A Toast to the New Building, If Only I Could

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.