above, but it's absurd enough to repeat) decides she needs to go another direction. Without using those pesky, distracting turn signals, she whips into my lane in front of me. I'm not close enough to slam on my brakes, but it's a better wakeup call than the Coke I'll drink when I arrive at the office.
She inches into the intersection and aims her car toward Bell. If my car was directly behind hers, we'd be 6:10. She's seriously that far into the road. But she won't move. Her engine's running, she's watching the empty street. I see no cell phone, and if she's on a bluetooth or hands-free, she's not talking. Apparently, it's more important to her to simply clog the road and disillusion other drivers from their thoughts of timely arrivals.
I figure if I didn't honk my horn when she cut me off originally, I should probably hold back now. But after a solid minute of sitting in a car with no working radio, I nudge the horn. She either can't hear or ignores me. Unsurprising.
The light finally turns green and I appreciate the chance at a new morning, since I can pass her on Bell Road. Nope. She continues to watch the non-existent oncoming traffic that would have to wait at their red light if they were there. I debate swerving around her sportscar so I won't have to endure another cycle.
Suddenly, she sweeps a wide loop to the left after the last car on my OHB makes their turn. Whew. No clue how many other folks she confused/annoyed/collided with this morning, but I was thankful she was no longer playing Spy Hunter along my route.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Times of the Signs
A staffer at work hung a dry erase board on their office door with the following demand: KEEP DOOR CLOSE AT ALL TIMES. While I won't rule out the possibility someone erased the letter D, I prefer reading it verbatim. Which means either (1) I need to post myself near that portal from arrival to departure, or (2) I need to remove the hinge pins and carry a heavy metal door with me everywhere I go. In either case, I can point at the directive when asked what on earth I'm doing. (Why do people ask "What on earth are you doing?" Where else would I be? Suddenly I'm Dr. Manhattan? Need I verify that I'm wearing pants?)
My favorite misread sign was one I saw while driving through Philadelphia looking for a parking spot. On the wall of the lot: PLEASE PAY UNINFORMED PARKING ATTENDANT. It was my mistake - the word "Uniformed" was printed correctly - but I couldn't help but picture some fool wandering between cars collecting cash and asking what it was for.
New definition for the Washington Post:
Lolcation: (n) The place in cyberspace where people laugh out loud yet it makes no sound.
Another direction...
I should follow someone else's blog so I can see how it works when new posts surface. Unfortunately, of my five followers, Ace and Honeygloom have deserted theirs, Ms. Norton keeps a blog with a different organization, and Rod has too much difficulty forming complete thoughts to worry about complete sentences. I suppose I could follow someone else followed by my followers, thereby shortening the six degrees of separation. But that feels like the blind leading the blog, and besides that, I don't like to read. So if you have a suggestion of an entertaining post-er who uses this venue to broadcast their idiocy for the world to see... basically, I'm looking for an inferior version of myself. Preferably someone with lots of followers that will subsequently discover my genius and worship me accordingly.
My favorite misread sign was one I saw while driving through Philadelphia looking for a parking spot. On the wall of the lot: PLEASE PAY UNINFORMED PARKING ATTENDANT. It was my mistake - the word "Uniformed" was printed correctly - but I couldn't help but picture some fool wandering between cars collecting cash and asking what it was for.
New definition for the Washington Post:
Lolcation: (n) The place in cyberspace where people laugh out loud yet it makes no sound.
Another direction...
I should follow someone else's blog so I can see how it works when new posts surface. Unfortunately, of my five followers, Ace and Honeygloom have deserted theirs, Ms. Norton keeps a blog with a different organization, and Rod has too much difficulty forming complete thoughts to worry about complete sentences. I suppose I could follow someone else followed by my followers, thereby shortening the six degrees of separation. But that feels like the blind leading the blog, and besides that, I don't like to read. So if you have a suggestion of an entertaining post-er who uses this venue to broadcast their idiocy for the world to see... basically, I'm looking for an inferior version of myself. Preferably someone with lots of followers that will subsequently discover my genius and worship me accordingly.
Monday, August 24, 2009
400 points on the SAT
Both of my sisters share "Elizabeth" as a middle name. (By share, I don't mean they have to pass it back and forth, though that would be kinda neat.)
It dawned on me that Elizabeth may possibly be responsible for more nicknames than any other name: Ellie, Eliza, Lisa, Liz, Lizzie, Beth, Betty, Elsie, and those are off the top of my head.
Whereas, if you're given the name "Todd," that's it. Unless you want to count "Tod" as a nickname. I don't.
Maybe I thought of this because we call our middle child "Shu." Y'know, short for JoSHUa. Whereas our youngest is "Scooter," long for Scott. Perhaps it's because I go by "Jim," which doesn't really make sense as a nickname for James. Jamie? Sure. But Jim? Where does the I stem from?
It's the kind of thing that makes you want to leave off the final E and call me Georg.
It dawned on me that Elizabeth may possibly be responsible for more nicknames than any other name: Ellie, Eliza, Lisa, Liz, Lizzie, Beth, Betty, Elsie, and those are off the top of my head.
Whereas, if you're given the name "Todd," that's it. Unless you want to count "Tod" as a nickname. I don't.
Maybe I thought of this because we call our middle child "Shu." Y'know, short for JoSHUa. Whereas our youngest is "Scooter," long for Scott. Perhaps it's because I go by "Jim," which doesn't really make sense as a nickname for James. Jamie? Sure. But Jim? Where does the I stem from?
It's the kind of thing that makes you want to leave off the final E and call me Georg.
Friday, August 21, 2009
By the Power of Grey Socks!
No one cares about my socks.
That's not a complaint. Were it up to me, I'd wear grey socks every day; they're simultaneously bright enough to be sporty and dark enough to be formal. Grey is the ultimate compromise - otherwise, people wouldn't approach life as a series of shades of it. And yet, I can't match the lack of hue with tan, beige, or any kind of brown, according to my wife, who has infinitely more fashion sense than I do.
The only fashion I care about is my t-shirts, and I can wear them with grey socks. And pants.
Hell, I've even old-man-at-the-beached it and worn socks with my Crocs. The words rhyme. What better association could there be?
My in-laws bought me a pair of dress socks for either my birthday or Christmas. Those dates are roughly ten weeks apart, and that shows how memorable the occasion was. I've worn them twice - beige-ish, thin, high-quality material with better elasticity. But they're not thick enough, so my feet slide around those few millimeters within my shoes. Every step I take. The least sock fashion designers could do is incorporate some sort of traction so their products don't slip against the interior sole.
