Blogonoscopy

Holiday Cards (!!!)

2011-12-12T18:39:00.006-05:00

I'm not going to pretend that it hasn't been a long time. I'm not going to pretend that it might not be a long time again.

But that's not what we're here to talk about today. Take a look at a calendar, or go cut a hole in a river and jump into it, and see if you can figure out what we are here to talk about.

Assuming you aren't currently dying of hypothermia in the back of an ambulance, congratulations. You're correct.

We're here to talk about The Holiday Cards, version 5.0. More specifically, we're here to talk about how anyone still lurking around this dusty corner of the internet might go about getting his or her frostbitteny hands on one.

Mainly because far too much of my far too limited brainpower has recently been diverted towards fighting off spastic hordes of tiny little science-major babies all hopped up on Red Bull and Adderall, I haven't come up with any new ideas for how to disperse said Cards. Accordingly, we're just going to roll it back and do it like we have the last couple of years.

Well, there is one slightly new qualifier. It's still extremely simple and painless, though. At least compared to jumping into a frozen river. The deal:

You: Send us an original holiday card of your own. This means that it either (i) features a picture of you, your family, or your TMNT action figure collection, or (ii) is homemade. No one shall be permitted to run out and spend their hard-earned money on a store-bought card for a couple of jokers like us. Just send us one of the cards you're already sending out to everyone else, or glue some cutout magazine heads to some construction paper and call it a day. If you don't have magazines, use a marker. If no glue, use gum. Creativity always encouraged. Occupy Arts and Crafts Street.

In return:

We: Send you a Holiday Card, v.5.0 unless and until we've run out, in which case we shall send you our most extremely righteous telekinetic Holiday Vibes instead. Either way, we'll be sure to post a digital version of this year's Card by the end of the month so that everyone can join in on the fun ("fun").

Deal? Deal. PS: In case you've forgotten, here's our address.

Happy Holidays!

Breaking News: Great Clips to Hire Amish Beard-Cutting Attackers

2011-10-28T18:14:00.008-04:00

CEO Hans Snideman announced at a press conference this morning that Great Clips, Inc., the undisputed market leader in the rapidly expanding "terrible haircut" sector, has agreed to contractual terms with three key members of the breakaway Amish group charged with violent beard-cutting attacks on several other Amish communities throughout Ohio during the last several months.

Compensation information for Levi Miller and the auspiciously-named brothers Johnny and Lester Mullet was not immediately available, but Snideman announced that the three would immediately take charge of the company's renowned Customer Disservice division.

Snideman noted that new hires had also been strongly pursued by Great Clips competitors Supercuts, Fantastic Sam's, and your crazy one-eyed aunt, but had ultimately concluded that Great Clips represented an unparalleled opportunity for the violent destruction of other people's hairstyles.

"These are men at the very height of the profession," he enthused. "They bring a truly unique capacity for savagely disregarding the follicular wishes of their victims... er...customers, and the entire Great Clips family is delighted to welcome them aboard."

Messrs. Miller, Mullet, and Mullet were not present at the press conference due to an unforeseen scheduling conflict with their kidnapping and assault trial, but industry analysts expressed great enthusiasm for the hires, and Great Clips stock (NYSE: SCLPS) rose nearly 18% in an afternoon of feverish trading.

Real Talk

2011-09-23T17:01:00.009-04:00

By now you're surely well-acquainted with the major news story of the last several days.

It's not hard to understand how such a life-and-death issue can bring out so much vitriol in those with opposing viewpoints. No matter what your position, the emotions involved in something so permanent and violent and tragic are almost inherently preclusive of reasonable discourse.

The anger.

The horror.

The sadness.

The fear.

I guess, for me, it's just hard to get so emotionally worked up over Netflix's decision to separate its DVD and streaming offerings into two separate companies because I can still remember what it was like having to rent VHS tapes from Blockbuster.

Have a nice weekend.

Love, Dan.

Your Urgent Assistance is Required

2011-09-20T12:25:00.007-04:00

1. What type of demented creature makes this noise for hours on end, and with particular enthusiasm between 5:30 and 7 AM?

2. How do I most swiftly eradicate said creature and the rest of its species from the planet?

*completely unrelated "woodsy scene" stock photo courtesy of the author's personal archives*

Art-a-Tron! Engage!

2011-08-14T19:10:00.008-04:00

For the last 48 hours, I've been doing two things, and two things only: (1) watching Star Trek (The Next Generation) (duh) episodes via Netflix streaming, and (2) attempting to create a stencil painting for Paddyboy's birthday on Monday.

Now, at long last, with my hands, face, and entire respiratory system caked in toluene, and with all of the rest of me suffering from a near-irresistible urge to shout questions out loud at "the Computer," it is finished.

The painting, I mean. The painting is finished. I still have four and a half TNG seasons to go, so nothing to worry about on the dorkiness front. But yes. The painting is finished, and I think it turned out mostly okay, the five -- yes, five -- emergency resupply runs I had to make today aside, and the right-at-the-very-end colossal screw-up at least mostly aside.

Anyway, in a spirit of exhaustion, celebration, emphysema, and exploration of outer space, I present to you, The House of Zef.

The Initial Sketch: I'll thank you to keep your snarky comments to a minimum. It's just a freehand outline that I could blow up to canvas size (24" x 36"), and I always end up making a bunch of adjustments (most intentional, many not) when cutting the actual stencil anyway.

The Mock-Up: Possibly overkill, but I figured it couldn't hurt to make sure that, you know, at least some of the stuff I was trying to put on the canvas, you know, actually fit. A Bit of Background: Paddy is (rightfully) obsessed with the South African lunatic rap group Die Antwoord. He's been making his own t-shirts lately with "House of Zef" written on them, and one of the members of DA, Yo-Landi, has a pet mouse that she's always carrying around with her. Hence the lettering, hence the image. Not Pictured in the Mock-Up: The all-important, all-terrifying checkerboard pattern that I wanted to try to stencil on top of the mouse as a tribute to another of Paddy's heroes, one of the all-time greatest characters in cinematic history, Jeff Spicoli. A Huge Shout-Out: To Artist Cousin, who provided invaluable guidance as to the least-horrible way of making a minimally-embarrassing attempt at a checkerboard stencil.

Some Intermediate Stage: You can see that the fateful checkerboard attempt has now begun, and if you look closely enough, you can also see that an ominous haze of dread has filled the entire studio (garage).

Some Intermediater Stage: Approximately 6 hours, 4 TNG episodes, and the aforementioned 5 resupply runs from when I'd begun, the preliminary layers had gone well enough, and the checkerboard was mostly -- and miraculously -- not a complete disaster. I still don't really want to talk about any specifics for fear that this is just a happy, paint-inhalation-induced fantasy and I'm going to wake up to something out of Alice in Wonderland.

The Lettering: At this point, all I really had left to do was wait. Wait for the paint to dry, wait to remove the cardboard, and wait to remove the stencils. Almost all I'd been doing all day was waiting, and all I had to do was wait just a tiny bit longer. So what did I do? Did I wait? Did I?

NO I DID NOT WAIT I JUST ACTED LIKE THE MORONIC MORON THAT I AM AND STARTED PULLING EVERYTHING OFF IN A GIANT IDIOTIC RUSH AND ONE OF THE STILL-WET-PAINTED COINS I WAS USING TO HOLD THE LAYERS FLUSH TO THE CANVAS FLIPPED UP OFF OF ONE OF THE STENCILS AND STUCK TO THE EXPOSED CANVAS AND LEFT A COIN-SHAPED MARK THAT I FRANTICALLY SPENT 45 MINUTES TRYING TO FIX MOSTLY IN VAIN AND IT WAS ONLY BY CHANNELING THE OVERPOWERING COMPOSURE OF CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD THAT I DIDN'T GO MENTAL AND BURN THE ENTIRE HOUSE DOWN.

The Finished Product: Um. Ahem. Yes. Well, aquí esta. It's not at all perfect, obviously enough, but it's not the total debacle it very well could have been, either. Frankly, I think we'd be justified in rounding it up to a win solely on account of no houses being burned down. Anyway, once I'd finally, actually, let it dry, I cleaned it off, took it upstairs for the grand, night-before presentation to the almost-birthday boy. . . and. . . found out that he'd fallen asleep ten minutes earlier.

Indeed.

Well, I guess I'll just have to watch another dozen episodes to cheer myself up.

MAKE IT SOOOOOOOOooooooooooo!

Hey! Wha' Happened?

2011-07-30T12:28:00.006-04:00

I know this doesn't count as a real post. I'll see what I can do about excluding it from the total tally in the increasingly appropriately-titled "Microfiche" sidebar.

And I genuinely do have a bunch of genuinely real posts rattling around in my dusty attic of a skull right now; I just won't be able to properly track them down for at least a few days yet. I'm too busy trying to keep from getting murdered by biology.

A brief teaser, though, of the upcoming topics, to prove that I'm not lying, and also to prove that I'm extremely annoying: 1. The Worst Restaurant Meal of My Life, With The Pale Rider!, 2. Potential Roadtrip News!, 3. A New Painting Commission!, or, How Does One Master Oil Paints in 48 Hours, or, Where's Bob Ross When You Really Need Him?, and finally, as the last shall be first and the first shall be last (and please do make sure to fasten all seatbelts, sign all waivers, and schedule your ambulance in advance), 4. Paddyboy has a Blog!

Okay. Now. Back to the previously scheduled untallied programming.

Fred Willard. One of the great underappreciated artists of our time, I submit, and while this definitely isn't anywhere near his best material, it's still quite genius and it's still been stuck in my head all week.

Hey! Wha' Happened?

Slap Chop Photo Shop

2011-07-20T23:16:00.001-04:00

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice]: DO YOU LIKE THE INTERNET?????? DO FUNNY PICTURES MAKE YOU LAUGH-- SO HARD??????? DO YOU THINK TECHNOLOGY IS-- SO AMAZING AND FANCY??????? YES!!!!!! YES YOU DO!!!!!!!! WE CAN READ YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: AND LET ME TELL YOU RIGHT NOW THAT YOU'RE IN LUCK YOU WACKY LEPRECHAUN BECAUSE I HAVE THE BEST OFFER YOUR WACKY SHAMROCK BRAIN HAS EVER HEARD OF IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: YES THAT'S RIGHT THANKS TO A UNPRECEDENTED HERPES OUTBREAK IN MAINLAND CHINA I'M ABLE TO OFFER YOU A ONCE IN A LIFETIME FREE TRIAL INTRODUCTORY TRIAL OF THE BEST FUNNY INTERNET PRODUCT YOU CAN EVEN IMAGINE!!!! TRY!!!!!! TRY!!!!!!!! SEE?????? YOU DID NOT JUST IMAGINE IT!!!! WE JUST READ YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: I CAN'T EVEN BELIEVE THIS OFFER MYSELF AND I AM ABLE TO READ MINDS!!!!!!!!!!!! AND GUESS WHAT I'M AS SERIOUS AS THAT OUTBREAK WHEN I SAY IT'S FREE TO ONE LUCKY CALLER!!!!!!!!!!! ALL THAT WE NEED IS A NAME AND A LINK TO A PHOTO AND A LIST OF THREE ITEMS TO BE INCLUDED IN THE FINAL PHOTOGRAPH AND YOU JUST WAIT AND SEE BECAUSE THAT LUCKY WINNER IS GOING TO GET A FREE INTERNET SPECIALTY SENSATION!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND THEY WILL BE ALLOWED TO KEEP IT FOREVER AS PART OF THIS INTRODUCTORY TRIAL OFFER AND IF YOU THINK THIS SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE YOU'D USUALLY BE RIGHT EXCEPT FOR THIS TIME AND MAYBE A COUPLE OTHERS AND JUST TAKE A LOOK AT OUR PREVIOUS DELIGHTED WINNERS AND HURRY UP AND CONTACT US NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Call-Outers Gon' Call Out

2011-07-16T10:57:00.007-04:00

I've been getting called out quite a bit lately for my lack of blogging.

Do you know what getting called out is? It's when someone much lamer and dumber than you tries to make you feel bad about something that you've already forgotten about because you stopped listening to them and started loudly fake-snoring after their first few words.

Do you know what the worst part about getting called out is? No matter how exquisitely you've expressed your disdain for any-and-everyone doing it, if you ever happen to (coincidentally) decide to do what they'd (apparently) been blathering on about, they'll all immediately take full credit.

They'll conclude that they've succeeded, that calling you out is effective. They'll begin to do so more and more frequently, with a wider and wider range of complaints. You will be under constant siege. Your fake-snoring muscles will scream in agony.

There's only one known solution. I just invented it right now. It's to do whatever you're being called out about -- here, in case you've lost track somehow, it's blogging -- so terribly badly that no one could ever possibly be interested in taking credit for it.

And now you see the genius. I was born for this.

So, without any (further) further ado, let's have a list! Everybody hates those! The unofficial theme of this one will be inspired by Paddyboy's best man speech earlier today (I'm claiming at least Assistant to the Co-Writer credit), the unofficial theme of which was "Second place is the place to be."

The Best Movie I've Watched Since I Last Blogged:
1. True Grit
2. The Parking Lot Movie

The Best Book I've Read Since I Last Blogged:
1. On The Road
2. Palm Sunday

The Best Album I've Listened To Since I Last Blogged:
1. Bon Iver - Bon Iver
2. The New Pornographers - Challenger

The Best Meal I've Eaten Since I Last Blogged:
1. Entire 16oz can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce
2. Las Palmas Carniceria Sidewalk Stand Tacos

The Best Internet Video I've Viewed Since I Last Blogged:
1. Dis-a-ppointed! (yes, I'm still watching it.)
2a. Planking. Don't.
2b. Howling. Do.

The Best Food&PantsMan Blog That Will Certainly Be Discontinued Before I Next Blog:
1. All 87 prior blogs, tie
2. The Pale Rider

THE END!

Disappointment

2011-06-28T22:03:00.005-04:00

DON'T BE SALTY.

That's what the cover of my autobiography will say, assuming I live long and scandalously enough to get away with biographicating myself, and also assuming that the representatives of Douglas Adams agree with the opinion of my legal staff that any allusion to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is perfectly incidental (and extremely flattering, anyway).

DON'T BE SALTY.

It will say the same thing on the back cover too (for emphasis), although the back will probably be done in some sort of 5-dimensional time lapse hologram or something, in keeping with the times. The hologram may or may not include an idealized representation of me singing a rousing medley of inspirational songs I may or may not have written about myself.

DON'T BE SALTY.

This will be the general theme of the actual work itself, as well, a fiendishly clever, self-ironical motif wending its way through the seemingly (but not necessarily!) random mixture of hilarious stories (about me!), delicious recipes (for food and success!), paint-by-number portraits (of me!), and sheet music (the holographic medley!).

But hold on a minute, you might be thinking. Just hold it right there.

How on earth is anyone ever going to complete (or even begin!) a work of such breathtaking significance and magnitude if he can't even consistently update a simple old (3-dimensional) website (that doesn't even have any music or portraits or anything)?

...

DON'T BE SALTY.

PS - This is officially my favorite video that I've seen this year. I'm personally responsible for at least two-thirds of those views.

The Buffalo Down

2011-05-06T16:15:00.005-04:00

I can't get the smell of buffalo wings out of my nose. I have no idea how it got in there, but it did, and it's been there since sometime yesterday morning.

Perhaps you think this isn't such a bad thing. Perhaps you think that the scent of sour meat is inoffensive, even enjoyable. Perhaps you're very much like I was about 36 hours ago: (1) male, (2) hungry, and (3) stupid.

The problem with Eau de Buffle, though, is that it doesn't have much of a shelf life, no matter how much of how many of those aforementioned three things one might be. The other problem is that the only options for attempting to extract such an intractable odor from the depths of one's own proboscis all seem quite capable of having made William Wallace talk.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't try removing it at all. Maybe it's some sort of sign. An omen. Of what, it's hard to speculate. I guess let's just say that if anyone knows anyone who might be capable of interpreting a happy interpretation about this vinegary little situation, please direct them my way. Quickly.

***

In other news, using the term as loosely and self-ridiculingly as possible, I'm happy to report that the first semester of my still-unannounced secret mission has been successfully completed. I know that telling only the beginning of a story is a crime worthy of swift and painful death, but it's just far too likely that I (1) still manage to screw things up, (2) change my mind and try something else instead, and/or (3) require the postponement of overt discussion in order to ensure a properly frantic effort.

Besides, the only reason I even allude to the endeavor at all is so that I can provide dispatches from the front, as it were, without seeming to make absolutely no sense. At least as judged on my own preexisting curve.

