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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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.
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