At least I don't wear striped socks anymore. And, truth be told, I no longer own any grey ones. But I don't want to hear my wife complain when my black socks are covered in burrs after I wear them for a round of disc golf. Good thing I have black sneakers.
That's not a complaint. Were it up to me, I'd wear grey socks every day; they're simultaneously bright enough to be sporty and dark enough to be formal. Grey is the ultimate compromise - otherwise, people wouldn't approach life as a series of shades of it. And yet, I can't match the lack of hue with tan, beige, or any kind of brown, according to my wife, who has infinitely more fashion sense than I do.
The only fashion I care about is my t-shirts, and I can wear them with grey socks. And pants.
Hell, I've even old-man-at-the-beached it and worn socks with my Crocs. The words rhyme. What better association could there be?
My in-laws bought me a pair of dress socks for either my birthday or Christmas. Those dates are roughly ten weeks apart, and that shows how memorable the occasion was. I've worn them twice - beige-ish, thin, high-quality material with better elasticity. But they're not thick enough, so my feet slide around those few millimeters within my shoes. Every step I take. The least sock fashion designers could do is incorporate some sort of traction so their products don't slip against the interior sole.
At least I don't wear striped socks anymore. And, truth be told, I no longer own any grey ones. But I don't want to hear my wife complain when my black socks are covered in burrs after I wear them for a round of disc golf. Good thing I have black sneakers.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
All About Some About A Little About Me
Nearly 40 entries already? Wow, time flies when you're stockpiling minutia.
As I'm slightly less than inspired to concoct something witty, I thought I'd use today's entry to compose a series of autobiographical one-liners. 40% of my followers consist of my sister and a former roommate of mine, so they can feel free to comment and further flesh out the far-from-a-skeleton that is me.
* I watched the 1986 Superbowl with my best friend at the time, and we were convinced we were stoned on Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee raviolis.
* If you consider friends the kind of people who would never call the cops on you, I'm the wrong guy. I've done it before, and if I deem it necessary, I'll do it again.
* The only things I consistently do left-handed involve aiming. This is true for guns, archery, and urinating.
* I've been consistently informed that (1) I should be a teacher and (2) I remind them of Bill Murray. Try as I might, I can't think of a film in which Bill Murray was a teacher. Odd, that.
* If confronted with a decision, I'll first look for the right answer. If I can't find one, I'll search for the best answer. Lacking either, I'll move on to a good answer. I hate resorting to the lesser of evils to make up my mind. In those times when every option sucks, I'm not opposed to picking my route from a hat or coin flips.
* I hope to someday drop below 210 pounds, but I never expect to see 199 again. It's a slim margin. Without altering my diet, neither number is realistic. I could devote a day or section of this blog to my current mass index. Maybe I'll weigh myself in the metric system. I'm currently 16.4 stone. Who was the influencial guru that mandated a stone weighs 14 pounds? When they did, were they thinking of British currency? I'm very confused.
* Chocolate is always a good option. Even so, I'll never choose it over sex. I suppose I get to keep my man card for that.
* My favorite colors are secondary: purple and green. I own no pants of either color.
* Tapioca.
* I can curl my tongue or twist it sideways, but only with the right side on the bottom. When I manually quarter-turn it so the right side is up top, I can't maintain that position. That's supposed to deal with some genetic issue.
* Back in February, I did my Facebook 25 list. They felt funnier, more revealing, and better thought out.
* If money wasn't a concern, I'm not sure what I'd do. Maybe become a hanggliding instructor. Which is especially weird, considering my fear of heights and open spaces. I'm okay with low open spaces or enclosed heights, but the combo is unpleasant. I doubt I'll ever take my kids to the Grand Canyon.
* Speaking of phobias, I'm nervous around dogs and horses, and I don't like being a passenger in a car. It isn't that I don't trust your driving, it's just that I don't trust your driving.
* My deviated septum isn't significant enough to require surgery. I rather hoped it did, since I hit my medical deductible for the year and I'd like a remedy to my consistent sinus issues.
* I'm loud. Even when I whisper.
* I used to consider myself an optimistic realist - I saw life as it was and tried to find the best parts of it. That was a loooong time ago. Now I'm some kind of skeptical, cynical defeatist. I'm ready for that pendulum to swing back any day now.
* I wonder if my body somehow manufactures Prozac, because I rarely feel superhigh highs or superlow lows. That's not to say I'm even keel, but I'm relatively levelheaded.
* My skull is not flat.
* I have very few vivid memories of my childhood. Fortunately, the hazy parts are almost universally good recollections.
* If only I could accomplish more while sleeping, I could be a much happier person.
As I'm slightly less than inspired to concoct something witty, I thought I'd use today's entry to compose a series of autobiographical one-liners. 40% of my followers consist of my sister and a former roommate of mine, so they can feel free to comment and further flesh out the far-from-a-skeleton that is me.
* I watched the 1986 Superbowl with my best friend at the time, and we were convinced we were stoned on Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee raviolis.
* If you consider friends the kind of people who would never call the cops on you, I'm the wrong guy. I've done it before, and if I deem it necessary, I'll do it again.
* The only things I consistently do left-handed involve aiming. This is true for guns, archery, and urinating.
* I've been consistently informed that (1) I should be a teacher and (2) I remind them of Bill Murray. Try as I might, I can't think of a film in which Bill Murray was a teacher. Odd, that.
* If confronted with a decision, I'll first look for the right answer. If I can't find one, I'll search for the best answer. Lacking either, I'll move on to a good answer. I hate resorting to the lesser of evils to make up my mind. In those times when every option sucks, I'm not opposed to picking my route from a hat or coin flips.
* I hope to someday drop below 210 pounds, but I never expect to see 199 again. It's a slim margin. Without altering my diet, neither number is realistic. I could devote a day or section of this blog to my current mass index. Maybe I'll weigh myself in the metric system. I'm currently 16.4 stone. Who was the influencial guru that mandated a stone weighs 14 pounds? When they did, were they thinking of British currency? I'm very confused.
* Chocolate is always a good option. Even so, I'll never choose it over sex. I suppose I get to keep my man card for that.
* My favorite colors are secondary: purple and green. I own no pants of either color.
* Tapioca.
* I can curl my tongue or twist it sideways, but only with the right side on the bottom. When I manually quarter-turn it so the right side is up top, I can't maintain that position. That's supposed to deal with some genetic issue.
* Back in February, I did my Facebook 25 list. They felt funnier, more revealing, and better thought out.
* If money wasn't a concern, I'm not sure what I'd do. Maybe become a hanggliding instructor. Which is especially weird, considering my fear of heights and open spaces. I'm okay with low open spaces or enclosed heights, but the combo is unpleasant. I doubt I'll ever take my kids to the Grand Canyon.