Speaking of which, and by way of sincerest apology for the story stallout, I offer the photo below of the Lucky Finals Moustaches* grown by my comrades and I in our joint efforts to succeed most mightily in our disparate missions of varying secrecy.

*I would just like to note that I am painfully aware that many dictionaries list "mustache," without the "o," as the primary spelling of the word, but that I find such practice both etymologically and morally reprehensible, and shall never myself do any such thing unless by mistake.

Finally, I'd just like to note that any rumors of this website's demise have been greatly misunderestimated. Which is to say, well, nothing. That's not a word. But which is also to say, that although at some point this little corner of the internet will necessarily go the way of the mighty beast whose wings are currently flapping most obnoxiously throughout my nasal passages, that point has not yet been reached.

Onward and upward! and Geronimo! and etc. and etc.

This Means You, Every Minivan Driver Ever

2011-04-12T00:20:00.001-04:00

The Ides of March Madness

2011-03-15T00:09:00.001-04:00

[UPDATE: 2011 NCAA Bracket posted below]

Do you know what I love?

I love when you walk into a public restroom and find that some troglodyte has peed so comprehensively on the floor around the urinals that your only possible options are to go buy a pair of wading boots or to launch a doomed-from-the-beginning, Guinness-Book-of-World-Records, long-distance Hail Mary.

I love that.

Do you know what else I love?

The NCAA tournament. And winning. (Shut up, Charlie Sheen.) And helping other people win. (And again.) So don't worry. This year's bracket will very shortly be appended to this post for your unlimited and unrestricted use. ("Unrestricted" applying especially to any sharing of any resultant winnings.)

But first, there's one more thing I love, especially today. March 15th.

Yes, that's right! It's Big Slow's birthday! He's 25! Okay, fine! Not quite! But when he was about 25, he got his picture taken with the greatest professional wrestler in the history of, well, professional wrestling. Yes that's right! Andre the Giant!

And although -- tragedy of unspeakable tragedies -- that remarkable photo has somehow long since disappeared, that doesn't mean we can't enjoy a truTV-quality dramatization of what that meeting might have looked like, way back when. And with that, I give you: The One, The Only, The Incomparably-Mustachioed Big Slow (pre-Big Slow days, of course) and The One, The Only, The Guinness World Record Holder for Longest Long-Distance Public Restroom Hail Mary (unverified, of course).

Happy Birthday, Slow!

Bracket ~~Soon~~ Here, Everybody Else!

DELUXE DOUBLE POST: Chuck Update & Holiday Card Review

2011-03-07T21:03:00.001-05:00

[Massive Disclaimer: This post was written in the midst of a yerba mate binge the likes of which would certainly rival any inebriation ever produced by any Wild West saloon or Wild East opium den or any other site of intoxicating iniquity. And while it's sometimes speculated that many of the most splendid human insights and achievements have been aided in no small part by, shall we say, artificial chemical stimuli, it most certainly shall never be opined that anything included herein might similarly bolster such claims.]

[Massive Uncertainty: Did that even mean anything? I think so, but I obviously can't be sure. I stopped halfway through the actual post once the need for a Massive Disclaimer became apparent, even to me, even in the midst of my herbal frenzy, but I'm not sure that the above has remedied the situation much. Here. One last try.]

[Massive Overkill: This post is far too long and rambling to be worth the time of anyone not currently incarcerated in a federal Supermax prison.]

Okay. Alright.

So this Deluxe Double Post (TM, of course) is so far past overdue that it's almost come full circle and become on time again. For next year. Or next catastrophe. Or something. But whatever. Surely that won't be held against anyone. Things have been extremely hectic around here lately, and then there's the economy, and then there's global warming, and then there's watching the latest YouTube obsession on infinite loop.

So surely you all understand. Surely. And if not, I'll just sic Marcel's brother (and his bludgeony brush) on you, and that'll take care of any attitudinal saltiness right quick.

But back to the DDP (abbreviation also TM). Let's just dive right into it.

Chuck. And his horrifying disappearance. And the gut-wrenching (melo)drama. And the unconscionable delay in communication thereregarding*.

*Yes, that word is new, and yes it is also TM. Everything is TM. Everything.

But Chuck. I'm delighted to say that on that front, at least, I have marvelous news, and it was actually a wonderfully intrepid (if disconcertingly CNN Headline News-watching) blog reader who cracked the case.

Chuck was not catnapped. Repeat: Not. Catnapped. By that fiendish old crone or otherwise. It turns out, straighforwardly enough, that despite all the fun he and I were having together -- paling around, watching Star Trek reruns, massacring local ruminants -- there was something missing from his life. Something I obviously couldn't and wouldn't ever provide.

Yes, I'm talking about Tiger Love (not TM, actually). And I know! I know! This is a family website and we usually avoid such prurience as jungle cat procreation, but the facts are the facts, and the story must be told. Or at least alluded to.

So there it is. Chuck was not catnapped; he had simply run away with a lady friend (not the crone! a tiger lady friend!) for a little while, run away to some highly questionable state down south where apparently the Bengals flock like the salmon of Capistrano. The good news -- the great news! -- is that once the situation had been so incisively illuminated, he and I had a long, emotional, man-to-tiger talk in which we worked out an arrangement. He: will never again disappear on one of these little love jaunts without informing me in advance, and I: will never again discuss Tiger Love (his or otherwise) (still not TM) on this oh-so-barely-still-family website.

You see?

An excellent deal for everyone, as cannot possibly be contested.

And again, none of this ever would've been resolved without the invaluable assistance of that thereregarding reader.

Speaking of whom (awesome segue alert!) (no, not awesome Segway alert!), as a thank you for her eternally-appreciated assistance in Part 1 of the DDP (still TM), she shall have the honor of kicking off Part 2.

The Holiday Cards Recap.

I know, I know. Silence yourselves. The excuses have already been issued and forgiveness has already been presumed. As always, the cards received were manifold and majestic, and while only a small fraction can and will be noted here, all were deeply appreciated.

Except for the printout photo cards that weren't even personalized with our names or a note or anything.

(Just kidding!)

(No, not just kidding. Borrow a pen. Write a sentence.)

Anyway, The Recap. The best of the best!

Best Handmade Card (and Defending Champion), Fantastically Deranged Children's Book Illustrator Division: Sent separately in two shipments, it was obviously, colossally, worth both the wait and the assembly. PS - The beards were actually individually tailored and labeled, and came pre-stickificated. Cat Lady's fit so perfectly that I actually caught myself trying to remember if maybe she'd really had a beard in real life; Trash Can Turkey's fit a little less perfectly, considering, well, he (or she) had long since been relieved of his (or her) head. All in all, spectacular.

Best Handmade Card (and Defending Champion), Soon To Be Framed Division: This is, without even the slightest doubt, the first and only and unquestionably-unsurpassable mashup of the Peanuts Christmas Special and Ronnie Coleman. It made me laugh out loud in shock and delight in the post office. Yes. I don't even. I really. It. Yes.

Best Handmade Card, Could Probably Stop A Bullet Division: Wrought out of industrial-strength corrugated cardboard and approximately six rolls of reinforced duct tape, this haunting ~~little~~ gigantic number weighed in at about 15 pounds. I'm not sure if the sender feared for our corporate safety, or whether he (or she) was simply the size of Andre the Giant, but either way, um, wow.

Best Handmade Card, Singlehandedly Keeping The Postal Service In Business Division: If you thought two separate shipments was excessive, just wait until your overdeveloped judginess gets a load of this one. Six separate deliveries, on successive days; the only downside to this otherwise-amazing story is of course that my name isn't Felix and that the sender can't spell. "Sad face."

~~Best~~ Scariest Handmade Card, If Chuck Were Still Missing You'd Be The Prime Suspect Division: Annnnd I think that about covers that.

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, If You Think I'm Spending The Six Months I Realized It'd Take To Put That Thing Together After About 30 Seconds Of Trying, Y'all Musta Forgot Division: Thank you for the thought, though, I think!

Best (Very-)Handmade Card, If You Think I'm Spending The Six Months I Realized It'd Take To Read That Thing After About 30 Seconds Of Trying, Y'all Musta Forgot Division: Thank you for the thought, though, I think! (This was but one of about 300 yarnbound pages.) ((Shut up, I forgot to take a second picture.)

Best Handmade Card, Fellow Grinch Division: (The inside noted that the sender didn't much care for Christmas so had decided to (make and) send a New Year's card instead.) (Shut up, I forgot to take a second picture.)

Best Handmade Card, Double-Insult Your Recipient Division: A bold strategy that would certainly fail, and catastrophically, should it ever be oh-so-foolishly attempted a second time.

Best (Semi-)Handmade (Semi-)Card, (Very-)Blatantly Recycled Division: A bold strategy that would certainly fail, and catastrophically, should it ever be oh-so-foolishly attempted a second time. (To be fair, the inside of the card contained a download link to an mp3 album, the best track from which is one of the current Hot Jams (I'll let you figure out which).)

Best Handmade Card, Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Hockey Team Division: A fortunate and beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best ~~Hand~~Footmade Card, Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Baseball Team Division: A (slightly-less) fortunate and (slightly-less) (but still!) beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, Extremely (Un-)Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Hockey Team Division: A rousing and beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best (Non-)Handmade Card, THIS IS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS REALLY ALL ABOUT Division: I don't have any idea what this actually says, and I don't want to have any idea, you Francophone know-it-alls. It's perfect -- absolutely, ravishingly perfect -- exactly as it is. Fun Fact: This card was actually sent from France, by Artist Cousin's Brother. Wow. I think that was actually a Deluxe Double Fun Fact! (TM!)

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, I Don't Care If I Whined Earlier About Non-Personalized Photo Cards This Lady Knows How To Party Division: This supernova of holiday cheer was almost enough to singlehandedly de-Grinchify me, at least temporarily.

Best (Non-)Handmade Card, Biff Tannen Sidekick Starter Kit Division: WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN AT, BUTTHEAD?

Best (Non-)Handmade (Non-)Card, Korean Scatological Humor Division: My Korean is a little rusty, but the item on the left is toothpaste that says something to the effect of "There's Poop In My Toothpaste!" Of course it does. The item on the right is a slightly less-excrement-focused package of dental floss.

Best (Non-)Handmade (Non-)Card, Early-Onset Dementia Emergency Swimming Kit Division: Remember this tweet? Of course you don't. But this sender did. And how. If you think I haven't already worn the Floaties with my Party Swimsuit, you disappoint me. (Greatly.) PS - We got about 400 of those Twilight cards, which is probably like a billionth of a percent of the total number in circulation this season. There is no hope for humanity. No. Hope.

[Annnnnnnnd THE END.]

[Kindly insert your own (semi-)witty conclusion here.]

[My (non-)brain is so far beyond tapped out I'm not even sure another case of yerba mate can (semi-)resuscitate it.]

[Until next year! (and three months!) (or more!) (or whatever!)]

[Happy Holidays!]

Bansai!

2011-02-28T11:30:00.007-05:00

[UPDATE below!]

If you know me, you know that I love Ito En bottled tea more than anything else on earth. Yes, anything.

And if you know Ito En, you know that they have an occasional haiku contest, the winners of which get their name and poetry printed on the beautiful Ito En bottles. Yes, their name and poetry.

UPDATE: I suppose, to be fair, that this isn't as much an UPDATE as a PROLOGUE, or a BACKGROUND, or maybe just AN EXCUSE TO USE A GREAT DEAL OF UNNECESSARY TEXT EMPHASIS, but I'm sure that's okay. Right? Super.

So. I'd actually submitted my entry to the Ito En haiku contest about three years ago. Three years ago. Anyway, as I recall, the only requirements had been that it be the standard 5-7-5 format and thematically reference a season. Fair enough, I'd thought. But then I hadn't heard back for a week. Then a month. Then two months.

Finally, at last, I stopped waiting "nonchalantly" at the door all day for my Publishers Clearinghouse-style congratulatory notification. I had a good cry, ate a couple of gallons of cookies 'n cream, and swore off Japanese poetry forever. Then I forgot all about it. Completely. Forever. Until this afternoon. At about one o'clock.

I was driving home from the grocery store, you see, where I'd picked up the now-legendary bottle. I'd only barely decided to get it, though -- a fact which shall haunt and thrill me for the rest of my days. How close had I come to deciding on a bottle of regular green instead? (Very.) How close had I come to never having discovered the most magnificent success I shall ever achieve in this lifetime? (Very.) How close did I come to making that thought a flaming fireball of reality by driving my car directly off the road in shock and euphoria when I read my name (and masterpiece) on the label? (Oh-so very.)

But verily I say unto you: I did decide on it and I did discover it and I did (just barely) avoid dying on account of it.

Now, as for whether or not I -- in my rush to spread the great and glorious news upon my arrival home -- forgot to turn my headlights off and killed my car's battery? Well, that's a story for a different season.

A Greenish Sort of Silver

2011-02-22T00:13:00.000-05:00

Let's say you're a very nice person. It's okay if you're actually not. In fact, as far as real life goes, it's much better than okay if you're actually not, at least if we're grading by my answer key, and so long as it's in a properly calibrated way. But I digress.

You're a very nice person.

You're kind, and positive, and constantly encouraging. It's practically impossible for you to be otherwise. Day after day, you find silver lining after silver lining in genuinely shambolic circumstances. You compliment and congratulate and celebrate -- objectivity and reality be damned.

You -- are a Pilates instructor.

And you -- own a beautiful, modern studio with gleaming equipment and sparse, tasteful decoration.

And you -- have a client who has just presented you with a handmade gift, ostensibly in thanks for all of that constant encouragement.

All of that constant encouragement.

For which you will curse yourself every last day until you mercifully depart this wretched speck of dust.

(For, well, "comparison.")

Paddyboy TKOs It

2011-02-14T00:01:00.004-05:00

This is far and away the best commercial currently on television, and is possibly amongst the ten greatest of all time.

I've seen it probably fifty times on air, and about fifty times that many more on YouTube, over and over and over again. I will never get tired of it.

Aside from it starring Paddyboy's style double, is any of you brilliant enough to understand exactly why?

Packing Them In

2011-02-07T23:26:00.006-05:00

There's a reason I don't trim my fingernails as often as I ought.

It's not that I'm secretly five years old and have decided I'm going to be a velociraptor when I grow up. It's not that I'm secretly seventy years old and need to remain properly threatening when the pickup shuffleboard scene gets a little too knifey.

It's nothing nearly so outlandish.

It's that I'm psychic.

I knew you were going to say that. (Of course I did.) But just wait. (I knew you would.) Think about it for a minute. Doesn't it all make so much more sense now? Or at least some of it? The out-of-control shaman's beard? The come-to-life stuffed tiger? The remarkable lack of braggy pre-Super Bowl proclamations?

Right? You see it now, don't you?

I really am psychic. I really do know when good or bad things are about to happen.

And that really is why I don't trim my fingernails very often, and why I especially haven't trimmed them for the last month or so. I'd felt that same old premonition again. I'd seen the future and knew it'd be filled with grapefruits to peel, and stickers to remove, and giant, ancient, deeply-imbedded boogers to excavate.

So do you see it now? Do you finally understand?

If I'd trimmed my fingernails, what would I have had to hide in the "congratulatory" chocolate chip cookies I mailed to Aaron Rodgers this afternoon?

Errything We Do, We Do It Big

2011-01-23T23:39:00.006-05:00

Pittsburgh's Goin' To The Su-u-per Bowl!

(PS - Coming Soon: Chucknapping Update, Holiday Card Recap, Record-Setting Grapefruit Performance, this and that, etc. and etc., loveyougoodnight.]

The Catnapping

2011-01-11T10:31:00.001-05:00

Terror.

Frantic, sickening terror.

That's how I'd describe my emotional state right now, if I were coherent enough to have one.

Why?

Here's why:

Chuck. Has. Been. Catnapped.

I don't even know how.

I don't even know when.

It must have been during the Steeler game. It must have been. That was the only time he was out of my sight for more than a few minutes. I'd let him outside to hunt some deer, and at halftime, I'd seen him a few houses up stalking a couple of the neighbor kids, but when -- after enjoying a lengthy post-game celebration for which I may never forgive myself -- I went outside to bring him back in, he was nowhere to be found.

I called for him. I searched everywhere. I even grilled up a couple of salmon fillets -- his favorite -- in the hopes that he was just embarrassed at not catching any deer, or at catching too many neighbor kids, or at something silly like that, and that he'd come bounding right back at the reassuring aroma.

But nothing.

At all.

Until sometime around 8 PM, right after I'd finished off the fillets myself, when I received the horrifying photo displayed above.

It was sent via text-less, subject-less email from the account of a mutual friend -- or rather, a sadistic ex-mutual friend -- who is apparently acting as a go-between for the leering villainess in the photo.

I don't have even the slightest idea what to do.