* Speaking of phobias, I'm nervous around dogs and horses, and I don't like being a passenger in a car. It isn't that I don't trust your driving, it's just that I don't trust your driving.
* My deviated septum isn't significant enough to require surgery. I rather hoped it did, since I hit my medical deductible for the year and I'd like a remedy to my consistent sinus issues.
* I'm loud. Even when I whisper.
* I used to consider myself an optimistic realist - I saw life as it was and tried to find the best parts of it. That was a loooong time ago. Now I'm some kind of skeptical, cynical defeatist. I'm ready for that pendulum to swing back any day now.
* I wonder if my body somehow manufactures Prozac, because I rarely feel superhigh highs or superlow lows. That's not to say I'm even keel, but I'm relatively levelheaded.
* My skull is not flat.
* I have very few vivid memories of my childhood. Fortunately, the hazy parts are almost universally good recollections.
* If only I could accomplish more while sleeping, I could be a much happier person.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tids and other Bits
Ignorance may be bliss, but it's hard to be blissful when everyone calls me an ignoramus. Fine line, that.
Ennui and Apathy
Worked together, along with irony.
Typing at my computer keyboard, so bored, why not me?
(I actually worked a solid half hour on further lyrics, but I don't remember exactly how the song goes, I don't really want to hear it again, and I already wasted a half hour on further lyrics.)
Do sumo wrestlers all have outies? Have any of them thought about hiding a pencil in their navel to stick their opponent? God knows I wouldn't want to go in there looking for foreign objects.
Forfex. It's Latin for scissors. I know not whether some Latin children had specialized left-handed forfexes. For that matter, they could look at their language teachers and complain that it was a dead language, so what was the purpose of learning it?
Movie bombs always countdown. Some audibly tick or beep the last few seconds for exploding. Would it be too shocking/surprising to have it explode before someone spotted it? Isn't that kind of the point of a bomb? The less chance of defusing it, the better odds of it serving its purpose. Now that I've contemplated something about bombs, will someone from the government monitor my blog? There's one quick way to earn a following.
If the post office is going to keep increasing stamp prices, the least they could do is flavor the backs better.
My eldest son's three favorite things these days are Transformers, Star Wars, and superheroes. He's never seen either of the first two movies, nor a superhero film outside of The Incredibles. I'm certain this means he's seen too many commercials and toys. So I should turn off the television more often and let him read books. Except the books he reads are about Star Wars, the Transformers, and superheroes. Somewhere in this, there is a win situation. (When he grows up, he wants to be a superhero.) Plus, he tells a good joke:
Q: What did the one Transformer say to the other transformer?
A: Coo-coo-coo-coo-coo. (I don't know how to spell it, but it's the sound of a robot transforming.)
Ennui and Apathy
Worked together, along with irony.
Typing at my computer keyboard, so bored, why not me?
(I actually worked a solid half hour on further lyrics, but I don't remember exactly how the song goes, I don't really want to hear it again, and I already wasted a half hour on further lyrics.)
Do sumo wrestlers all have outies? Have any of them thought about hiding a pencil in their navel to stick their opponent? God knows I wouldn't want to go in there looking for foreign objects.
Forfex. It's Latin for scissors. I know not whether some Latin children had specialized left-handed forfexes. For that matter, they could look at their language teachers and complain that it was a dead language, so what was the purpose of learning it?
Movie bombs always countdown. Some audibly tick or beep the last few seconds for exploding. Would it be too shocking/surprising to have it explode before someone spotted it? Isn't that kind of the point of a bomb? The less chance of defusing it, the better odds of it serving its purpose. Now that I've contemplated something about bombs, will someone from the government monitor my blog? There's one quick way to earn a following.
If the post office is going to keep increasing stamp prices, the least they could do is flavor the backs better.
My eldest son's three favorite things these days are Transformers, Star Wars, and superheroes. He's never seen either of the first two movies, nor a superhero film outside of The Incredibles. I'm certain this means he's seen too many commercials and toys. So I should turn off the television more often and let him read books. Except the books he reads are about Star Wars, the Transformers, and superheroes. Somewhere in this, there is a win situation. (When he grows up, he wants to be a superhero.) Plus, he tells a good joke:
Q: What did the one Transformer say to the other transformer?
A: Coo-coo-coo-coo-coo. (I don't know how to spell it, but it's the sound of a robot transforming.)
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Return to Sender
I don't feel like a regular post today, so fiction it is...
Saturday's mailman was notorious for getting wasted Friday nights. It was a miracle he hadn't lost his license, but residents on country routes like these assumed it was hooligans playing mailbox baseball instead of an intoxicated jeep careening into their roadside receptacles. Rufus Manier didn't mind. Because of the mailman's state, he received more than his fair share of other people's mail. Stealing it was a federal offense, but receiving it via drunk federal employee was no crime Rufus was aware of.
The Manier house was alone at the end of a cul-de-sac, his closest neighbor about three miles away after the brush fire two years ago removed anyone closer. For some unknown reason, God decided to spare his home and he lived there quietly, collecting random catalogs and magazines rightfully due to other subscribers. If it was something Rufus didn't want, he'd dutifully print "Redeliver" across the envelope and let the weekday mailman fix errors.
Maybe it would've been a bigger problem if Rufus expected any of his own mail. Bills were paid online, he hadn't voted in an election since Mondale/Ferraro, and the last penpal he had was released from prison and no longer prolific. Besides, Saturday only accounted for one-sixth of the mail and if it was that important, it would be resent.
Last Saturday, Rufus opened an envelope from the Department of Transportation and discovered a new driver's license belonging to Thurman Hilsmer. Rufus studied it; either "Bald" wasn't an option for Hair Color, or Mr. Hilsmer shaved his head the day of the photograph. Ten years separated their ages, but they shared brown eyes, a square jawline, and a bubble-tipped schnozz.
For the better part of Saturday and Sunday, Rufus tinkered with a box of cosmetics he'd accidentally received a long time before. Though he couldn't quite match their ears, he was confident he could at least pass as Hilsmer's brother. Which gave him the confidence he needed to finally buy that airline ticket to Vegas. If their sales pitch was accurate, then he'd be happy to leave this new identity there.
Saturday's mailman was notorious for getting wasted Friday nights. It was a miracle he hadn't lost his license, but residents on country routes like these assumed it was hooligans playing mailbox baseball instead of an intoxicated jeep careening into their roadside receptacles. Rufus Manier didn't mind. Because of the mailman's state, he received more than his fair share of other people's mail. Stealing it was a federal offense, but receiving it via drunk federal employee was no crime Rufus was aware of.
The Manier house was alone at the end of a cul-de-sac, his closest neighbor about three miles away after the brush fire two years ago removed anyone closer. For some unknown reason, God decided to spare his home and he lived there quietly, collecting random catalogs and magazines rightfully due to other subscribers. If it was something Rufus didn't want, he'd dutifully print "Redeliver" across the envelope and let the weekday mailman fix errors.
Maybe it would've been a bigger problem if Rufus expected any of his own mail. Bills were paid online, he hadn't voted in an election since Mondale/Ferraro, and the last penpal he had was released from prison and no longer prolific. Besides, Saturday only accounted for one-sixth of the mail and if it was that important, it would be resent.
Last Saturday, Rufus opened an envelope from the Department of Transportation and discovered a new driver's license belonging to Thurman Hilsmer. Rufus studied it; either "Bald" wasn't an option for Hair Color, or Mr. Hilsmer shaved his head the day of the photograph. Ten years separated their ages, but they shared brown eyes, a square jawline, and a bubble-tipped schnozz.
For the better part of Saturday and Sunday, Rufus tinkered with a box of cosmetics he'd accidentally received a long time before. Though he couldn't quite match their ears, he was confident he could at least pass as Hilsmer's brother. Which gave him the confidence he needed to finally buy that airline ticket to Vegas. If their sales pitch was accurate, then he'd be happy to leave this new identity there.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Like Taking Money from a Baby
Something dislodged from the recesses of my imagination:
What would happen if you robbed a bank with a BB gun? Walk up to the counter with one of those pump-action air rifles and clickety clack it as the urgency in your voice grew. Your eyes focus as the pumping gets harder, the air more condensed, the pellet ready to fly with enough velocity to penetrate a layer or two of skin.
Could you be arrested for armed robbery? Is a BB gun considered a toy or a weapon?
If that's not your thing, how about an archery set? Keep a dozen arrows in your quiver, lest the security guard think you're not committed to the job.
I suppose, from a merely technical perspective, a Swiss Army Knife could be declared a weapon. It's as deadly as a switchblade (plus you can uncork a bottle or pick the tiny sprig of broccoli from your teeth with the former). So is it armed robbery only if the weapon is visible? Would a bulging pocket qualify, or would your defense hinge on you just being happy to see the teller?
I dunno. Maybe I'm overthinking this. But if you construct a gang with wristrockets, BB-guns, and an Indian burn specialist to torture the manager into providing the combination for the vault...
What would happen if you robbed a bank with a BB gun? Walk up to the counter with one of those pump-action air rifles and clickety clack it as the urgency in your voice grew. Your eyes focus as the pumping gets harder, the air more condensed, the pellet ready to fly with enough velocity to penetrate a layer or two of skin.
Could you be arrested for armed robbery? Is a BB gun considered a toy or a weapon?
If that's not your thing, how about an archery set? Keep a dozen arrows in your quiver, lest the security guard think you're not committed to the job.
I suppose, from a merely technical perspective, a Swiss Army Knife could be declared a weapon. It's as deadly as a switchblade (plus you can uncork a bottle or pick the tiny sprig of broccoli from your teeth with the former). So is it armed robbery only if the weapon is visible? Would a bulging pocket qualify, or would your defense hinge on you just being happy to see the teller?
I dunno. Maybe I'm overthinking this. But if you construct a gang with wristrockets, BB-guns, and an Indian burn specialist to torture the manager into providing the combination for the vault...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Crap and Crap
Show me the group who claims to play medeival musical instruments, and I'll show you a band of lyres.
Is it unusual to have a favorite bathroom stall at work? I remember an online test a few years back to survey urinal usage - which ones to use, depending on which were already occupied. With stalls, I expect the rule is to use the one on the end. But if the end is a handicapped bathroom, do you take the first one so everyone passes you, or do you take the next-to-last stall? Do you risk using the handicapped stall, and if so, what happens when someone in a wheelchair rolls into the bathroom?
I'm aware of several people who refuse to sit in a public restroom at all, and while I don't blame them, I don't commend them either. Everybody poops. There's a book about it. I could never make it as a germaphobe.
I've not heard a different term for handicapped bathrooms either. I'd think with the PC invasion, someone would rename it to something less potentially offensive. Special needs bathroom? See, that connotates something entirely different to me.
This is potentially the second blog entry this week about poop. Maybe I have mental constipation and I can't squeeze out any other ideas. They'll flush out soon enough.
Is it unusual to have a favorite bathroom stall at work? I remember an online test a few years back to survey urinal usage - which ones to use, depending on which were already occupied. With stalls, I expect the rule is to use the one on the end. But if the end is a handicapped bathroom, do you take the first one so everyone passes you, or do you take the next-to-last stall? Do you risk using the handicapped stall, and if so, what happens when someone in a wheelchair rolls into the bathroom?
I'm aware of several people who refuse to sit in a public restroom at all, and while I don't blame them, I don't commend them either. Everybody poops. There's a book about it. I could never make it as a germaphobe.
I've not heard a different term for handicapped bathrooms either. I'd think with the PC invasion, someone would rename it to something less potentially offensive. Special needs bathroom? See, that connotates something entirely different to me.
This is potentially the second blog entry this week about poop. Maybe I have mental constipation and I can't squeeze out any other ideas. They'll flush out soon enough.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
An Ear for Silence
Like 2/3 of Nashvillians, I own a guitar. Like 3/4 of those, I don't know how to play it. I purchased it as a gift for my wife, who worked as a music teacher before we had children. As a true percussionist, she can beat on the guitar body with rhythm. Whereas the actual strings aren't strummed, picked, or otherwise touched by her.
I've tried several times to pick it up - "pick it up" meant as in to learn how to play it, not merely the literal lifting the instrument out of its case, nor the figurative attempt to earn a date with it. G, C and D? Got 'em. A and Em too. Give me a second or three and I'll even throw in an F chord at no extra charge (besides the dissonance). Upon the advice of our church's music minister, I've come close to mastering the strum pattern - down-down-up, up-down-up. (If only it worked like video games and such a pattern opened up new bonus levels with untold treasures and skills. But it does not.)
The problem? I can't play a song.
I own two songbooks - one belongs to me, and one I borrowed from a friend about five years ago with no intent to return. Wonderful Tonight, Brown Eyed Girl, Every Breath You Take (strummed, not picked, sounds awful, but still...), even a couple Beatles tracks are easy enough to figure out. None of them sound like they should; most disintegrate into some audial mush.