I want to get Chuck back safely, but with just a single wordless email, I obviously haven't gotten any ransom instructions, or any do-not-contact-the-authorities warnings, or any of the other directions that kidnappers usually give.

I want to track down that Benedict Arnold ex-friend and her Orville-Redenbacher-looking Jabba The Hut freak of a boss, and exact infinite murderous revenge on them both, but I'm obviously a little bit low on homicidal sidekicks right now.

I don't have even the slightest idea what to do.

I just want my friend back.

Holiday Casserole

2011-01-03T18:17:00.002-05:00

There are so many different things I want to talk about right now -- earth-shattering things, earth-sharting things -- that I'm either going to have to resort to random, unordered bullet points or attempt to relay everything in mural form.

Unfortunately, as enticing as the latter option might otherwise be, my 3' x 6' dry erase board isn't arriving until next week (brutal product name aside, I really did order one and I really can't wait), and I'm not sure it's in my best mental interest to wait that long. So it goes. We'll just have to do this in the infinitely inane "Best of" style that's so prevalent this time of year.

Or maybe we won't. I suppose we could at least split the difference. A list of random photos, say. With caption intros. It's (sort of) worked before. It could (sort of) could now.

Annnnd go:

Holiday Card & Stamp: Thank you again to everyone who sent us cards, and here's hoping at least most of you got something back in return. I'm still planning on doing a (here we go again) "Best of" wrap-up of cards received, just not quite yet. I think we already have enough going on right now anyway. Speaking of which, The Card. Congratulations to everyone who recognized which of us was which, shame on anyone (you know who you are) who didn't, and double-shame on us for never even imagining this might be a problem. Also, Santa Kong.

Chuck The Tiger: This ferocious feline is, if not the best impulse purchase of my career, easily in the top-5. (Walgreen's, Christmas Day, $30, and okay, fine, technically The Butler is the one who paid for him, but I obviously would have if I hadn't "forgotten" my wallet in the car.) Named after the The Wine That Started A New Thanksgiving Tradition That Inspired A New Christmas Tradition (see why a mural might have been the only way out of this mess?), he's quickly proven himself a trusty companion and an instant party-starter both.

Christmas Drunkfire: Speaking of parties (and new holiday traditions), Chuck (and Chuck) started this one. And may have finished it.

The Afterparty: Speaking of finished, I'm bound by a strict confidentiality agreement that prevents me from discussing the shocking and hilarious aftermath of the Drunkfire. Specifically regarding the gastrointestinal gong show to which one particular participant was reduced. And specifically regarding anything the rest of us might have had to clean up as a result. I'll just leave you with this quote from the oh-so-fittingly-titled Les Miserables: "For there are things which open the eyes of the dead in their graves."

The Gong Show Returns: Incredibly enough, that very same Gong Show made an encore appearance exactly one week later, with extra gong. (And this time, a photo of the proceedings was secured -- a photo which, with proper editing, proved the perfect combination of publicly presentable and terminally mortifying.) While the rest of us were settling in for a nice restful night in preparation for The Winter Classic the following day, the GS required an emergency Four-Loko-induced trip to the hospital. I wish I were kidding. But of course I don't. I will be making jokes about this for the rest of my (own gong show of a) life. For starters, The Special Gong Show Commemorative Edition Winter Classic Patch:

El Clasico: While the scoreboard result wasn't exactly what anyone was looking for, and while the weather vacillated between bothersome and homicidal, this was still one of the greatest sporting events I've had the fortune to attend. Huge holiday h/t to The Butler for securing some amazing seats. (I'd have gotten them myself, of course, but, you know, wallet in the car, etc. and etc.)

The (New) Mystery Adventure: This is (another) one of those things about which I'm so simultaneously excited and terrified that I feel I have no choice but to remain secretive and annoying, at least for now. I'm doing a thing; it may be awesome; it may be horrible; if I'm at least able to try it, I promise I'll at least say more. And now for the finale.

Bob Rasta: A bit of a quiz. Or a puzzle. Or a something. Do you know this man? If not, you need to get on it. If so, you need to tell me. Immediately. I know a bit but not anywhere near enough. Got it? Great. Happy Holidays!

Happy Boxing Day Eve!

2010-12-25T20:59:00.003-05:00

(This is my new pet tiger, Chuck.)

(He was not a Christmas present.)

(Hopefully I'll be able to tell you a story about him soon.)

(Happy Boxing Day Eve!)

Boy / Girl

2010-12-18T20:24:00.001-05:00

I may have worn a pair of women's jeans today, all day.

This is the price -- or at least a price -- that one pays for being clever and hip and open-minded and shopping at thrift stores.

We've already addressed the rarefied sartorial heights that may be reached through secondhand clothing purchase. The dashing three-piece-suit-and-tie combo, already worn four or five times and immortalized no fewer than two. The show-stopping swimsuit, perhaps a bit blousy and perhaps a bit skirty, but an undeniable hit with the ladies (provided the term is used in its strictest biological sense) at the pool.

But today, the other, far-less-fortunate outcome of this high-stakes game of wardrobe roulette was on display. Not that women's pants can't be sexy. And possibly -- although I harbor grave doubts -- even when worn by men. It's just that they are categorically not sexy when worn by this one.

How do I know?

It's a sad, ugly tale. A sad, ugly tale that I only unleash from my Seemingly Infinite Vault of Cringe-Inducing Memories in the hopes of slightly easing the still-lingering shame.

It was 6th grade. I was looking to catch the attention of a particular blonde classmate. My mother, possibly out of benign absentmindedness, possibly out of something far more fiendish, encouraged me to try a pair of the "new" jeans she'd gotten me at Goodwill.

"But mom, they're red."

"So what?"

"So I've never seen any of the other guys wear red jeans."

"Sounds like the other guys aren't very stylish. Try them on."

"But--"

"Try them on."

...

"They look great."

"But--"

"Hurry up and get your jacket. You're going to miss the bus."

"But--"

"Hurry up and get your jacket."

At least that's how I remember the conversation going. It's possible, I'm sure, that my mind has rearranged things a bit to keep the memory from literally tearing a hole in its proverbial fabric.

Anyway, as it surely had to be, I wasn't on the bus for more than thirty seconds before a classmate asked why I was wearing girls' jeans. The classmate. The cute blonde one.

"Oh, they aren't girls' jeans."

"They're red."

"Yeah, but they're men's."

"No they aren't. Red jeans are for girls."

"No, no. These are a new style of red men's jeans."

"Katie wore a pair just like them on Tuesday."

...

"Maybe Katie was wearing men's jeans."

This went back and forth for a few minutes, until I'd impugned the fashion sense of nearly every female in the sixth grade and secured far too much of the worst kind of attention from my favorite one of them.

When the bus, finally, mercifully arrived at school, I marched as immediately (and masculinely) as possible to the nurse's office, told her I was feeling nauseous (the surest, no-proof-required way to get sent home), didn't talk to my mother the whole ride back, and buried the pants in the backest back corner of the closet until they were eventually re-donated to Goodwill.

Which brings us to today.

Or at least sets the stage for it.

Fortunately -- or otherwise -- there weren't any blonde classmates involved this time. No one to blame but myself, either. And the jeans were normal blue.

But the old, central dilemma remained. As is so often the case with secondhand clothing, there were no immediate, definitive markings that indicated whether the pants in question were intended for man or woman.

I looked them up and down, weighed the weightiness of the Goodwill employee's "Men's Large" notation on the $3.99 price tag, and tried unsuccessfully to google the SKU number.

I bought them -- obviously and of course -- and consulted with my little sister upon my return home. While she professed to be quite certain I'd made the right decision, that the jeans were indeed men's, there were a few factors weighing strongly against her proclamation.

First and most damningly, she's a clown. A total clown. She'd love nothing more than to exact a bit of revenge for my years of teasing by helping sneak me into a pair of women's pants. Err, without the woman, that is.

Second, she couldn't articulate a single decent reason for the certainty of her determination. She hadn't heard of the brand, she'd actually noted the button fly as looking "girly," and she'd strenuously opposed my excitement in finding the tiny "32" tag (American not European sizing!) and my interpretation of the "M. ________ label (for "Mr." or "Monseigneur,
of course!).

Finally, she was surreptitiously texting during the entire evaluation. Let's say the average human brain has a capacity of 100 units. And that the average meth addict's brain is about a 60. Then the average teenager's brain, while texting, is an 8. Maximum. Complete sentences are rare, complete ideas impossible. Coherent advice? I don't what yes goodbye.

So there it is.

I still don't know.

As I said, I wore the pants today, all day, and no one laughed or snickered or pointed out that Katie had recently worn something similar.

But still. I need to be sure. Or at least to try to. And this is why I'm providing the pictures below.

They've all been cropped, of course, so as to prevent my identity from being conclusively established in the event that the jeans' femininity is conclusively established. So have at it, internet. What do you think?

The straight-ahead and side-shots are encouraging, it seems, but perhaps misleadingly so. Dopey hipsters and wannabe dopey hipsters have made skinny jeans so ubiquitous that it's sometimes hard at a glance to tell the difference between jeans, jeggings, and double-leg tourniquets. How ridiculous would a pair of jeans have to look to seem inappropriate?

In fairness, these pants do fit pretty comfortably. If they were designed for a woman, it was for a M._______ sturdy one.

As you can see, the waist has been taken in -- a bad sign, almost without question -- but there are no waistband labels. The "girly" buttons are only implied.

Here's the "32" tag. I still maintain this is my greatest hope for man-pants validation, particularly since they were (allegedly) "Made in Italy."

The slightly more dubious "Mr. Monseigneur" label.

I have no opinion on which interpretation the "Classic Denim" / "Classic Boot Cut" tag most supports. I would like to note, however, that there sure are a lot of labels on these stupid things to not have one that says, you know, whether you'd mad at your mother for tricking you into wearing them.

A Brief Pictoral History of a Still-Secret Mission

2010-12-15T20:49:00.004-05:00

Okay, so where were we?

Ah, yes.

Here. The tiny, dirty, futuristic, deprivation-chamber-toilet-monster.

Except, as it turns out, it's actually a "tram" -- one of the eight or ten; my deprived senses can't remember exactly -- that one might ride to the top of The Gateway Arch in St. Louis.

Well, assuming one is white, middle-aged, overweight, and colossally dorky. Like, for instance, this wannabe-Elvis-impersonator who hogged the best window in the viewing platform, just staring out into the distance and farting every few minutes.

Have no fear, though, friends. Through sheer determination and a superhuman ability to disregard olfactory pain, I nevertheless managed a few excellent views from this actually quite remarkable landmark. And upon my exit, I captured an even better one, if I may be so bold.

After all this photography (and breath-holding), I found myself in dire need of refreshment. I headed in a GPS-aided-but-still-quite-roundabout fashion to a promising little barbecue restaurant that I'd just so happened to research in advance of my trip: Pappy's Smokehouse.

I could write an epic poem in tribute to Pappy's brisket, pulled pork, and fried corn on the cob -- the coleslaw, as it invariably is, was merely "eh" -- but I've got several dozen more pictures to caption, so I'll just keep it prose and simple.

Promise: fulfilled.

Upon leaving Pappy's, I found myself exceedingly full but still somehow in dire need of refreshment. Thus, I shimmied -- in a fashion reminiscent of The King himself -- over to Crazy Bowls and Wraps, a place I'd never have even thought to try but for the advice of a greatly-respected man of food and foodstuffs, a famous alum of the nearby Washington University.

In keeping with with a (slightly) reduced word count:

Respect: deserved.

At last fully refreshed, at least for the time being, I proceeded to indulge in one of the greatest pleasures about which a respectable man can write on a family website: A long walk through an unfamiliar city at night.

In this case, it was a several-mile stroll through the strikingly beautiful campus of the aforementioned Washington University.

Now, I'd known it was a splendid academic school, to be sure. I'd known it was famous for graduating men and women of unsurpassed moral character and food recommendation prowess. I just hadn't had even the slightest idea how architecturally gorgeous it was.

Eventually, however, the 50-below wind chill finally managed to erode even my own deranged enthusiasm for a great latewalk, so I repaired to my hotel room with a half-bottle of wine and a store-bought salad.

Let the record show that the explosive capitulation of the first disposable corkscrew was but a tiny speed bump in the endeavor, delaying my meal but the briefest of instants, and that the second attempt with a second corkscrew was a rousing success, duly cheered and applauded by the gentlemen at the hotel's front desk (who, on account of my driver's license, referred to me appropriately reverently for the duration of my stay as "The Beard Guy.")

A lack of silverware, slightly exacerbated by the expert extinguishing of the expertly opened wine, proved to be similarly overcomable.

And that, at least for now, is that.

Further details of the trip, including such items as its purpose and its results, may yet be divulged at some point in the future.

When might it be?

Who are we to say?

For now, a final photograph shall suffice.

[PS - If you just so happen to be one of my wonderfully dear St.-Louis-residing friends or family members, please don't feel the least bit slighted that I wasn't able to meet up with you this time. It was The Mission, you see. I still love you!]

We Have Liftoff

2010-12-08T00:08:00.001-05:00

Full report to follow.

The Cards. They're Here.

2010-12-03T14:38:00.004-05:00

Hello, lovely people.

So this year's Holiday Cards have allegedly almost arrived. Monday at the latest, according to UPS's entirely untrustworthy package tracker. And while I'll actually be out of town through Wednesday on a gravely-important mission into the American Heartland, I have the patience of an 8-year-old Little Hugs addict, so I've decided to just go ahead and make the announcement today anyway.

In keeping with the long-standing tradition established last year, the Holiday Cards 4.0 will be mailed out on a first-come, first-serve basis to anyone good enough to mail us a holiday card, while (our) supplies last.

(Your) supplies should kindly be directed to our corporate headquarters:

Blogonoscopy, Inc.
P.O. Box 12672
Pittsburgh, PA 15241

As always, please feel free -- encouraged, even -- to be creative in your interpretation of "holiday," "card," and "mail," but please feel neither free nor encouraged to be creative in your interpretation of federal shipping regulations. We don't want to end up on any (additional) terrorist watch lists.

Thank you kindly, and Happy Holidays!

Deck Your Own Halls

2010-12-02T13:10:00.004-05:00

I don't like Christmas carols. I don't care if that makes me a Grinch; your mom is a Grinch. And a Scrooge too.

I don't like Christmas carols. They're pushy and sappy and corny, and I don't much care for being pushed or sapped or corned. Especially when it's 11 degrees outside and the clouds are inventing new forms of matter for the sole purpose of spewing the water versions all over me.

So what do I like about this time of year, then, assuming there's anything at all?

Well, I think you know One Thing. But That's not quite ready to be officially discussed yet. Soon. Very soon.

The other thing I actually do like about this time of year, though, is the lights. But not the spazzy, blinky, melt-the-Ice-9-off-your-roof abominations. The regular old simple lights, elegant and classy. The white ones are great, and if I'm sticking with that awful "elegant and classy" line, they should probably be my favorite, but I am and they're not. I like the multicolored ones the best.

Should you have been on the receiving end of last year's One Thing, this should come as no large surprise.

I actually like the multicolored lights so much that, ever since my college days (when it was at least moderately acceptable and not too dreadfully tacky), I've tried to install them, indoors, in at least one room of wherever I've lived.

Now, just in time to raise my spirits for the creation of this year's One Thing, I've assembled my favorite (non-wearable) (and extra-tacky) display yet.

Behold, I give you: The Holiday Tr--

Wait. That's not quite right.

This is a year-round display, and is affiliated with no particular events or celebrations, with the delightful result that it may thus freely affiliate with all of them.

Behold, I give you: The Party Tree!

Classy and elegant, right?

Plus, if anyone starts singing "O Christmas Tree," I can beat them down with it.

The Drunkership Has Landed

2010-11-23T21:42:00.002-05:00

In Pennsylvania, that bastion of the avant-garde, the only place in which a bottle of wine may be legally purchased is a state store.

A state store, for anyone so blissfully unaware, is a fiendish little place that sells liquor and mixers and sorrow. A miserable little rat hole which, despite its obligatory "no smoking" policy, perpetually smells like a giant nicotined armpit, and which, despite the fact that normal people must at least occasionally visit, perpetually feels a like countywide meeting of Meth-Heads Anonymous.

Yet as ludicrous as it seems (and is), these state stores, truly, are the only locations in the entire Commonwealth in which a law-abiding citizen may get his law-abiding drink.

But I'm not going rant any further about them.

I'm not going to complain about their out-of-the-way, Who Wants To Be A Muggedionaire locations. Their leering, presuming-you-have-a-drinking-problem employees. Their boxed wine, bagged wine, or boxed wine selection.

I'm not.