I have ideas for songs, but I can't translate chords from my head to my fingers. I know practice makes perfect, and it's a good example to set for my boys if I persist through something I struggle with, but I know it must drive my wife bonkers hearing the same mis-played chord regressions. Even more painful when I sing along.
My musician friend's advice: "Don't fret." Something tells me he wasn't saying not to worry.
I've tried several times to pick it up - "pick it up" meant as in to learn how to play it, not merely the literal lifting the instrument out of its case, nor the figurative attempt to earn a date with it. G, C and D? Got 'em. A and Em too. Give me a second or three and I'll even throw in an F chord at no extra charge (besides the dissonance). Upon the advice of our church's music minister, I've come close to mastering the strum pattern - down-down-up, up-down-up. (If only it worked like video games and such a pattern opened up new bonus levels with untold treasures and skills. But it does not.)
The problem? I can't play a song.
I own two songbooks - one belongs to me, and one I borrowed from a friend about five years ago with no intent to return. Wonderful Tonight, Brown Eyed Girl, Every Breath You Take (strummed, not picked, sounds awful, but still...), even a couple Beatles tracks are easy enough to figure out. None of them sound like they should; most disintegrate into some audial mush.
I have ideas for songs, but I can't translate chords from my head to my fingers. I know practice makes perfect, and it's a good example to set for my boys if I persist through something I struggle with, but I know it must drive my wife bonkers hearing the same mis-played chord regressions. Even more painful when I sing along.
My musician friend's advice: "Don't fret." Something tells me he wasn't saying not to worry.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Hershey's Streaks In My Pants
It's no secret: I'm a mooch. In an office with over 300 employees, I can tell you where every candy dish resides, who stocks chocolate, what quarter-vending machine is broken and spills too much bounty so long as you don't crank it all the way around, and which employees are trying to diet and therefore will give me the brownies from their staff-supplied lunches. While I may not bum money off people like I did through high school, I'm shameless about asking for candy. I can't help it; from molar to molar, my mouth is jampacked with sweet teeth.
Yesterday, someone brought in their Easter bounty. Mind you, it's August, and Easter candy goes on sale in retail stores as of February 15. (I believe next Wednesday, the Christmas season will officially start --- for 2012.) Jellybeans aren't so chewy. Laffy Taffy has crisp around the edges. Despite the fact that miniature Reese's cups don't display expiration dates, the peanut butter filling is no longer prime. (I'll save my rant about why they wrap the cups in sticky brown wrappers for another date.)
I wandered across the majestic, overflowing Kroger bag around 9:30 in the morning. Riesens, Reeses, M&Ms, Hershey's miniatures, even a few York's - I stuffed as many as I could in my pockets without feeling greedy (which is to say no one walked in on my gluttonfest). As casually as anyone with pockets the size of cantaloupes can return to a desk, I did. I dumped at least two dozen pieces into my desk drawer, sufficient to last me through the week (or, in actuality, the afternoon).
I'm not sure whether it's fortunate or unfortunate, but no one called my cell phone until last night. I keep it in my left pocket. Let's just say LG isn't the only organization associating phones with chocolate. Missed a Mr. Goodbar. Oops.
I didn't see any dark brown on my khaki's exterior, so I avoided that embarrassment. But it's hard to explain to co-workers why I was sucking on my phone. (Sure, I could've used wet paper towels, but that's really a waste of good chocolate.)
Yesterday, someone brought in their Easter bounty. Mind you, it's August, and Easter candy goes on sale in retail stores as of February 15. (I believe next Wednesday, the Christmas season will officially start --- for 2012.) Jellybeans aren't so chewy. Laffy Taffy has crisp around the edges. Despite the fact that miniature Reese's cups don't display expiration dates, the peanut butter filling is no longer prime. (I'll save my rant about why they wrap the cups in sticky brown wrappers for another date.)
I wandered across the majestic, overflowing Kroger bag around 9:30 in the morning. Riesens, Reeses, M&Ms, Hershey's miniatures, even a few York's - I stuffed as many as I could in my pockets without feeling greedy (which is to say no one walked in on my gluttonfest). As casually as anyone with pockets the size of cantaloupes can return to a desk, I did. I dumped at least two dozen pieces into my desk drawer, sufficient to last me through the week (or, in actuality, the afternoon).
I'm not sure whether it's fortunate or unfortunate, but no one called my cell phone until last night. I keep it in my left pocket. Let's just say LG isn't the only organization associating phones with chocolate. Missed a Mr. Goodbar. Oops.
I didn't see any dark brown on my khaki's exterior, so I avoided that embarrassment. But it's hard to explain to co-workers why I was sucking on my phone. (Sure, I could've used wet paper towels, but that's really a waste of good chocolate.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
I Had an Owie
I had a tiny splinter
It really hurt like hell
And right beneath my fingerprint
My fingertip did swell
I got a pair of tweezers
A needle and some ice
Performed a bit of surgery
But missed it once or twice
The stubborn thing dug deeper
No matter how I tweezed
I stabbed myself repeatedly
Then dropped the pin and squeezed
I winced, but kept the pressure on
My fingertip grew red
'Til finally the speck came out
I smiled as I bled
The lesson that I learned today
Is really rather simple
If a splinter's not compliant
Then pop it like a pimple
It really hurt like hell
And right beneath my fingerprint
My fingertip did swell
I got a pair of tweezers
A needle and some ice
Performed a bit of surgery
But missed it once or twice
The stubborn thing dug deeper
No matter how I tweezed
I stabbed myself repeatedly
Then dropped the pin and squeezed
I winced, but kept the pressure on
My fingertip grew red
'Til finally the speck came out
I smiled as I bled
The lesson that I learned today
Is really rather simple
If a splinter's not compliant
Then pop it like a pimple
Friday, August 7, 2009
Pretty Packaging, Empty Box
Inspiration takes many forms. Today, for example, it's a mirage.
Perhaps it's the additional pressure now that up to five (!) people are reading this. Can I perform under observation? Has this forum devolved from a creative oasis into a laboratory of introspection and hyper-evaluations? To butcher the cliche once again, "If I write something and no one comments, does it make a sound?"
I've established the discipline of writing regularly. Earlier this morning, I completed my thirtieth chapter about my hair (please, withold all applause and questions until the end of the ride). This entry is #31, a prime number; a number primed for genius? Doubtful. I could again configure a handful of paragraphs discussing nothing - a gimmick I used for years in a PBM game I wrote for - but will that retain my adoring public? How else to keep the sheep?