And I'm not going to sum the whole system up -- more like sum it down! amirite? -- by saying it's about as sensible and pleasant as unclogging a toilet with a kitchen mixer.

I'm not.

Because, you see, times -- at least as of 2:00 PM on Saturday afternoon -- have changed.

Because, for the first time since William Penn swindled a bunch of Shawnees, stole their land, and built Three Rivers Stadium, it is now officially possible to legally purchase wine in Pennsylvania without visiting a state store.

Behold:

I give you:

The Wine Machine!

Yes, that's right.

Pennsylvania has seen fit to relax its byzantine stranglehold on the retail wine industry, and its carefully-chosen method for doing so was to land a giant discount wine spaceship in the produce section of my local grocery store.

A giant discount wine spaceship which includes: (i) an extremely bossy (but non-leering!) employee to supervise its operation, (ii) a self-administered breathalyzer unit that's reviewed remotely in real time by a "liquor control officer" in Harrisburg, (iii) a drivers-license-to-buyer's-face comparison conducted by the same person via webcam, and (iv) a giant speaker through which everyone involved, human and machine, personally thanks you for your purchase!

Yes.

Welcome to The Future.

Welcome to Pennsylvania.

If You Can't Say Anything Nice, Say Something Not Not Mean

2010-11-16T00:50:00.006-05:00

It's a bit like beating a dead horse at this point, or at least like teasing a daft one, but let's all be perfectly honest with each other. Sarah Palin is no self-conscious wallflower. She very passionately believes that she has very important things to say (read off her hand), and she quite happily thrusts herself into every possible opportunity to say (read) them.

Because of this, it's not unfair or malicious to make jokes about her.

It's not!

Take her new show. Sarah Palin's Alaska.

Now, I didn't watch the premiere, on account of not wanting to spoil whatever fondness I have left for our otherwise-majestic 49th state (and also on account of watching instead the most remarkable football player in NFL history attempt to hang a Chamberlain on Mike Shanatan and his $78 million dollar man).

I'd didn't need to watch it, though. I'd seen enough of the ads (I have no idea how; I swear I don't watch TLC), and I'd certainly seen enough of her other endeavors to feel quite confident in creating the following list.

It's entirely off-the-cuff, and is by its very definition impossible to complete, but here's a list of People I'd Trust More Than Sarah Palin To Do Any Of The Following Alaska-Related Activities: (i) Drive a snowmobile, (ii) Catch a fish, (iii) Make a snowball, (iv) Discover gold, and (iv) Not get eaten by a moose.

Drum roll, please. . .

1. Bret Michaels
2. Brett Michaels's bandanna salesman
3. Sherri Shepherd
4. Sherri Shepherd's biology teacher
5. Miss South Carolina
6. Miss South Carolina's geography teacher
7. Steve Urkel
8. Stefan Urquelle
9. The Grape Stomp Lady
10. The Double Rainbow Guy
11. The High School Hurdler
12. Balki Bartokomous
13. Any randomly-selected 8-year-old
14. Any non-randomly-selected 8-year-old
15. Your Mom
16. Mike Shanatan

In Which I Unintentionally but Unquestionably Defeat the Entire Purpose of Asterisk Asides

2010-11-08T14:53:00.012-05:00

Someone -- I think it was one of the characters from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia,* actually -- once compared other people's dreams to other people's photo albums, saying something to the effect that if one isn't somehow personally involved, and if they don't include any sort of sexual activity, then what's the point?

Fair enough.

*Incidentally, I've tried quite hard -- above and beyond the call of duty, even -- to get into Sunny, but I've never managed to pull it off.** I think Charlie is downright hilarious, and Mac is decent enough, but I absolutely cannot stand Sweet D/Dee or her infinitely annoying brother. Cannot stand them. And please don't get me started on Danny DeVito, either (who to be fair, joined the show after I'd already given up on it for the third or fourth time). I can't even look at that guy without feeling weirdly guilty, like I'm ogling someone with an unusual handicap or something (which, incidentally, is exactly what anyone watching him on that show is doing), so laughing is obviously completely off the table.

**In fact, Sunny has actually been permanently added to the list of wildly popular comedy television that I've determined I can longer waste any time trying to appreciate. Also included*** are Family Guy, South Park, The Simpsons, King of the Hill, and The Glenn Beck Show.

***You may have noticed that almost all of the examples from my Cannot Enjoy List are cartoons. Well done, Sherlock.**** Still, it can't be denied. It seems I may have some sort of genetic inability to appreciate animated humor.*****

****Speaking of Mycroft's little brother, check out the delightful print I picked up for a measly couple of bucks from the Etsy shop of kat from Pink India Ink. Incredible, right?

*****Providing at least some counter-evidence to the congenital disability theory -- mine, not DeVito's -- is my unabashed enjoyment of Team America: World Police, The Animated Animals Robin Hood Movie (unofficial title), anything even remotely affiliated with Pixar, and the roughly forty-five seconds of Archer I caught the other night.

So anyway.

Where were we?

And where on earth are we now?

Ah yes. Other people's dreams.

I actually think the photo album analogy still undersells their lack of interest. They're much worse than that. And they're much worse than a bunch of other terribly dull Other People's Things too, an obviously partial (but thoughtfully alphabetized) list of which would include: babies, blogs, bowel movements, boyfriends, diets, and fantasy football teams.

Why are dreams so much worse? Because they're pretend. They aren't just lame elements of other people's lives; they're lame elements of other people's imaginary lives. Having to hear about them is like having to watch a Ghost Hunters marathon, but without being able to shout savage insults or change the channel.

Other people's dreams are, quite simply, the worst.

Which brings me to the crazy dream I had last night.

I was back in high school, sitting in a college professor's office which had apparently been relocated there, when Zef****** came crashing through the door like the lunatic kamikaze she is.

******If you've been wondering why there haven't been more puppy updates (pupdates?) (sorry) around here, it's because my family made the decision last week that we simply didn't have enough people-hours or yard-space to keep her properly active and entertained and they returned her to the breeder. It was the right decision, and it will definitely be for the best of my little (ex-)best friend, but no, I will not be over it for a while, and no, I do not want to talk any more about it, either now or ever.

Anyway, Zef had shown up because she was thirsty, so I poured her some water from my arm, which had conveniently enough morphed into a sort of fire hose, but the water splashed all over my professor's shoes, too, and although they were a particularly hideous pair of purple Nikes, he was quite upset anyway and promptly expelled me from wherever it was that I was, exactly, and swatted (unsuccessfully) at Zef with a newspaper.

Then, just as I was about to gloriously avenge us both by spraying him to kingdom come, I woke up and realized I'd totally peed the bed.*******

*******Just kidding!********

********Maybe!*********

*********THE END!

Genius Ideas (A New Series): GPS Threat Level

2010-10-28T22:03:00.006-04:00

I don't like getting knifed. I haven't ever actually done so, sure -- the one time when I was 8 and the Butler was 6 and he chased me around the house with a meat cleaver for a half an hour is the closest I've come -- but I don't think it's one of those things you have to actually experience to know it's not really your thing.

I feel similarly about getting shot. Or carjacked. Or pretty much anything else that earns special bonus points in Grand Theft Auto.

The thing is, every time I drive somewhere unfamiliar, I put myself in greatly increased danger of just such horrors. How? It's simple. I, like everyone else young enough not to miss Happy Days and horse-drawn carriages, use GPS when I drive.

The technology is truly incredible. There can be no debate. Turn-by-turn directions, Map or Satellite Mode, Live Traffic, Street View -- you couldn't get lost if you tried.

What you could do, however, and almost certainly will do, sooner or later, if the idea I'm about to unveil doesn't go into production, is get knifed, shot, or carjacked.

What am I talking about? I'm talking about how the map options for getting from Point A to Point B can be sorted by "Quickest Route" or "Shortest Route," but never by "Highest Life Expectancy Route." I'm talking about how often the former two options cut directly through the most villainous parts of town. I'm talking, quite frankly, about the most glaring omission in modern automotive safety.

And now, I'm talking about GPS Threat Level®, the revolutionary new concept that would add to any electronic map an overlay indicating the the likelihood of grievous bodily or vehicular harm.

Think I'm overstating the need?

Fair enough. Just keep asking Google or Garmin for the "Quickest" or "Shortest" way to get somewhere on the other side of East Cleveland, or South Chicago, or Anywhere Detroit, and I'll keep waiting to read about your real-life GTA adventure in the crime blotter.

Think I'm onto something special here? You are a visionary. Work for or own an electronic map company? Even better. Kindly contact me via my work email address and we can iron out the particulars regarding our new partnership in saving lives.

Just as soon as I figure the safest way to get home from this coffee shop.

Dan's Best Friend

2010-10-19T18:28:00.009-04:00

Paddyboy and I drove to the boonies of Ohio today to make a special pick-up.

A very special pick-up.

A very, very special pick-up.

Her name is Zef,* she's a five-month-old border collie, and her mean mug already makes mine look like an Eat'n Park smiley cookie.

*Technically Zef will be short for "Zephyr," but really it will be short for "Charmander." If none of this makes even the slightest sense, please don't waste any time worrying about it.

Yes, she's already crate and potty trained.

Yes, she already pooped on the kitchen floor.

EDIT:Mas Zef:

Ignorance Was Bliss

2010-10-15T13:59:00.012-04:00

Me to the 70-something gentleman at the pool: "Oh, are you finished with that lap lane, sir?"

Him: "Sure am."

Me: "Great. Thank you."

Him: "It's about 5 degrees warmer than the other lanes."

Me: . . .

Him: . . .

Me: "I hope that doesn't mean what I think it does."

Him: . . .

Me: . . .

Him: Maniacal laughter

Me: . . .

Him: "Yeah, I warmed it up for you."

Me: . . .

Him: More maniacal laughter

Me: . . .

Oh. My. Gato.

2010-10-08T00:01:00.001-04:00

You've all seen the website "People of Walmart" by now, or, even better, have been on the receiving end of one of those FW: FW: FW: FW: Hilarious!?!??!?!?!?! emails with a bunch of the pictures attached.

You've also become familiar, whether through personal experience or some idiotic TLC show, of the variant of human being know as the "cat lady."

What you haven't -- at least until right this very second -- seen or experienced, is the melding together of these two phenomena into one giant, ultra-disturbing disaster.

And with that, I give you -- capitals most definitely required -- The Cat Lady.

(Yes, that is a (hand-painted?) kimono she's wearing.)

(Yes, that is a cat-upholstered bag (with real cat?) she's carrying.)

(No, she (amazingly enough!) did not appear to be transporting any animals in her shopping cart.)

(Or her hair.)

Sideburnt

2010-10-06T00:24:00.005-04:00

I am convinced, beyond any dissuasion, that I will die before learning how to successfully trim my sideburns.

Is there an analogous problem for women? For mentally competent men?

I've tried everything.

Scissors and razors and shears. Moustache trimmers and beard trimmers and -- I'm both proud and mortified about this -- toenail clippers. I've even, in a fit of absurdly overambitious desperation, attempted the impossible, the technique that barbers and beauticians spend years and years mastering: The Angled Comb and Clippers.

It's no use.

Disasters. Each and every attempt.

Without fail, the process unfolds precisely as follows:

Stage 1: Light trimming begins, confidence is irrationally high. Stage 2: Mistakes are made, then immediately compounded. Stage 3: One sideburn is now obviously much shorter or patchier than the other. Stage 4: The other sideburn, after a panicky, disastrous "evening up," is now far worse off than the original. Stage 5: Both sideburns are now decimated beyond repair; one or more earlobes is bleeding as collateral damage from the effort; emergency trimming nonetheless continues. Stage 6: Sideburn amputation is now fully complete, with hairline ravaged beyond the tops of the (bandaged) earlobe(s), in a look I'd suggest might be referred to as "Upburns." Stage 7: Desperate measures are considered and discarded, in rapid succession: full head shave, super-glue hair transplant, ritual suicide. Stage 8: Resignation to several weeks of unavoidable shame sets in. Stage 9 Hair (miraculously) regrows and misplaced confidence (non-miraculously) returns. Stage 10: The decision is made to try again.

I can't escape it. No matter what I do. This terrible cycle, this Sisyphean death by a thousand trims, is both ceaselessly repeating and hopelessly uninterruptable.

I've tried. I've tried everything I can think of, but nothing has worked. I can't trim my sideburns and I can't stop trying.

Someone.

Please.

Help.

Also, Goalie Masks Half Off

2010-10-02T17:31:00.003-04:00

Halloween is coming and you can't stop it.

HighLytes

2010-09-30T17:55:00.001-04:00

So what's yo' status? / I be tha baddest

This is, of course, the greatest self-asked-and-answered question in the history of mid-1990s rap music. Unfortunately, I don't think I have any way to tie it into anything I'd been planning on discussing, so we'll just have to leave the clever segues to the clever Segway news stories and move on without one.

So what was I planning on discussing?

Well, only the greatest (Midwest-est) road trip (kamikaze mission) of the last hundred years (couple of months).

It began, Friday in Pittsburgh, with a pre-spasmed you-know-what and a maybe one-in-a-thousand chance of completion. Six hours, sixty Aleve, and six hundred stop-and-stretches later, the first leg had somehow, semi-miraculously, been achieved.

Detroit.

Poor old Detroit.

I spent half my 18 hours there trying desperately to figure out the perfect ending to the joke "Hey, Detroit, Sarajevo called..." and the other half running red lights trying desperately to avoid getting carjacked, stabbed, or firebombed. On a brighter note, the baseball stadium is gorgeous.

Leg number two took me to my ultimate destination, and was substantially pleasanter, if just as long and just as filled with truckers sneering at the liberal hippie commie doing heathen socialist yoga in the pet exercise gravel pit.

Chicago.

Beautiful Chicago.

The marvelous yin to Detroit's blood-curdling yang, the Windy City was the site of my cousin's wedding. This part of the trip was an unmitigated success. While I'd had the pleasure of visiting several times before, this occasion marked my first (i) surprise wedding attendance, (ii) parking garage wardrobe change, (iii) Chicago-style hot dog, (iv) visit to Millennium Park, and (v) trip to Wrigley Field. Oh, and there were no murders or firebombings.

The return voyage was primed for continued delights. All major objectives had already been completed, the you-know-what was doing much, much better, and all that remained was a scenic cruise through beautiful Indiana, a quick stopover in picturesque Toledo, and the final homestretch through majestic Ohio.

Then, well, reality happened.

First, traffic on I-90 was so bad that I eventually "had no choice" but to pull a Black Diamond-rated median U-turn and spend 3 hours careening along semi-paved back roads. Then, Toledo turned out to be Detroit Lite, minus the beautiful ballpark and the runnable red lights. Finally, the last day's drive through monsoon-battered Ohio was essentially an Oregon Trail-style "caulk your wagon and float it across."

It was decidedly un-victorious.

But, in the end, and even if only technically, I made it.

I made it (roughly) halfway across the country, (roughly) all the way back; I survived both Detroit and Toledo at night.

And, along the way, I caught up with dear friends and family. I had a ticket office employee spend ten minutes explaining to me that the 7th inning of a baseball game meant it was almost over. I saw Chelsea Handler throw out a first pitch and Albert Pujols hit one about nine thousand feet. I got an up-close-and-personal view of every last barn between Gary and Goshen.

I... I think I'm going to say it.

Yes.

I cold rocked a road trip.

Bikinis, Butlers

2010-09-13T17:37:00.009-04:00

Greetings, comrades.

It's been a while, I know, but what with the freezing fangs of winter about to set upon us, and what with my ex-teacher/new-girlfriend's wardrobe skewing remarkably towards the bikini, we've been trying to enjoy each other's company (and biceps) as much as possible while we still can.

I'm sure you understand.

In other news, due to another delightful scheduling fluke, the Butler was in town for the second time in a little more than a month.

We obviously took full advantage of the opportunity to, well, hang out, and to, well, eat like pigs.

Tacos outside of Reyna Foods in the Strip District:

Barbari kubideh at Conflict Kitchen in East Liberty:

And, to wash it all down (since my All-Time Favorite Fall Drink has apparently been pulled from the market due to excessive alcohol content (oxymoron alert?)), tarragon and saffron water kefir:

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go iron my Speedo.

I Wonder If She Likes Costumes

2010-08-31T20:46:00.008-04:00

It was an amazing and marvelous weekend.

I flew to Boston on Friday (somehow avoiding a Homeland Security full-body-violation), attended a breathtaking wedding (not mine (not yet)), had an unbelievable amount of fun with some of the best people I'll ever know (the photos are preposterous and should be arriving shortly), almost managed to meet up with this lovely lady for one of these lovely, um, colostomizers (a couple of pints (or twenty) may have short-circuited the endeavor), somehow maintained total body cavity integrity on the way home, too (seriously, Homeland, are we even trying?), and all of this -- all of this! -- without That Body Part Which Shall Not Be Named giving me an unacceptable level of The Business Which Need Not Be Discussed.