I'm prudent enough to resist the temptation to discuss my personal circumstances. Too many stalkers and autograph hounds, and once I start trading internet real estate, things could get ugly. My financial situation is off-limits, as are my kids' health, my political views, and my favorite positions. (Left field, you pervert.)
No, this is a flippant, obtuse, off-the-cuff area of observations and non-sequiters, intended to create giggles, smirks, and witty epiphanies.
If I'm ever abducted by aliens...
13 Uses for a Common Housefly...
Things that aren't yellow for good reason...
Step-by-step instructions on constructing an aardvark's genome...
Tastes like sumo...
Nothing. I got scads of nothing. Except a piece of advice someone else probably stated more eloquently than I am:
Remember to rest. It's one thing no one else can do for you.
Perhaps it's the additional pressure now that up to five (!) people are reading this. Can I perform under observation? Has this forum devolved from a creative oasis into a laboratory of introspection and hyper-evaluations? To butcher the cliche once again, "If I write something and no one comments, does it make a sound?"
I've established the discipline of writing regularly. Earlier this morning, I completed my thirtieth chapter about my hair (please, withold all applause and questions until the end of the ride). This entry is #31, a prime number; a number primed for genius? Doubtful. I could again configure a handful of paragraphs discussing nothing - a gimmick I used for years in a PBM game I wrote for - but will that retain my adoring public? How else to keep the sheep?
I'm prudent enough to resist the temptation to discuss my personal circumstances. Too many stalkers and autograph hounds, and once I start trading internet real estate, things could get ugly. My financial situation is off-limits, as are my kids' health, my political views, and my favorite positions. (Left field, you pervert.)
No, this is a flippant, obtuse, off-the-cuff area of observations and non-sequiters, intended to create giggles, smirks, and witty epiphanies.
If I'm ever abducted by aliens...
13 Uses for a Common Housefly...
Things that aren't yellow for good reason...
Step-by-step instructions on constructing an aardvark's genome...
Tastes like sumo...
Nothing. I got scads of nothing. Except a piece of advice someone else probably stated more eloquently than I am:
Remember to rest. It's one thing no one else can do for you.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Introduction to the Global Minority
Today is the day I go public. My prerequisite of 30 posts is fulfilled with this entry, and I have little reason to hide THR from the rest of the world any longer. Likewise, the world has little reason to read THR. Without inspiration to do more than view the latest entry - this - they'll connect with nothing on a base level and move on to the myriad of important tasks they need to accomplish.
Blogs are like seeds on an "everything" bagel. Those are covered in salt, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, onion seeds, and whatever else the baker happens to have handy. Too much of any one flavor and it loses its everythingness in favor of the individual seed. Importantly, when tracking a daily diet, a single bagel counts as four pieces of toast. (Plus, if I want salt, I'll opt for a soft pretzel.)
Assuming at least one person will click the link to take them to this page, I'll advertise the following: The Hypocrite's Refuge has entries about guns and watermelons, a variety of writer's exercises and thoughts, some personal insights, an impersonal outsight or two, a few new words' origins, and an insatiable hunger for tapioca pudding. After all, blogs are reflections of our own personalities.
Of course, if you start this in the future - which you can't, because when you start this is technically now, and that now is technically already the past, because now is so instantaneous it hardly exists, so living in the now is rendered impossible, and what will be the purpose of determining the proper verb tense when time was an illusion? Anyway, if you didn't happen to start reading THR with this entry, then skip to a better one. I recommend the funny ones.
Blogs are like seeds on an "everything" bagel. Those are covered in salt, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, onion seeds, and whatever else the baker happens to have handy. Too much of any one flavor and it loses its everythingness in favor of the individual seed. Importantly, when tracking a daily diet, a single bagel counts as four pieces of toast. (Plus, if I want salt, I'll opt for a soft pretzel.)
Assuming at least one person will click the link to take them to this page, I'll advertise the following: The Hypocrite's Refuge has entries about guns and watermelons, a variety of writer's exercises and thoughts, some personal insights, an impersonal outsight or two, a few new words' origins, and an insatiable hunger for tapioca pudding. After all, blogs are reflections of our own personalities.
Of course, if you start this in the future - which you can't, because when you start this is technically now, and that now is technically already the past, because now is so instantaneous it hardly exists, so living in the now is rendered impossible, and what will be the purpose of determining the proper verb tense when time was an illusion? Anyway, if you didn't happen to start reading THR with this entry, then skip to a better one. I recommend the funny ones.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Nothing Plus Nothing Is Nothing
If you read this, please pay me.
Too late. You already read it. And you've proceeded even further, which means I should charge you more than I did for the original paragraph. Not that it was entertaining or worthwhile, but I set the terms and you inherently agreed by moving forward. It's not my fault you decided to peruse the entire entry, and you still haven't stopped yet? Mercy. Some people never learn.
The question becomes how will I collect? I set up this blog to be "monetized," so clicking on the ads should push revenue into my [currently desert-like] stream. But the ad I consistently see placed is something about not paying for white teeth. I've little idea what that has to do with any of my writing. True, I have a dentist's appointment this afternoon at 2:00, but this is, to the best of my memory, the first mention of my choppers and their brightness. I'm not paying to get my teeth any whiter; why should they offer payment for me advertising that?
For that matter, part of my agreement was that I won't click on the ads myself. Which is odd. Theoretically, there should be some programming language that determines the appropriate ads from blog content, so advertisers will reach the proper audiences. Unless I exude subliminal messages about smiling - and anyone who knows me will attest otherwise - why was that selected? I almost care enough to be confused.
If marketers want to collect, direct readers of my blog to sports, junk food, hot tubs, a better night's sleep, loungers (flannel pants), and dinner etiquette of the ancient Montessouri tribes. In lieu of that, send me cash money. I'll supply an address upon request (and reference).
Too late. You already read it. And you've proceeded even further, which means I should charge you more than I did for the original paragraph. Not that it was entertaining or worthwhile, but I set the terms and you inherently agreed by moving forward. It's not my fault you decided to peruse the entire entry, and you still haven't stopped yet? Mercy. Some people never learn.
The question becomes how will I collect? I set up this blog to be "monetized," so clicking on the ads should push revenue into my [currently desert-like] stream. But the ad I consistently see placed is something about not paying for white teeth. I've little idea what that has to do with any of my writing. True, I have a dentist's appointment this afternoon at 2:00, but this is, to the best of my memory, the first mention of my choppers and their brightness. I'm not paying to get my teeth any whiter; why should they offer payment for me advertising that?
For that matter, part of my agreement was that I won't click on the ads myself. Which is odd. Theoretically, there should be some programming language that determines the appropriate ads from blog content, so advertisers will reach the proper audiences. Unless I exude subliminal messages about smiling - and anyone who knows me will attest otherwise - why was that selected? I almost care enough to be confused.
If marketers want to collect, direct readers of my blog to sports, junk food, hot tubs, a better night's sleep, loungers (flannel pants), and dinner etiquette of the ancient Montessouri tribes. In lieu of that, send me cash money. I'll supply an address upon request (and reference).
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Big Rig Gigs
While I believe this issue has resurfaced because my wife earned a speeding ticket yesterday, I can't quite figure out the correlation. 'Sokay; I also can't figure out a satisfactory solution to my math problem. It's bothered me for years, but I've yet to lose sleep worrying about it. As I see little chance of Mythbusters picking this up, I don't know that I'll ever see a scientific solution. Anyway, here 'tis:
I'm on the flatbed of an 18-wheeler. In my right hand is a baseball. Wind resistance is somehow rendered moot. The truck drives due east at precisely 60 MPH. I stand facing the back and throw the baseball due west at precisely 60 MPH.
My theory is the ball will hover in space momentarily, then fall straight down. I see no reason for this to be true. Logically, my mind says I'm independent of the trailer and though I'm careening recklessly down the road, me throwing the ball backwards will send the ball backwards. Even if I only barely lob it the opposite direction.
I realize friction plays a role as well, but for the sake of theoretical science, I'm ignoring it. In real practice, I should be able to drive down a road at the speed limit and toss a tennis ball backwards, with my left hand. If the ball travels AT ALL in the opposite direction of the car, there's no way I threw it over the speed I was driving, so my arm becomes independent of car speed. I'm not sure what that means, though.
If I hold the ball, it travels at the same speed as the car. If I release the ball with no momentum forward or backward (again ignoring friction), it travels as the same speed as the car.
How can I make this sound like an urban legend? Somehow I need to figure out a method where this experiment involves blowing something up. Hmm. If someone can explain this to me or draw me a diagram explaining the reasoning, I'd be indebted.
I'm on the flatbed of an 18-wheeler. In my right hand is a baseball. Wind resistance is somehow rendered moot. The truck drives due east at precisely 60 MPH. I stand facing the back and throw the baseball due west at precisely 60 MPH.
My theory is the ball will hover in space momentarily, then fall straight down. I see no reason for this to be true. Logically, my mind says I'm independent of the trailer and though I'm careening recklessly down the road, me throwing the ball backwards will send the ball backwards. Even if I only barely lob it the opposite direction.
I realize friction plays a role as well, but for the sake of theoretical science, I'm ignoring it. In real practice, I should be able to drive down a road at the speed limit and toss a tennis ball backwards, with my left hand. If the ball travels AT ALL in the opposite direction of the car, there's no way I threw it over the speed I was driving, so my arm becomes independent of car speed. I'm not sure what that means, though.
If I hold the ball, it travels at the same speed as the car. If I release the ball with no momentum forward or backward (again ignoring friction), it travels as the same speed as the car.
How can I make this sound like an urban legend? Somehow I need to figure out a method where this experiment involves blowing something up. Hmm. If someone can explain this to me or draw me a diagram explaining the reasoning, I'd be indebted.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Prefuse
Dunno whether these should be handed out weekly, monthly, or annually, but people should be given "Prefusal" chips. These would be tokens that allowed you to decline anything with no further implications, ramifications, or discussion. I don't want to know what opportunity it is, I don't care if I might've enjoyed it, it doesn't matter that they were handing out free money and Chagall Guevera was the house band - don't tell me a danged thing about whatever it may be, because I refuse.
This should count for food - don't tell me what ingredients are in it or what else I've eaten and loved that this will remind me of. You say "Tomato and Lima Bean Casserole" and I get to prefuse. I don't want a "No thank you" bite.
Offer me a night at the opera? Maybe it was a rock opera, for which the surviving members of Pink Floyd were going to re-do The Wall. I'll never know - I prefuse.
A trip to the shopping mall? Too easy.
This should count for food - don't tell me what ingredients are in it or what else I've eaten and loved that this will remind me of. You say "Tomato and Lima Bean Casserole" and I get to prefuse. I don't want a "No thank you" bite.
Offer me a night at the opera? Maybe it was a rock opera, for which the surviving members of Pink Floyd were going to re-do The Wall. I'll never know - I prefuse.
A trip to the shopping mall? Too easy.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Two People Find a Watermelon
Setting: an empty stage save for a bare table with a watermelon under it.
MARY enters, sees the watermelon, and hides it under her shirt. Jane enters from the opposite side.
JANE: What are you doing?
MARY: I'm pregnant!
JANE: Is that a watermelon?
MARY: It looks like a baby.
JANE: Not once you take it out from under your shirt, it doesn't.
MARY: Why must you be such a wet blanket?
JANE: If you want to get pregnant, why don't you find a man and get knocked up?
MARY: Yeah, thanks. That's much better.
JANE: There are fertility clinics.
MARY: Maybe I don't want to be pregnant for nine months.
JANE: Good, because I doubt the watermelon would last that long.
MARY: Quit it.
JANE: What about an adoption agency?
MARY: I don't want a baby. I just want to be pregnant.
JANE: Why?
MARY: Have you ever noticed how pregnant women are treated?
JANE: I can't say I was paying attention.
MARY: People are nice to them. Complete strangers go out of their way to help.
JANE: I can get strangers to help me too.
MARY: How's that?
JANE: I still have the gun from yesterday's sketch.
Scene.
MARY enters, sees the watermelon, and hides it under her shirt. Jane enters from the opposite side.
JANE: What are you doing?
MARY: I'm pregnant!
JANE: Is that a watermelon?
MARY: It looks like a baby.
JANE: Not once you take it out from under your shirt, it doesn't.
MARY: Why must you be such a wet blanket?
JANE: If you want to get pregnant, why don't you find a man and get knocked up?
MARY: Yeah, thanks. That's much better.
JANE: There are fertility clinics.
MARY: Maybe I don't want to be pregnant for nine months.
JANE: Good, because I doubt the watermelon would last that long.
MARY: Quit it.
JANE: What about an adoption agency?
MARY: I don't want a baby. I just want to be pregnant.
JANE: Why?
MARY: Have you ever noticed how pregnant women are treated?
JANE: I can't say I was paying attention.
MARY: People are nice to them. Complete strangers go out of their way to help.
JANE: I can get strangers to help me too.
MARY: How's that?
JANE: I still have the gun from yesterday's sketch.
Scene.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Two People Find a Gun
Setting: an empty stage, save a bare table in the middle with a gun under it.