It was, unequivocally, a magnificent success. A spectacular adventure.

It was an amazing and marvelous weekend.

And that, truly, that was the exact thought floating through my head as I idly surfed the internet earlier this evening. As I idly surfed the internet and somehow, some way, managed to semi-consciously stumble upon the fact that this is what my third-grade teacher is up to these days.

My unassuming, demure third-grade teacher.

This:

It was an amazing and marvelous Tuesday.

I Did It

2010-08-23T14:55:00.000-04:00

Or, to paraphrase one of the great poetic duos of our time, "I done up and done it."

I don't mean to be glib, though. This was an entirely un-comical thing I did.

And while I remain convinced it was the right decision -- all necessary conditions had been met, all commemorative achievements secured, all shampoo reserves exhausted -- it was unexpectedly and catastrophically stressful.

In fact -- and I say this with full awareness of how ridiculous it sounds (and is), and how sheltered a life I've lived -- I might never, ever, in my entire life have done anything so profoundly unsettling as shaving my beard.

Yes, I know.

Let me explain.

You see, for the first 48 hours (at least), my brain didn't recognize my two-thirds-missing, 30-lbs-lighter face. Essentially, I had a stranger's head stuck to my neck. Have you ever heard of somatoparaphrenia? I have. (I'm awesome.) (At googling.)

Basically, it's a medical disorder in which a patient with brain damage believes that one or more of his limbs do not actually belong to him. They're someone else's; there's been some sort of mix-up; he wants nothing to do with them -- it can be a very serious problem. Now imagine a patient (hint: it's me), with similar levels of brain damage (hint: "similar"), except instead of being freaked out by an extra arm, it's his face.

Now do you understand the trauma?

Still no?

Okay, no matter. I'm delighted to report that (i) my brain is finally starting to calm its damaged self down, (ii) I'm quite talented at gaining weight, and (iii) I no longer have an intense desire to amputate my face.

On the other hand, please don't expect any undoctored (or un-ludicrous) pictures of me anytime in the next several months.

("Hell Naw.")

PS - A less-doctored (but less awesome) version that will hopefully shed some light on just how drastic the change that overloaded my brain really was.

PPS - An absolutely horrifying -- seriously, read the disclaimer before clicking -- creation for which I can foresee no possible use other than mass terrorization.

DISCLAIMER: I know. I issue this sort of warning a lot. Truly, though, what we're talking about here is unequivocally mental. I make no excuses other than to remind everyone that I obviously wasn't in my right mind when I created it, and I obviously wasn't playing with a full deck of cards in the first place. Brain damage, remember? Still want to click? Fine. Happy Nightmares.

Schemes, Etc., Part II ("The Conclusion")

2010-08-18T09:32:00.010-04:00

There are certain battles that one simply has no choice but to fight.

They are impossible to win, these battles -- hopeless from the outset, miserable to struggle through, promising nothing but tragic loss and bitter defeat.

One must fight them anyway.

One must fight them because of the importance of their cause, or because of the height of their stakes, or because one has nothing better to do with oneself than to overdramatize one's mundane life with stirring calls to arms and indefinite pronouns.

One's opponents in such battles will be overwhelming. They will will be cold and cunning and merciless. They will be full of the deep, black misery whose only salve is the fatal infection of others.

They will prevail. Of this there can be no doubt.

They always do. Of this there can be no dispute.

Such battles are lost before they've even begun.

Such battles, by their very definition, are unwinnable.

One must fight them anyway.

One. Must. Fight.

**********************

"Is that medical?"

"Yes sir."

"Martha, what do you think? Can we still do this? Do you think I should call Harrisburg?"

"Hmm. Is it a medical thing?"

"Yes ma'am."

"What kinda medical thing?"

"I scratched my cornea last week."

"Cornea?"

"Yes ma'am.

"Cornea?"

"Yes ma'am."

"How did it happen?"

"I was weed-whacking my parents' backyard."

"Weren't wearing goggles?"

"Actually, ma'am, I was."

"And now it's permanent?"

"No ma'am. It should be healed within a few weeks. I passed the eye exam."

"That doesn't matter."

"Yes ma'am."

"Well, George, I guess it's up to you, whether or not you wanna call Harrisburg. I'm not sure what they'd say about it."

"Ehh. . .."

"You could just write 'Medical' on it, I guess."

"I'll just write 'Medical' on it."

"Oh, wonderful. Thank you both so much."

"Just have a seat, young man, and I'll call you when it's ready."

"Yes sir. Thank you again, both of you."

**********************

Some. Unwinnable. Battles. May. Still. Be. Won.

(previous unwinnable battles won)

(additional context before and after)

Schemes, Etc.

2010-08-12T14:33:00.004-04:00

Slam.

Dunk.

The.

Funk.

($12 for the entire ensemble.)

(Photography can't possibly do that tie justice.)

(That may be a women's suit.)

(More details within a week or two at the outside.)

Pizzadventure

2010-08-11T09:58:00.003-04:00

This is a real adventurer.

And that is a real adventurer's pizza.

The Usual

2010-08-05T15:06:00.005-04:00

What did I do today?

Oh, not much. Flew my helicopter to Pakistan, herded some cattle, rescued some people -- you know, the usual.

What did you do today?

(source)

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young (Kid-n-Play-Haircutted, Prodiguously-Eyelashed, Formal-Name-Preferring, Possibly-Lipstick-Wearing) Man

2010-08-02T13:50:00.007-04:00

The special parents aren't the ones who believe their children to be inordinately gifted. Those are a dime a dozen. It's not hard to fawn over your little pPicasso, blowing time and money on private schools and privater tutors when you're too self-impressed to recognize a bratty hack when you sire one.

No, the special parents are the ones who know exactly what they're dealing with. The ones who don't delude themselves -- or anyone else -- about the true measure of their child's artistic abilities.

The special parents are the ones who, in their apparently infinite kindheartedness, somehow refrain from destroying every pen, pencil, crayon, and marker within 100 yards of their home in an entirely justified effort to get the message across.

And to finally. make. the. drawings. stop.

I have some very special parents.

Perezoscopy

2010-07-29T11:07:00.007-04:00

There are a few issues I need to address before posting the photographs below.*

*There are obviously (more than) a few issues that I need to (more than) address before [doing just about anything], but that's not what we're talking about right now.

I just want to be as clear as possible regarding the circumstances under which said photographs were taken. For reasons that should become immediately apparent.

Okay. So. The issues.

#1 - I understand that most spastic fans of the relevant television program are aware of the existence of what I've documented. I am not -- repeat, not -- such a fan myself, and I was aware of it. Still, I'd thought it had been limited to both Canada and the previous decade, which, to my mind at least, is essentially equivalent to having never actually occurred at all. This background may or may not justify my frantic hilarity when the opportunity for present-day, non-Canadian documentation presented itself.

#2 - I do not ordinarily take photographs -- frantic, hilarious, or otherwise -- of such items.

#3 - Seriously, I don't.

#4 - I was not watching the television program the info screen was unfortunately displaying, either at the time of photography or ever.

#5 - Seriously, I wasn't.

#6 - Shut up.

And now, without further ado or self-incrimination, I present to you, The Photos. . .

. . .of Kate from LOST's "Livelinks" adult chat line commercial.

#7 - I did not call that number.

#8 - Seriously, I didn't.

#9 - Shut up.

They're Called Shorts For a Reason, Son

2010-07-28T00:09:00.006-04:00

The Can Unopener

2010-07-25T12:45:00.006-04:00

I'm not a very patient man.

When I wake up with a desperate need for a giant bowl of tuna salad, therefore, and when I delightedly recall that I'd made a late-night run to stock up on all of the necessary ingredients the evening before, and when I rush downstairs and gleefully gather everything together only to be foiled at the last, infuriating instant because I. cannot. figure. out. how. to. use. the. fancy. yellow. Eurotrash. can. opener. -- when all of this happens, I simply lose my mind.

I posted the notice below on our kitchen counter, but as I'm the only one currently in the house, it hasn't produced much in the way of useful results.

So I turn to you, internet. I turn to you before I chop off my fingers or shatter my teeth (or both) in a mad exploration of alternative opening techniques.

Be the first person to explain to me how to open a 5 oz can of tuna with the can opener pictured below -- either via text, images, or interpretive dance -- and I will mail you your choice of $5 or an autographed jar of mayonnaise.

Just as soon as the surgeons reattach my fingers.

UPDATE: Thank you to everyone who attempted to assist me in this most unfortunate of challenges. My little sister returned home within 30 seconds of my publication of this contest and by some unknown witchcraft managed to solve the problem even more quickly than that. She declined to pose for a victory photograph.

For Your Screening Pleasure

2010-07-19T18:57:00.008-04:00

So I've watched a lot of TV shows during the last couple of years.

I'm not going to publish the master list just yet, both because I'm appalled at its size and because I'm also secretly rather proud of it and want to make sure it's as giant as possible when I finally do disclose it. (That's what she said.) Trust me, though. It's pretty absurd.

Not just any programming is eligible for inclusion, of course. Again, we won't get into the finer points quite yet, but let's just say the list skews rather heavily towards sci-fi, comedy, and sci-fi-comedy.* Also, at least so far, there's only one HBO show that's made it.**

*A full and proper defense of this rather incriminating-seeming fact will be made at the time the full catalogue is released.

**Likewise.

On the other hand, once I start watching a show, I always finish it. Always. It's a matter of pride, maybe, or an obsession with capturing the ultimate laugh-and-vomit-at-the-same-time screengrab, or something somehow in between. That's just how it goes.

There had only been one exception.

House.

I'd heard very good things about it, but I've never really been a procedural guy, especially a medical one, and while I greatly admire the seemingly universal ability of British actors to produce authentic American accents -- How do they all do it? Why is it the exact opposite going the other direction? -- it just wasn't enough. Yes, Jennifer Morrison is a distinct positive, and yes, Lisa Edelstein doesn't hurt the case much either, but when every single episode shares an average of 98% of its plot with every other episode, it gets old fast.

Or at least it did.

About 18 months ago, I threw in the towel after a season and a half. Then, 17 and a half months later, for reasons which shall never be fully understood, I started back up again. Maybe it was latent guilt. Maybe it was simple boredom. Maybe it was a premonition that, sooner or later, House would treat something even more hystericappalling than The Lizardbaby. I don't know.

What I do know, is that this time I'm wholly on board. It's sci(-fi)ency, it's sometimes funny, and there's plenty of extreme grossitude.

Which brings us to the real reason for this post.

One can only watch so many late-night medical explosions, it turns out, before one's overstimulated imagination begins to borrow bits and pieces for one's sleeping entertainment. Take last night. I woke up at 3 AM, completely terrified and frantically scratching my back, stomach, and chest. I believed I'd just been attacked by a pack of feral cats, you see, and that they'd infected me with some sort of blood-borne parasites that were eating holes in my bones.

The imagery was so vivid, so horrifying.

Which brings us to the real-er reason for this post.

Does anyone know how to screengrab a dream?

The King is Dead, Long Live Whoever Killed Him

2010-07-09T13:37:00.006-04:00

I don't watch the NBA. I hate ESPN's guts. My life would be absolutely unaffected if Gabrielle Union's boyfriend, Jar Jar Bosh, and Underbite James vanished forever from the earth right this very second.

Yet there I was last night. There I was, tuning in to watch the world's awkwardest interviewer and the world's boringest egomaniac attempt to turn a Cleveland basketball player's choice of employer into a State of the Union address.

In fairness, it was Paddyboy's idea to watch. Okay, in fairer fairness, it was my idea. I have no clue why. I was bored. There was nothing else on. Let's just stick with it was Paddyboy's idea.

So we watched.

And we watched.

And then, finally, after at least thirty minutes of paint-peelingly brutal "banter" -- the kind of stuff, really, of which cocktail party Do Not Invite lists are made -- the decision (no capitals required) was finally rendered.

The thing was, everyone and their Delonte-West-loving mother (google it) had already known which team it was going to be for at least 24 hours. We'd had a pretty good idea, at least, from the innumerable "sources" (hangers-on) that ESPN's phalanxes of "reporters" (hangers-on) had scooped in their round-the-clock "coverage" (hanging-on).

And the glorious proclamation itself? The coup de grace? More like a coup de gracelessness. Hilariously contrived, shockingly inarticulate, it was delivered like an over-rehearsed, over-inebriated pickup line.

But there was one moment, one moment of pure delight amidst the insufferable whole of the LeBronathon.

No, it wasn't the sound of Ohio committing seppuku, en masse.

No, it wasn't the sound of New York Knicks fans doing the same.

It was, appropriately enough, in an Emperor's New Clothes (King's New Robes?) kind of way, the unanimous response of the Boys & Girls Club prop kids when the decree, such as it was, was finally made.

Silence.

Total silence.

Death to an egomaniac's ears.

Outmagicked

2010-06-27T20:49:00.007-04:00

Well, that didn't quite go as planned.

Ghana 2, Yanks 1.

And after so much promise. So much excitement. So much disastrous refereeing.

As you'd imagine, I've been over the game film several times by now -- both the actual match video and the security camera footage of me and Paddyboy cheering in our basement -- but nothing has stood out as an obvious explanation.

It seems I'm forced to conclude that, in my astonishingly humble effort to avoid all credit for the team's prior successes, I somehow robbed the final Timmy Howard patch of its match-winning powers. As if it had -- and this would sound so ridiculous if it weren't so likely true -- as if it had actually been swayed by my over-humble rhetoric into doubting its own strength.

I know, I know. It's the height of silliness.

No talisman of my creation could be so mentally weak.

But if that's not it, then there's only one other possible explanation.

Namely, that there was nothing wrong at all with the TimmyPatch, that it performed every bit as effectively as it was designed to, but that some almightily-powerful, unspeakably dreadful Ghanaian Super-Wizard conjured up some devastatingly dark magic that overwhelmed even my own.

But that's impossible, right?

I've been at this for years. My experience and success are well-(if self-)documented.

A wizard of such mind-blowingly vast power couldn't possibly exist, right?

Right?

Errr....

Well played, Ghana. Well played.

It's Not About Me

2010-06-24T17:51:00.006-04:00

I've never really been one to toot my own vuvuzela.

If my lucky artwork just so happened to be largely responsible for the greatest victory in U.S. Soccer history, well, hey, that's wonderful and inspirational and everything, but I don't need to run around pointing it out to everyone.

Been there before, done it all already, act like a champion, all that stuff.

And if Sunil Gulati, president of U.S. Soccer, pestered me for two hours on GChat last night to make sure I'd put something new together in time for Saturday's match against Ghana, well, that's cool too. Not the pestering, I don't mean. The being vital to national success. I just don't really like to talk about it.

And, finally, while we're discussing how much I don't like to discuss my accomplishments, let's not point out how I've officially turned around that long-forgotten blogging slump with four posts now in four days.

Don't mention it. Really.

You're welcome, Sunil.

Go Yanks!

No Text Required

2010-06-23T12:07:00.002-04:00

V is for Victory, Etc.

2010-06-22T22:25:00.006-04:00

There's not a lot left to say, either about how important the US-Algeria World Cup match is tomorrow, or about how unfortunate it is that I have so much free time on my hands these days.

I'll just leave it with this.

It doesn't matter what you've heard, what you've heard, or what your crybaby otologist has to say -- those things are worth every last exploded eardrum.

Go Yanks!

Title Pureed

2010-06-21T00:05:00.003-04:00

The problem I encounter when blogging infrequently is that the simmering mess inside of my head doesn't keep very well. It isn't like a stew in a crockpot where all the ingredients can safely and deliciously intermingle, meeting and greeting and behaving themselves most commendably for an almost indefinite amount of time.

That's not how it works.

How it works -- should such a word really even apply -- is more like a handful of textaholic tween cellphones crammed into one of those "Will it Blend?" power-blenders. It's neither coherent nor useful, and there's an excellent chance of toxic byproducts.

It's tragic, really. The gripping stories, the brilliant observations, the hilarious turns of phrase -- they're all sent, ill-used and unrecorded, to the great metaphorical blades.

So what's left when I finally do condescend to write? Only mangled leftovers. Only garbled bits and fragments that feel like a half-remembered dream and sound even less entertaining than that.

Something about how easily I'm confused by car vents. Something about hating having to buy moisturizer at grocery stores. Something about Cristiano Ronaldo looking like the head alien from the V remake and something about that being particularly confusing for me since I find her more than a little attractive.

And then, of course, there are whatever new things happened recently enough that they haven't yet reached their expiration date. Like how I just dropped my laptop while making a heroic emergency toilet paper delivery to a frantic family member. And like how my engimpened machine is now making an odd squeaking sound when I type. And like how since I don't really want to engage in any true-life appliance blending, I'll probably end this all. right. here. right. now. good. night.

Don't Call It a Kumback, or, I'm Sorry, That Was Maybe The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Typed

2010-06-07T14:30:00.005-04:00

So I obviously couldn't stay away for 20 years, even though it would have been the ultimate melodramatic double-down*, because I obviously don't otherwise have enough to keep my racing mind and overexuberant emotions busy these days.

*Did somebody say Double Down? I know, I know, these things have been around for long enough now that they've almost completed the cycle from funny to lame to ironic back to funny again, but can I just officially offer my legal services to anyone who knows anyone who's ever eaten one? I don't even think we need to wait for the inevitable heart attack, liver implosion, colon mutiny, etc. Let's just turn the heat up on KFC -- get it? -- and see if they'll settle in advance. Settlement to be split 90-10 in my favor.

Back to the back for a moment, though. I've decided that I shall henceforth not reference it again, under any circumstances, until I'm completely well. Not just better, and not just much better, but totally, irreversibly, launching-my-top-secret-totally-idiotic-highly-speculative-post-recovery-plan well. Agreed? As if there could possibly be any objections. Agreed. Agreement may be modified at any time at the sole discretion of author and his overexuberant emotions.

As for the rest of everything, well, let's see if it can't be crammed into a single, annoying stream of consciousness sentence:

So there was another fire drill at my idiot pool the other day which completely blew whatever was left of my enfeebled mind and left me feeling a bit like I'd imagine those poor saps do who get struck by lightning not just once but like three or four times and I guess it's not nearly that big of a deal really at least not as big a deal as the World Cup starting on Friday which is pretty much the biggest big deal of all time and I picked Spain over Brazil in the final in my bracket even though I hate Spain and will be rooting with deranged fervor for the US and also the African teams especially the Cameroon because of my favorite player Alex Song from my favorite club team Arsenal and speaking of favorite things I had a kumquat for the first time today and okay it was actually a pint of kumquats but like I was saying while raspberries and grapefruit will always be my favorite fruits those tiny little orange M-80s made a very strong case to be lumped into the top-3 or at least the top-5 and while we're talking about very strong cases I'm serious about that whole preemptively suing KFC thing since hey why not let's make a little money because everyone can always use some more of that especially people with top-secret-totally-idiotic-highly-speculative-post-recovery-plans that they absolutely categorically will not divulge ahead of time so don't even bother asking but thank you so very much for all of your well-wishes they are deeply appreciated and I wonder if grocery stores deliver because I could really use another dose of those kumquats but I don't feel much like driving anywhere right now and I wonder if it would affect my chances if I pretended to be an elderly widow when I called.

Restraining Order Rescinded

2010-05-31T11:11:00.003-04:00

Annnnnnnnnnnnd in the most unsurprising turn of events in the history of everything, I reaggravated my idiot back approximately four hours after publishing the preceding post.

Talk to you again in about 20 years.

A Restraining Order

2010-05-29T13:16:00.000-04:00

I'm not really sure how to begin.

I've conditioned myself, so thoroughly and for so long, to resist any type of announcement or acknowledgment of this kind, that now, even when I actually desire to go ahead with such a thing, I'm not at all certain that my brain and vocabulary are capable.

Perhaps it's best to be brief. And simple. To add details at a later time. Even now -- even now! -- I feel that old foe Panic creeping around in my mind like a dangerous, determined stalker. I have no doubt that he shall haunt me for a long while still, lurking vengefully in the background of every stride forward, whispering lurid doubts at every setback.

But never mind that old lecher. Paying him attention does no one any good. In the end, should he prevail, let him at least have been challenged, have been forced to earn his sinister victory, inch by resisted inch.

So here it is.

I'll say it.

I don't care who's listening or what happens next.

I am getting Well.

I sense it, I see it, I feel it.

I know it.

I am getting Well.

Get off me, Panic.

The Impostor

2010-05-19T13:43:00.005-04:00

It has come to my attention (H/T to The Foot Critique) that there is a righteous scumbag out there posing as me on various CNN message boards.

Or at least he's using my pen name.

Or at least he's using the pen name that I may or may not have stolen from the previous inhabitant of my previous apartment.

The outrage.

Here's the article.

And here's the impostor (it may be hard to see):

For the record, I have no clue who "Christina" is, or where on earth this guy studied comedically, but either way, I want to make it as clear as possible that that is not me. Also that I'm going to murder him.

ImPa(lau)tience

2010-05-17T12:34:00.006-04:00

Dear Palau,

I'm a very busy man. A very busy, very important man.

And I'm sure you have plenty going on too, being an island and all. At least I think you're an island. If I weren't so busy and important, I'd Google it and make sure this were the case. I'd also confirm exactly which hemisphere you belong to. But no matter. This letter concerns neither your geography nor your location. It concerns your P.

You see, as previously referenced, I'm extremely busy and important. I'm also quite clever with technology. The intersection of these characteristics means that when I fill out online forms, in order to maximize efficiency, I use the keyboard exclusively and type as little as possible. Which brings us back to your P.

Namely, drop it or I will destroy you.

I'm sorry to be so coarse, but the situation really has come to a head.

If it happens even one more time, that while entering my address into one of the aforementioned online forms, I tab into a "State" field, hit "P", then tab away only to find that instead of "Pennsylvania" I've selected your meddlesome and mysterious self, and am forced to backtrack (possibly even with the mouse!) and start over again, I will have exhausted the last of my Patience.

I will destroy you, and I will destroy your measly inhabitants who -- without even needing to do the research -- I am quite certain have never, ever, in their entire lives, ordered a package online.

I hope it does not come to this, as (I may have mentioned) I am quite busy and important and scarcely have the time for research and annihilation, etc. and etc.. Do the right thing. "Alau."

Quite Sincerely,

Dan S.

You LOST Me At Hello

2010-05-13T23:10:00.002-04:00

[WARNING: The same double disclaimer from our previous LOST discussion applies here as well. There shall be spoilers, and there shall be criticism. Whiny, self-important criticism. Consider yourselves warned.]

I think I pretty thoroughly set the stage the first time around, but here's the Run-on Sentence Recap anyway: I stumbled onto LOST a couple of years after its debut, was entirely skeptical at first, by "at first" I mean "for 20 minutes," proceeded to watch every available episode at the near-expense of failing the bar exam, strenuously defended the show against any and all detractors, gradually became increasingly disenchanted during seasons 4 and 5, and now, two-thirds of the way through the final season, consider it little more than a terribly annoying combination of Man vs. Wild (intentionally unitalicized), a Mexican telenovela, and any randomly-selected SyFy channel original movie.

There. So there's that.

But I want to reiterate, to make it absolutely clear -- I am still watching. I. Am. Still. Watching.

And not only that, I'm still hoping that these last few episodes manage to tie things up in a way that somehow manages not to be completely inane.

And not only that, but, for maybe a half an episode or two, I actually started to think it might be happening. I am not too small to admit my mistakes. Or to screenshot my own Twitter feed.

But alas, Jin and Sun's reunion was but a brief, exceptional flash, as in the very next episode of Bombs On A Sub (not starring Samuel L. Jackson), they were preposterously and summarily eliminated. It was so sudden, so utterly arbitrary, that one almost wonders whether Daniel Dae Kim beat up someone (everyone?) in the on-set buffet line and had to be let go for legal reasons. It wasn't dramatic or poignant or stunning; it was desperate.

And then there was this week's gem. Title: "Across the Sea." Logline: "Something something something, Zombie Locke's motivations are revealed." Sounds intriguing, right? Like some of the central, underlying mysteries might finally be addressed, right? Like some of the most pivotal, powerful characters might finally make some sense, right?

Wrong. Here -- and again, remember that this is one of the final remaining episodes of an incredibly complicated and still-largely-unexplained show -- here is the information that "Across The Sea" delivered:

Jacob, the putative grandmaster of everything, is apparently little more than a bratty, cognitively deficient man-child who may or may not suffer from bizarre, pseudo-Oedipal feelings for the fake mother who murdered his real mother.

The Hilariously Still-Unnamed Adversary, AKA Someday Zombie Locke, AKA How On Earth Is Jacob Always Beating This Guy Up? is apparently little more than a slightly sketchy dude who wants nothing more than the freedom to enjoy his over-elaborate knife and his always-sleeveless shirts without having all of his friends burned alive.

And, then, worst of all by a hundred billion miles, the secret of the island, the incredible force responsible for all of its myriad marvels is apparently. . . is apparently. . . is apparently. . . a Magical Goldeny Glowcave™. A Magical Goldeny Glowcave™ that looks a lot less like The Most Important Thing Ever and lot more like the unfortunate amalgam of a sun lamp, a jacuzzi, and some grey spraypainted styrofoam from an old Star Trek set.

So what's next? What's left? What could possibly happen now that would allow for the not-small miracle of a not-disastrous ending?

One thing.

Daniel Dae Kim could return and punch J.J. Abrams right in the face.

That's it.

Unhappiness

2010-05-13T17:31:00.004-04:00

No, I don't want to talk about it.

Go Pens.

Game 7: Divide The Habs

2010-05-12T00:32:00.010-04:00

I've loved the Pittsburgh Penguins for as long as I can remember. It's not exactly clear why. I never played hockey growing up, at least not the ice kind*, and it's not as if there weren't any other local sports teams to root for. Although the Steelers were admittedly in a bit of a dry spell -- the on-the-field type, not the Big-Ben-and-consenting-women one -- and were led by the brilliantly-named but less-brilliantly-effective Bubby Brister and Louis Lipps, the Pirates were very much getting it done back then. Yes, those Pirates. Yes, at least until the NLCS.

And of course, (need it be said?), I was pretty obviously a baseball lunatic. I played as many games as the Non-Snowy Season allowed, practiced the other nine months of the year (commercial fishing net draped in our basement), spent every cent I received or stole on baseball cards and Beckett's, watched whatever games straggled onto local TV (no cable), and became the first non-baseball writer under the age of 50 with a subscription to Baseball Weekly. I was Baseball Superdork.

Yet despite all of this, I remained a Penguins man at heart. Every evening, from Early Snowy Season to Still Early Snowy Season (and after a few buckets of soft toss into the net), I'd grab a giant cup of instant iced tea and a giant-er bowl of the saltiest pretzels I could find, and I'd head up to my bedroom to while the night away with my awesome boombox (no cable) and the melodiously nicotined raspings of the world's greatest sports announcer, Mike Lange.

Lemieux, Jagr, Francis, Stevens, Recchi, Tocchet, Samuelsson, Murphy, Mullen, Barrasso, Wregget -- the list could go on about as long as a Milwaukee Brewers half-inning against the present-day Pirates.

There were Stanley Cup wins in '91 and '92, a should-have-been in '93, a few more near-misses, a bit of a lull, Mario's '97 retirement, the insanity of his '00 return, another bit of a lull, and then, long past the glory days of iced teas and boomboxes, college wrapped up and I moved south. In my absence the lull continued until a few magical drafts and the Sid Vicious jackpot, a few seasons of steady improvement, and the progression to the Cup Finals in '08.

And then there was last year. Last year in which I reluctantly returned to Pittsburgh, broken in a few different ways, feeling, shall we say, somewhat Pirateian about my circumstances and my future.

Last year in which the Pens won another Cup.

And not only that, but they won it in a way that left it undeniably apparent that I was somewhere between half and totally responsible for it all. (Closer to totally.) Yes, that's right, I'm talking about The Patches. As I'm not the type of guy to overstate his contributions (or to repeatedly email the team asking to have his name engraved on the trophy), I'll just let you brush up on the history as you see fit.

But now fast-forward to this year. Of course I started the Patches back up for the first round series against Ottawa, and of course you can do the math on the effect they had on the outcome. (All Patches, both this year's and last's, are viewable on Flickr.) Yet now, deep into the second round, and just when everything seemed to have been falling so perfectly into place once again, these scrappy Mighty Mite Canadiens are causing problems. They've taken the Pens to a do-or-die Game 7 tonight, and nothing can be left to chance.

A new Patch is required.

A Super Patch.

A patch featuring an individual who, despite the dizzying array of players, announcers, Slowey family members, and random movie characters previously included in the series, has somehow yet to make an appearance.

An individual who, in what surely is a first in Patch history, intentionally modified his appearance at least partly in preparation for the process.

I'm talking about me. And my face. And the Game 7 Patch of Destiny.

Jump on it.

Go Pens.

[EDIT: For Molly, et al.]

*I'm debating whether or not to credit my hockey-playing account for the hours and hours I spent whaling away on the always-younger neighborhood kids in street hockey. I was pretty awesome but they were pretty small. Annnnd debate over. Account credited.

My Mail, Your Mom

2010-05-09T14:40:00.002-04:00

This post is at least a few weeks late. However, as I have no one to blame for this fact but myself, and as that fact conflicts rather intolerably with my official policy of always blaming everyone else for everything, let's just agree that it was your mom's fault. In honor of Mothers Day.

Okay. So your mom. And the remarkable week of mail I had last month.

Oh, wait. Let me first set the stage a bit by noting -- perhaps superfluously -- that I, like most non-famous persons under the age of 50, ordinarily do not receive much physical mail. Email? Of course. I receive hundreds, billions of emails a day. Some of it isn't even spam. That's what life is like when you're a tech-savvy twenty-something with at least a dozen friends.

But regular old snail mail? That's a negative, Ghost Rider. Like the American Bison and the landline telephone, this ancient relic's time has passed. At least for my generation. At least usually.

And that's what made what happened (last last last) last week so remarkable. For in the correspondence tsunami that blasted me upside the head those those six crazy days, I received (cue Billy Mays voice) not one, not two, not three, but four (4) individual pieces of real-life mail. Yes, I know.

Item number one was, of course, and I know I've already over-discussed it to death -- but really, I'm telling you -- the breathtaking piece of original art I received from Erika Simmons. The Fernando. In case you somehow missed the previous thirty-eight posts about it, check it out here.

Item number two was the long-anticipated March Madness T-shirt from Molly from Lobed. You know, the one she was required to make for me after hilariously shooting her giant O-H-I-O mouth off and betting that her Buckeyes would go further than my Devils. You know, my Championship-winning Devils. Well, true to her word, the shirt arrived. And while I can't say I'll ever wear it in public, and while I can't even say I'm sure I understand it (Is it "Slowination" like "Slowey + Domination"? Or like "Slowey + Nation"? Or simply an entirely new (and long-overdue) word for what happens to anyone foolish enough to bet with me? And then the back? Help?), it's clearly a strong effort. So a big hat tip to Molly. And the same bet for next year if she, her mouth, and her Buckeye pocketbook want it.

Item number three was a second serving of March-Madness-related spoils, but a wholly unanticipated one. It appears that at least one enterprising reader took advantage of my open posting of my much-acclaimed bracket and used it to finish second in her pool (the winner obviously cheated). But that's not all. This shining gemstone of humanity, this beacon of light and loyalty, she actually sent me a cut of her winnings in the form of a Target gift card. Incredible. She made money and I'm officially only the tiniest step away from becoming one of those sketchy Vegas bookies who operate pay-by-the-minute sports tiplines. "Doctor Dude at 1-800-BESTPKS." See you next March.

Last and unfortunately least, the fourth piece of mail I received was a lottery ticket chain letter. Now, I generally try not to be a spoilsport. Most of the time, I'll play along with most of whatever's going on. There are two exceptions. Mass email forwards and chain letters. Well, and mommybloggers. And reality TV. And Smirnoff Ice. And--okay so I'm a spoilsport.

But I seriously wanted to try with this. I really did. I mean, I scratched off the ticket. I at least thought about buying however many more tickets and sending off however many more copies the barely-legible instructions commanded me to. I just couldn't. I don't know if it was the ratatat exclamations or the shouty bold caps or the fact that it actually included the line "This is not a chain letter." All I know is that I simply couldn't get it done.

Having said that, the person who sent it to me need not fear receiving no response at all. You were still a part of my Amazing Week of Mail and you shall not be forgotten. Neither shall your mother.

And that's that. Happy Mothers Day! Happy Mail Week!

I Told You So, or, Blader Sherlock

2010-04-30T15:01:00.009-04:00

So my (teal, "triple zipper") fanny pack still hasn't arrived yet. I guess that's what you get when you order your blading gear from an eBay seller in Singapore. No matter. I think the remaining ensemble proves the intended point well enough.

Speaking of which, I'm just about due for my monthly head and moustache shave (the head is because I'm obviously placing convenience above stylishness these days, and the moustache is because I like being able to get solid food into my mouth), so if you prefer more of a "summer Amish" look, feel free to imagine that instead.