MARY enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. JANE enters from the other side.
JANE: Is that yours?
MARY: Nope.
JANE: What's it doing there?
MARY: I dunno. I just found it.
JANE: Is it real?
MARY: Haven't touched it.
JANE: It's probably not real.
Mary picks it up.
MARY: It's heavy.
JANE: How heavy? Is it loaded?
MARY: Can you tell by the weight?
JANE: It makes sense that you should be able to.
MARY: I've never held a gun before.
JANE: We should probably report it.
MARY: To whom?
JANE: I don't know. The lost and found?
MARY: They'll keep it for themselves.
JANE: So what should we do, take it or leave it?
MARY: It probably belongs to somebody.
JANE: Does it look like a cop's gun?
MARY: You can see it as well as I can.
JANE: Don't get snippy with me.
MARY: I'm sorry. It makes me nervous.
JANE: So leave it.
MARY: But what if someone else finds it and takes it?
JANE: That would be the point of leaving it.
MARY: Maybe I should take it and post signs.
JANE: That say what? Found gun? That's bound to create more hassle than this.
MARY: So should I take it or leave it?
JANE: Give it to me.
MARY: Why do you need a gun?
JANE: I don't. But you don't want the hassle and I'll put it somewhere safe.
MARY: Why would someone leave a gun behind? (gasps) What if it's a murder weapon.
Jane smells the barrel.
MARY: What are you doing?
JANE: You're supposed to be able to smell whether or not a gun was recently fired.
MARY: So was it?
JANE: I don't know.
MARY: What does it smell like?
JANE: Like a gun.
MARY: You're not very helpful.
JANE: I said don't get snippy with me. I have a gun, you know.
Jane carries the gun offstage, Mary follows.
Scene.
Same Setting: an empty stage, save a bare table in the middle with a gun under it.
BILL enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. GARY enters from the other side.
BILL: Holy crap, Gary! Look what I found!
Bill picks up the gun, accidentally shoots Gary, who falls dead.
Scene.
MARY enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. JANE enters from the other side.
JANE: Is that yours?
MARY: Nope.
JANE: What's it doing there?
MARY: I dunno. I just found it.
JANE: Is it real?
MARY: Haven't touched it.
JANE: It's probably not real.
Mary picks it up.
MARY: It's heavy.
JANE: How heavy? Is it loaded?
MARY: Can you tell by the weight?
JANE: It makes sense that you should be able to.
MARY: I've never held a gun before.
JANE: We should probably report it.
MARY: To whom?
JANE: I don't know. The lost and found?
MARY: They'll keep it for themselves.
JANE: So what should we do, take it or leave it?
MARY: It probably belongs to somebody.
JANE: Does it look like a cop's gun?
MARY: You can see it as well as I can.
JANE: Don't get snippy with me.
MARY: I'm sorry. It makes me nervous.
JANE: So leave it.
MARY: But what if someone else finds it and takes it?
JANE: That would be the point of leaving it.
MARY: Maybe I should take it and post signs.
JANE: That say what? Found gun? That's bound to create more hassle than this.
MARY: So should I take it or leave it?
JANE: Give it to me.
MARY: Why do you need a gun?
JANE: I don't. But you don't want the hassle and I'll put it somewhere safe.
MARY: Why would someone leave a gun behind? (gasps) What if it's a murder weapon.
Jane smells the barrel.
MARY: What are you doing?
JANE: You're supposed to be able to smell whether or not a gun was recently fired.
MARY: So was it?
JANE: I don't know.
MARY: What does it smell like?
JANE: Like a gun.
MARY: You're not very helpful.
JANE: I said don't get snippy with me. I have a gun, you know.
Jane carries the gun offstage, Mary follows.
Scene.
Same Setting: an empty stage, save a bare table in the middle with a gun under it.
BILL enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. GARY enters from the other side.
BILL: Holy crap, Gary! Look what I found!
Bill picks up the gun, accidentally shoots Gary, who falls dead.
Scene.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Fodder I Hope to Use Someday
Story ideas that need to grow some flesh and blood
1. WJOE. A radio show accidentally gives Joe's phone number out as the one to call for claiming contest wins. To make up for it (and avoid (threatened?) legal ramifications), they give Joe a couple prizes, including a guitar signed by Random Music Celebrity. Obsessive Max keeps calling Joe's number - caller ID gives a name, phone book provides address, Max wants the guitar. Joe can't shake him - break-in, confrontation...
2. Cruelty From Animals. No one keeps tabs on how many cats Old Lady Melda owns. Strays overrun her house, until people can't remember the last time they saw Melda herself. Kitties have grown feral and protective of their paranoid master...
3. You Can't Teach an Underdog New Tricks. Old tennis legend Morris enters a tournament, hits a hot streak, beats current favorites. Reaches finals to face Walt, who beat the lucky unranked schmuck who took out top seed. (Injury?) Walt got the easiest path ever to the finals, and now faces new crowd darling Morris. Morris reaches the edge of victory, but can't cross it; Walt wins and is loathed for ruining the feelgood story.
4. Overpopulation Patrol. An underground temp agency hires "thinners" to alleviate the human herds of their sick, weak, and undeserving. Insurance won't cover people who are thinned-out. Wiseman, insurance agent, receives terminal diagnosis, and should expect a visit. He's not ready to go.
1. WJOE. A radio show accidentally gives Joe's phone number out as the one to call for claiming contest wins. To make up for it (and avoid (threatened?) legal ramifications), they give Joe a couple prizes, including a guitar signed by Random Music Celebrity. Obsessive Max keeps calling Joe's number - caller ID gives a name, phone book provides address, Max wants the guitar. Joe can't shake him - break-in, confrontation...
2. Cruelty From Animals. No one keeps tabs on how many cats Old Lady Melda owns. Strays overrun her house, until people can't remember the last time they saw Melda herself. Kitties have grown feral and protective of their paranoid master...
3. You Can't Teach an Underdog New Tricks. Old tennis legend Morris enters a tournament, hits a hot streak, beats current favorites. Reaches finals to face Walt, who beat the lucky unranked schmuck who took out top seed. (Injury?) Walt got the easiest path ever to the finals, and now faces new crowd darling Morris. Morris reaches the edge of victory, but can't cross it; Walt wins and is loathed for ruining the feelgood story.
4. Overpopulation Patrol. An underground temp agency hires "thinners" to alleviate the human herds of their sick, weak, and undeserving. Insurance won't cover people who are thinned-out. Wiseman, insurance agent, receives terminal diagnosis, and should expect a visit. He's not ready to go.
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