As for the commenter who asked last time, when it eventually does arrive, I shall wear my fanny pack neither on the front nor the back. Like all proper adventurers, I shall wear it on the side. (Easiest snack/sunscreen/switchblade access.)

As for the commenter who will surely ask this time, I have no idea what's up with the pose in the photo. It just seemed right. Or at least not wrong. Whatev, dude, I've got way too much blading to do to be worrying about this stuff.

Anyway. So the photo. Version #1 is standard. Version #2 has been annotated for your viewing edification. (In case you're new to the internet, click to enlarge.)

Have a great weekend. Go Pens.

Uncoollerblading

2010-04-23T11:27:00.001-04:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it forever: There is no one, on the planet, who could possibly make rollerblading look cool.

I'm sorry, but there's just not. The goofy pads. The wobbly intensity. The clackety clackety wipeouts. I've given this far more serious thought than it could possibly deserve, and it's really just impossible. Try it yourself if you don't believe me. Close your eyes and get a mental picture of the coolest person you can think of. It could be someone currently living, like Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Ben Roethlisberger, or it could be someone from history, like Joan of Arc or Geronimo. Pick anyone you like.

Okay. Now imagine your person in a pair of shiny, slippery blades, spackled from head to ankles with protective plastic. Throw in a fanny pack (where else are they going to keep their valuables?) and some wrap-around sunglasses (can't blade with the sun in your eyes, brah). Now send them rolling down a sidewalk.

See what's happened? We don't even have to finish the scene, don't have to take it to its inevitable conclusion, the part where the sidewalk gets a little too steep, its cracks a little too deep, where our Mr. and Ms. Cools finally realize the full and terrible significance of the two most fundamental equations in Physics: Force = Mass * Acceleration and Rollerblades = Impossible To Stop.

We don't even have to wipe our people out -- or split their bike shorts! -- and they're already fools. Jesters. Laughingstocks.

There's only one human I'm aware of who's even come close to pulling it off, to making rollerblading look cool -- this shining example of youthful manhood right here. But let's be honest. Add a shirt and subtract the chocolate ammo belts and we're not even taking a second look at the clown blocking our view of the battleship. It just can't be done.

As the final, incontrovertible proof, I shall be posting a photo of myself on my own new blades, right here, sometime in the next week.

Just as soon as the fanny pack I bought on eBay last night shows up.

El Toro Viene

2010-04-20T13:30:00.010-04:00

I'd known he was going to be incredible -- really, truly incredible.

I'd seen the pictures. I'd posted a few of them here (Ex. A, Ex. B). I'd been well aware of the awesomeness to come.

Except it turns out that I hadn't.

The pictures had been nothing, had done nothing to prepare me.

I hadn't known a thing.

You see, the finished Fernando arrived from Erika today, and he is absolutely breathtaking. Beyond breathtaking. Extraordinary. (Is extraordinary beyond breathtaking?) Really, if my brain weren't far too overwhelmed to operate a motor vehicle right now (shut up, that's my excuse for last week, too), I'd drive to the library and study a thesaurus until I'd learned some suitably worthy adjectives.

He -- and she -- are that phenomenal.

He arrived earlier this afternoon in a box that, if one were a USPS screener, one surely must have assumed contained black market body parts, a couple of kilos of cocaine or an IED. I have no idea how it made it through. Perhaps it was the smiley.

Regardless, made it through it did, and I knew exactly what it contained, so I spent roughly 45 minutes performing a packingtapectomy so painstaking, so precise, that I cannot possibly help but wonder whether I missed my calling as a world-class heart surgeon.

Eventually, at long last, the final remaining cardboard fell away, and a mummified bundle of bubble wrap was revealed.

Like an OCD-riddled archaeologist, I unraveled layer after layer after layer.

After layer.

And then.

After all that.

There he was.

Even now, photography cannot possibly do him justice. His own mother would kiss his face. His uniform billows and flows. His baseball is made of real baseball. Real baseball! Truly, the combination of the texture, the detail, of how he seems to be springing to life right out of the mounting -- it's simply, well, it's simply empyreal.

If you love Fernando as much as I do -- which, so long as you possess at least one working eye and a half-working brain you surely must -- definitely check out the rest of Erika's website, her Flickr page, and maybe become a fan of hers on Facebook.

Thanks again, Erika!

Nightmares/Daymares

2010-04-16T10:59:00.008-04:00

I have lots of problems, and one of them is nightmares.

Not the stabby, falling, wearing-nothing-but-your-underwear kind -- I have those only very rarely and they don't even really bother me that much. Maybe that's a problem in itself. Or maybe it's a blessing, assuming the Army has some sort of extremely well-paid nudist paratrooper unit.

Right. So anyway, the nightmares from which I suffer are much less life-and-death. Actually, they're just much less death. They're all life. In all its prosaic horror. Awkward relationships, bad haircuts, accidental parenthood, that sort of thing. I know. It's preposterous. Why I get so terrified and why I wake up so absurdly distressed I have no idea. But I do.

Take last night, for instance. I had this dream that I'd bought a new pair of rollerblades -- exciting! -- because my physical therapist had said that skating could make my back better -- double exciting! The problem was, in all my double excitement to rush and find the nearest flat asphalt, I backed the fancy-boy car I've been driving right smack! into another fancy-boy car that had just been sitting in the driveway.

It was horrible. Objectively. But it still wasn't the end of the world, right? The damage was limited to the bumpers, and my parents, the legal owners of both fancyboymobiles, were incredibly gracious about the whole thing. And I still got to go rollerblading!

It didn't matter.

I still woke up this morning in a shivery sweat, thrashing around, replaying that awful crunching sound over and over in my head. Just get up and move around, I told myself. Go to the pool, get a swim in, ignore a fire drill or two, and you'll be over this hauntingly persistent dream-guilt before you even know it. Good thinking, I congratulated myself as I got dressed, grabbed a yogurt, and headed outside.

Where I saw the following:

I have lots of problems, and one of them is nightmares. It turns out that another of them is confusing bad dreams and bad reality. Awesome blades, though, right?

Paging Dr. Kevorkian

2010-04-15T12:41:00.000-04:00

Patient: 28-year-old juvenile male, Caucasian, possibly homeless (beard, flip-flops)

Current Symptoms: Itchy, watery eyes; Itchy back of throat; Overdramatic sneezing presenting with overdramatic cursing; Anger

Current Medications: Allegra, Benadryl, Claritin, Dramamine, Ethanol, and seemingly the rest of the alphabet all the way to Zyrtec; Patient also listed "Open to suggestions" and "Medical Marijuana???"

Notes: Patient Daniel was first admitted for what appeared to be a fungal infestation of the jawline and upper lip. Failed efforts to treat the growth with (Tough Actin') Tinactin spray ultimately led to the conclusion that it was, in fact, the aforementioned beard. Patient insisted it had been intentionally grown. Psych screen (surprisingly) negative.

Frequency of sneezing and severity of eye and throat irritation appear consistent with seasonal pollen allergy. Frequency of cursing and severity of "rage-outs" appear consistent with combination of B-movie Tourette's, paranoid schizophrenia, and PCP psychosis. Drug screen positive for Airborne. Second psych screen still (somehow) negative.

Patient has responded well to both attention and sedatives. Recommend he be kept for further observation and sedation until at least early June.

"Who Needs Amusement Parks?"

2010-04-12T00:40:00.001-04:00

Remember that NPR short fiction contest I entered a month or so ago? The one that, as you surely deduced from the lack of celebratory airplane banners buzzing around your cities, I didn't win?

Well, let it never be said that a little abject failure kept this guy down. Or a prematurely-purchased Cessna. This month's contest didn't have a photo prompt, it just had four words that were required to be included alongside the other 596 or fewer: "plant," "button," "trick," and "fly."

My entry is "republished" below.

To those of you who might be wondering the extent to which it's truly fictional, let's just say that life imitates art and leave it at that. To those of you who might have been hoping for more science fiction, I apologize to all three of you from the bottom of my alien robot heart.

My 16-year-old sister’s eyes were simmering, glowing, like twin nuclear reactors. Her jangly limbs were shivering with excitement. The deranged grin frozen into her face was a perfect blend of joy and terror. “Can I go now?” she pleaded. “Can I go now?”

Our first driving lesson had taken place two days earlier, and had lasted approximately eight seconds. That’s all she’d needed to set the car in motion, freelance a looping turn, confuse the brake and gas pedals, jump a curb, and fly us on an unauthorized kamikaze run through the row of mercifully flimsy plants edging the mercifully empty parking lot.

Today was round two.

In the intervening 48 hours, she’d redoubled her studying of her Drivers Ed manual and I’d dug up an old football helmet—we both figured ourselves much better prepared this time around. Still, that look on her face was a tick or ten short of confidence-inspiring.

“Dan!” she exclaimed. Her patience, fragmented into oblivion by years of Facebooking-while-texting-while-YouTubing, had long since expired.

“Hold on a minute.” I fidgeted with my seatbelt, double, triple-checking. All I could think of was how much I’d have given for one of those passenger-side brake pedals that the professional driving instructors used. Or a roll cage.

“Why do I need to hold on a minute?” she snapped, her knuckles whitening on the wheel. Flecks of foam began gathering at the corners of her mouth.

“So we don’t assassinate any more innocent foliage, that’s why. Or any innocent older brothers.”

She laughed, but a little too loudly, a little too insistently. Wasn’t that how people laughed when they were suffering from shock? Or insanity? I forced the thought from my head. The whole point of me being the one to teach her how to drive had been to spare her the typical parental hysteria. The incessant corrections. The riding-a-roller-coaster theatrics. The side-of-the-road driver changes.

I knew that however uncomfortable I might be, either with the car’s lack of military-grade safety features or my own rapidly plummeting life expectancy, I still had to project an aura of calm. And fearlessness. That was our only hope.

I snapped the helmet’s chinstrap.

“Okay—”

“Okay?” She flashed her gaze back to the windshield, every muscle in her body tensing. She was like an over-caffeinated cobra, ready to strike, strike, strike at anything.

“No. Not that ‘okay.’ ‘Okay’ like let’s run through the pre-flight checklist. We’re clear on which one’s the gas and which one’s the brake, right?”

She laughed again, a little less unnaturally, but stole a disconcerting glance at her feet.

“I’m not trying to trick you, I promise. You’ve got this.”

“Right is gas, left is brake.”

“Perfect. Atta girl.” I nodded encouragingly. Bravely. “And the parking brake?”

“Still on.” Her clammy hand grasped at it and slipped off. And again.

“It’s probably stuck,” I bailed her out, depressing the button and lowering the lever. “Okay, it’s all set now.”

“I can go then?”

“Yes. Just put the—“

But it was already too late. The magical, desperately-awaited word had finally arrived and her instant-messenger-honed reflexes had leapt into action. She snatched at the shifter and slammed on the gas.

For an instant, I recalled the old familiar sensation of the rear seat of the family station wagon. The knot in the pit of my stomach. The rapidly retreating scenery. The scenery we’d been supposed to be heading towards.

As the car, expertly if unintentionally placed in reverse, shot backwards, up and over the same old curb, and right through the same old row of plants.

I'm Not (Really) Scared Of You, Smokey

2010-04-08T13:20:00.000-04:00

When it comes to fire drills, and when it comes to people with nothing better to do than to think about them, it's pretty simple.

They aren't all created equal. (You see what I did there, Thomas Jefferson?)

Think about it, though. The fire drills part, I mean. Sometimes they're celebrated, sometimes they're cursed, and without a properly unequal mind to break it all down, how would anyone ever know which should be which? Probably by thinking about it for three or four seconds. But other than that? Exactly right.

That's where I come in. Through rigorous analysis of an event in which I was recently and most unfortunately involved, I've identified the one, all-important factor which singlehandedly determines whether a particular fire drill is a good or a bad thing.

Location.

When located in a workplace, a fire drill is a delightful surprise which, depending upon when exactly it occurs and how thoroughly one evacuates, is capable of fast-forwarding the day by anywhere between twenty minutes and eight hours. In an elementary school, it's a hilarious casserole of bossy adults, show-offy line leaders, and making-a-break-for-it delinquents.

In a hospital, on the other hand, a fire drill is neither delightful nor hilarious. Likewise an airplane. Or a nuclear power plant.

See what I mean?

Location.

Yet even in the case of the most badly-located drill, there's an amazingly high level of compliance. People may be annoyed at the disruption, they may be tonic-clonic seizing at the shrieking, strobing sirens, but they still, almost to a person, behave exactly as they're supposed to. I'm not quite sure why this is. If it were due to the mistaken belief that a real fire were taking place, I'd think there'd be a lot more stampeding and punching and window-diving.

I guess, maybe, it's just that, from their very first bossy teacher days, everyone's had a vague, terrible dread drilled into them about the unspeakable horrors awaiting anyone so foolish as to fail to comply, and that sort of conditioning isn't easily outgrown.

Whatever the case, the fact remains -- people don't disregard fire drills.

Today, however, that ends.

Today, I realized that there are actually some fire drills so preposterously-located that, whatever punishment might ultimately be inflicted upon me by that terrible triad of Principals and Fire Chiefs and Smokey The Bear, I will not obey.

Today, I was subjected to a fire drill that took place in a swimming pool.

Rip 'Em Up, Tear 'Em Up

2010-04-06T18:07:00.006-04:00

I'm not sure where to begin.

I guess maybe here: If either of those last two shots had gone in, I'd never have been able to watch another NCAA Tournament for the rest of my life. I'd never have been able to watch another Duke game. I'd never have been able to watch another television show. The rest of my existence -- every last miserable second of it -- would have been lived in constant terror of getting shotgunned in the face with yet another sappy, slobbery, slower-than-slow-motion replay of The Greatest Shot In The History Of Organized Sports.

But they didn't go in.

Somehow, some way, the ending that 99.99% of the free world had been desperately hoping for, frantically rooting for, practically willing into reality -- this despicable, unthinkable ending somehow didn't take place.

Why? I have no idea.

Maybe, as cute and lovable and Straight Out Of Hollywood™ the Butler story was, it was simply no match for whatever all-powerful cosmic force has taken control of Brian Zoubek's previously disastrously uncoordinated body.

Maybe, after so many, shall we say, less-than-braggable results, I was finally due a reward for my strenuous and storied efforts in the related fields of Arbitrary Predictions and Hyperbolic Trash Talk. [Custom T-Shirt from Molly (incoming!) and $350 Grand Prize in my college roommate's office pool (free Coach K bobbleheads for everyone!)!]

Maybe it was Paddyboy's surprising appearance and even more surprising rooting assistance, arriving as he did like some glorious, loudmouthed angel, helping to drown out the pro-Butler shamefulness of my Benedict Arnold parents and my dirtbag little sister.

Maybe, and semi-relatedly, it was the roughly 6,000 text messages I exchanged with my law school roommate during the game, a nearly stream-of-consciousness mind meld that took us both right back to all the time we spent in Cameron standing and stomping and screaming with all of the other nerds until the screens of our TI-83s cracked.

Or maybe the universe had simply had enough of Clark Kellogg.

Again, I have no idea.

All I know is that we won, I won, and I won't have to boycott next year's tournament.

Which, according to numbers I just crunched on my TI-89, we have at least a 75% of winning.

Who wants to bet?

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2010-04-06T00:17:00.004-04:00

Full recap whenever my brain re-enters my skull.

Fernando Update

2010-03-28T20:35:00.003-04:00

[back story]

Fire Up The Screenprinting Press!

2010-03-26T23:45:00.006-04:00

[back story]

Favoritemania

2010-03-22T13:20:00.014-04:00

This is a story about five of my very favorite things in the world.

They are: (1) art, (2) the internet, (3) extremely creative people, (4) incredible generosity of which I'm the beneficiary, and (5) Fernando Valenzuela.

Now, the story in which these five favorite things come so serendipitously together is one in which I play only a bit part. The astute among you will note this in its favor. Likewise, although the story is not yet complete, it's certainly far enough along that it may be properly begun, and I know I can trust your appreciation of a good serial.

But enough talk. Or, at least, enough talk that's not telling the story. So here we go.

It was a few weeks ago when it all began. I was shuffling through the backlog of posts in my Google Reader "Blogs" folder when one of them in particular caught my eye. It was a brief rundown of a number of artists who create remarkable work out of recycled objects. I followed the links to each of their individual websites, ultimately ending up on my favorite of the bunch, iri5.com.

The artist's name is Erika Iris Simmons, and (one of) her (many) specialty(ies) is creating portraits of famous artists by repurposing the media in which their own original works exist. Think Beethoven out of sheet music, Jimi Hendrix out of a cassette tape, Monet out of a print of one of his own paintings. Crazy awesome, right? See for yourself at her Flickr page.

Anyway, in the course of looking through her website, I noticed it had a "Donations" section in which was listed a series of materials she needed for future projects. A quick glance at the entries and it was immediately apparent that I had unusual access to one of them: ~~old lace~~ game-used baseballs. Not having any idea how current the list was, I sent her an email asking if they were still needed.

And that's where things got ridiculous, in the best kind of way.

She emailed back, saying that baseballs were indeed still needed, and that she'd been brainstorming about a series in which she'd partially deconstruct them and use the unwound yarn to create portraits of famous players. Then, in the most preposterously over-generous offer in the history of everything, she said that if I were, in fact, able to send her a few balls, she'd be happy to send me pictures of the process and -- get this -- to make me a portrait of a player of my choice as well.

Needless to say, I emailed her back as fast as internetly possible, got on the phone with The Butler right after that, and, having received his clutch-as-always assistance with the items in question, mailed them out to her last week.

At some point in the interim, she requested player suggestions for the series in general and for my item in particular (she wanted current-era players to match the current-era baseballs). I gave her the logical names for the series, and shifted my attention to picking the subject of the one she'd so graciously offered to make me.

Now, as much as everybody knows I love The Butler, and as much as Big Slow would have delighted in adding a new exhibit to the Kevin Slowey Hall of Fame in our basement, I don't think I need to explain why I didn't choose a portrait of my little brother. Sort of relatedly, I wasn't really interested in any current players either, teammates or opponents.

But someone from the back in the 80s, when the baseballs were the same but the players were swashbuckling lunatics? Yes please. It wasn't easy to choose. Andy Van Slyke was my favorite player growing up; Darryl Strawberry was The Butler's. But Andy-Van fell into the still-too-associated-with-the-current-day-game category and D-Straw into the son-played-basketball-for-Maryland one, so they were both out. I thought about Doc Gooden and Pete Incaviglia and Chris Sabo and Chico Lind and about a thousand other guys we'd pretended to be during about a million games of Wiffle Ball growing up, but none of them felt quite right.

And then, all of a sudden, I knew.

There was only one man simultaneously awesome and ridiculous enough to be worthy of such an incredible artistic honor.

Only one man who'd appeared out of nowhere, destroyed an entire league with his screwball and his swagger, gotten a Mania named after himself, collected a bunch of trophies, faded, returned, then still somehow managed to scuffle around all the way til 1997 just to keep everybody reminiscing about how extraordinary he'd been.

That's right. Fernando Valenzuela.

Done and done.

Fast-forward to this morning. I received an email from Erika, thanking me again for the baseballs (seriously? I sent her a few baseballs and she's making me an gorgeous piece of original art? thank me?) and letting me know she'd gotten started on the project. She included a photo of the progress she'd made so far, describing it as still being "really rough." I think I'd have gone with something more like "really the greatest thing of all time," but I guess I'll let you be the judge.

Fantastic, right? Absolutely phenomenal. I cannot wait to see how it ends up.

Full photographic expose and all appropriate fanfare to come once it's finished.

Thank you, Erika!

Doubling Down

2010-03-19T15:11:00.014-04:00

So I'm clearly going to need to stage some sort of fundraiser to cover the $10,000 I spent in anticipation of winning ESPN's Tournament Challenge.

The other, moderately-sized (and -prized) pools I'm participating in aren't yet lost causes, but even if I win them all -- that is, even when I win them all -- they're still going to leave me a little short.

But that's a concern for another day. Right now, I have something new regarding which I'd like to prematurely celebrate. You see, in addition to creating the world's most undeservedly struggling bracket, I also engineered a lock of a tournament-related side bet.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless for her own protection and faceless because that's the way she likes it, went to Ohio State. Despite the fact that she admitted, more or less, to having watched fewer than five OSU games this year, and despite the fact that internet IQ testing reveals her to be of at least "Smarter Than Oprah!" intelligence, she persisted in trash talking about her alma mater's chances until I had no choice but to take action.

The Bet: Whoever's school progresses further in the tournament, wins.

The Schools: On my side, the one that every non-alum loves to hate, with the sole and extremely unfortunate exception of Dick Vitale -- Duke. On hers, the one best known for having employed Greg Oden for a year and for losing football championship games -- the Ohio State University.

The Wager: Loser (She) makes Winner (Me) a t-shirt which, graphically, textually, or otherwise, extols Winner's (My) intelligence, attractiveness, charm, and overall excellence.

Now, lest you think this will inevitably result in some sort of magic-marker-on-undershirt nonsense, included below is a screenshot of just one of the many t-shirts in my extensive made-for-others catalogue. While my unfortunate opponent's clothing design pedigree is almost certainly, shall we say, lower-seeded, I have no doubt that her pathological desire to never be upstaged will ensure an appropriate effort.

When she starts working on my shirt this weekend.

(Yes, that is a Jordan Staal centaur.)

Bracketoscopy

2010-03-16T17:46:00.006-04:00

I usually fill out two separate NCAA brackets each year.

The first one reflects my ideal world -- Blue Devils win it all, Tar Heels lose early, whatever teams/gangs John Calipari and Rick Pitino are currently coaching assassinate each other, Mafiosi style -- and is referred to as the Heart Bracket. (As in I went with my heart on the picks, not as in something that Kay Jewelers might be selling for $79.99 on Valentine's Day.)

The second one reflects what I expect to actually happen in the real world. It's always a little less ambitious than the Heart Bracket, and a lot less accurate than the one submitted by whoever's little sister wins the pool because she liked the Final Four teams' mascots. This bracket is known as the Brain Bracket. (If that isn't self explanatory, we're going to have a Level 5 Irony Situation on our hands here.)

Anyway, this year, things are different.

This year, I'm not filling out two brackets.

Whether on account of an overactive heart, an underfuctioning brain, or some sort of cosmic insight that this year really is the year in which everything works out the way it's supposed to, I've combined my Heart and Brain Brackets into a single, spectacular Magic Bracket -- one bracket to rule them all.

I've posted a screenshot of said Magic Bracket below that you should feel free to use in whatever capacity* you see fit.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Calipari baptism to attend.

*Assuming, of course, that such capacity (i) would include mailing me a cut of whatever winnings you should use it to obtain and (ii) would not include ridiculing me should your little sister out-predict me again.

LOST, Indeed

2010-03-09T13:40:00.006-05:00

[Ed. Note: WARNING: The following contains both general plot spoilers and specific disparaging comments about everyone's favorite show in the history of television. DO NOT PROCEED without your cardiologist's express permission. Or without a sizable chunk of time to kill.]

I've been meaning to write something like this for a while now.

I think it's taken so long for me to actually go ahead and do so because I've continued to hold out hope that it wouldn't be necessary, that I'd change my mind, that each new episode would finally be the one to put things back on track and my mind at ease. But it hasn't happened. And each step down each stupid new rabbit hole has left it unlikelier and unlikelier that it ever will.

So here goes.

Before Lost (B.L.), I'd always enjoyed considering myself much too discriminating to get sucked into whatever network television shows the unwashed, Charlie-Sheen-loving masses were currently fawning over. I'd celebrated my gritty discernment each time I'd answered in the negative when someone asked if I watched The O.C. or CSI or How I Met Your Mother or Survivor or Prison Break.

But then it had happened. Then LOST had happened.

I'd been living out of a suitcase in a subleased apartment as I'd studied for the bar exam, working not nearly as much as I should've been, but far, far more than I should've liked, and I'd been desperate for something, anything, suitably mindless to serve as a proper distraction in the evenings.

And, as it had turned out, the owner of the apartment had left the LOST Season 1 DVDs next to the television, and -- I think we all know where this is going -- I'd slid right down the slippery slope from condescension to curiosity to obsession to addiction in a matter of about 72 hours. Which was precisely how long it took me to watch that entire first season and move all of the others immediately to the top of my Netflix queue.

The show was a revelation. It was exciting and clever and stirring and original, and although it remains highly debatable as to whether it constituted a net positive for my test preparation, it absolutely shattered my disdain for popular television. Or at least for this brightly shining example of it.

And then, I'd taken the bar exam, with or without accidentally citing Locke v. Shephard in a medical malpractice essay, and I'd moved down to Atlanta in preparation for my new job. And in the two weeks I was down there before I started, the two weeks in which my only furniture was a folding chair, a file cabinet, and a foam mattress pad -- don't ask -- I'd spent several hours a day, every day, polishing off the remaining available seasons and re-watching the earlier ones.

And I'd officially become a convert. A proselytizer. A LOSTkateer. The After Dharma (A.D.) phase of my life had begun.

I'd defended the show to its detractors, amongst which I certainly would've included myself but a short while before. I'd insisted it wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded, that the phenomenal plane crash survival rate and the United Nations cast of passengers and the peculiarly Caucasian natives and the murderous smoke monster and the jungle polar bear and all of the rest of it weren't nearly as implausible as they might have seemed. I espoused the clever, dynamic writing and the compelling, charismatic characters. To the male doubters, I referenced Kate and Claire.

And I'd kept it up, as my job had started, eventually stalled, and ended, as everything else had changed around me, as I'd switched cities again. I'd kept it up through Seasons 4 and 5, even as the position of LOST public defender had become more and more challenging. The time-traveling. The island-shifting. The heavy-handed mythology. Hurley maintaining his weight.

But now, today, a third of the way through the final season and so close to the finish line, I am officially giving up.

I've had it. Count me out.

If I wanted to watch moronic dialogue in which nobody ever asks the questions that any intelligent human being would've a hundred million times over, I'd watch Judge Joe Brown. If I wanted to watch painfully overdramatic cutaways and kaleidoscopic storylines remarkable only in that each one somehow manages to be more noxiously trite than the last, I'd watch As The World Turns. If I wanted to watch a program about homicidal smoke, I'd watch a Science Channel special on smog.

But this? The parallel universes, the parallel Others, the casual "resurrections", the obviously un-final "killings," the inelegant regurgitation of Season 2 character insights? This is not the LOST I'd come to love, the LOST I'd defended so determinedly, the LOST that almost failed me out of the bar exam.

This is a stupid, silly show written by people who long ago became far too convinced of their own genius to be able to continue producing it.

And I hate it.

Yet even so, even after all of these objections and complaints and proclamations, even after all of this overdramatic self-indulgence of my own, I still can't bring myself to stop watching. As much as I'd love to trade the disappointment of my A.D. fandom for the security of my B.L. disdain, it's too late. I've invested far too much time and energy to not see how it ends.

I have to keep watching simply because I have to.

Besides, how hot is Evil Claire?

The Docktor Is In

2010-03-07T11:55:00.012-05:00

Do you like baseball? Do you like funny internet videos? Do you like LSD?

If, as I did, you answered yes to at least three of those questions, then, as I did, you'll greatly enjoy the four-and-a-half minutes of crazy posted below.

Created by the geniuses at No Mas and sent my way by the estimable Richard Dean (Not Anderson) The Third, it tells the mindbending story (heyoh!) of a time when the Pittsburgh Pirates were still a professional baseball team, when professional athletes weren't painfully boring cliches, and when drug use sometimes did only coincidentally relate to performance enhancement.

It is the story of Dock Ellis's magical night, sometime on or around June 12, 1970 (heyoh again!), in his own remarkable words.

Enjoy:

Somehow I Don't Think "An Eye For An Eye" Applies Here

2010-03-03T11:38:00.006-05:00

"Daddy, why does it smell so bad in here?" asked the nine-year-old girl in the men's locker room at the swimming pool today.

Never mind the fact that "Thou shalt not be a female over the age of five in the men's locker room" is #4 in the the "Ten Locker Room Commandments" posted widely throughout the building (the "no boys in the women's" counterpart is #3), and never mind the fact that there may be nothing, in the entire universe, capable of making an innocent man feel so helplessly pervy as having a young child of the opposite sex studiously observe each step in his suddenly frantic transition from pool to shower to street clothes.

Never mind any of that.

The brilliance of today's little anatomist's question, and of the manner in which she asked it, are the important issues here. Whatever perve wrote "The Emperor's New Clothes" got it exactly right -- there is no rivaling a child's ability to identify and vocalize the paramount issue in any given situation.

Why does the locker room smell so bad?

Well, surely, most of the mortified adults in the vicinity could have answered the question easily enough. The locker room smells so bad because the human body does, particularly when it's sweaty or elderly, and those two variations -- especially in combination -- are the facility's specialty. It's especial specialty.

Truly, on any other day, the profound stench would have been the only thing most of us were thinking about. Well, that or prunes. Or dying.

But still, no one would have asked the question, and certainly not so pointedly or loudly. Those of us with still-functioning nasal receptors would've just pretended not to notice the sour foulness, and nothing would've ever changed with the few, exceptional individuals so disproportionately responsible for it. As there's no particular reason to imagine the auditory system ages better than the olfactory, I suppose it's likeliest that nothing will change even now.

But still, just in case, in the outside-outside chance that even one or two of the problem patrons heard this morning's clarion call and thought to himself, "you know what, maybe I will take a second shower this week," or, "maybe I will give that newfangled deodorizerant another try," it will have been a glorious day.

So, to you, young lady, I offer my gratitude. Not for eyeballing my business like it was yours as well, and not for forcing me out into the criminally cold Pittsburgh morning, half-soaked and fully-uncomfortable, but for asking the exact question that needed to be, and for doing so in a way that might -- that just might -- make that nasty locker room a more bearable place in the future.

Assuming your jackass father stops breaking Commandment #4.

"The Probe"

2010-02-25T21:37:00.005-05:00

The following is a bit of a departure from my usual fare, but, given that I'm the boss around here, I've gone ahead and self-authorized it.

It's a ridiculous little entry for a ridiculous little contest, which, just between us, isn't really much of a "contest," seeing as the grand prize is neither a million dollars nor a pink Cadillac, but, which, also just between us, I'd be tickled beyond belief to even have a chance at.

Please keep in mind that I was probably in the third grade the last time I attempted to write any fiction of any kind, and while I'd like to think I did well enough back then to (almost) offset my rather lacking behavioral evaluations, I want to make as clear as possible that I offer no warranties whatsoever about the quality of this present-day effort.

Also, please keep in mind that (i) the rules of this competition required submissions to relate to a rather prosaic photograph, which I've reproduced at the conclusion of mine below, (ii) the best strategy seemed to me to write something that wasn't immediately obvious, and (iii) I am a total dork.

And now, without further ado, I present to you, "The Probe."

The commander of the Korakkian ship grinned at the holographic display and vented a stream of purple liquid from his third dorsal nostril, as was customary on his planet when one desired to express great satisfaction.

“This is going to be even easier than I’d imagined,” he hissed at his first lieutenant, who stood rigidly at attention to his right.

“Yes sir, Commander, sir,” the lieutenant agreed, delighted. His superior’s temper was legendary throughout four star systems, and on this mission alone, he’d already dismembered and eaten three members of his senior staff whose efforts he’d deemed unsatisfactory. His pleasure at the probe’s telemetry readings was most welcome.

“Look at this,” the commander continued enthusiastically, returning to the hologram and pointing at several lines of blinking geometrical shapes in its upper right corner. “This species is like a giant herd of gorlaks. It won’t take us three of their days to conquer the entire planet.”

He turned suddenly to his subordinate, his eight compound eyes darkening with suspicion. “You are certain, Ar-Tokk, that you placed the probe where you were instructed? I would hate to discover that you had not, and that all of this wonderful data was nothing more than a klakk-rye-bokk.

The lieutenant shuddered involuntarily. Klakk-rye-bokk is a phrase without a precise English equivalent—without a human anatomical equivalent, really—and is considered by the Korakkians an expression of such particular vileness that even the volcanic commander used it only sparingly. The lieutenant knew he needed to act, and quickly.

“The probe is at the precise coordinates you ordered, sir,” he stammered, stepping towards the display. “May I?”

The commander gurgled his grudging assent.

“Our satellite analysis confirmed that “America” was the dominant human region, sir,” the lieutenant began, a thin layer of what we might call sweat building up on what we might call his forehead. He ignored it. “And this “New York” appeared to be a particularly important sector of America.”

“Go on.”

“Thank you, sir. The location that you so wisely selected for the probe, sir, is one of the most heavily trafficked nodes of what appears to be the species’ most vital nerve center. Over ninety percent of the combat-capable population engages with just such a node on a regular basis.”

“Precisely.” The commander’s gaze softened.

“And that’s exactly where the probe is now, sir, right in the location you ordered. You see?” Ar-Tokk pointed at another blinking sequence on the hologram.

“I do see,” the commander replied, satisfied with the explanation. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” Ar-Tokk saluted sharply, euphorically. There would be no grisly death for him today, at least.

“If our data is indeed a useful sampling of the planet’s population,” the commander declared, his exultant tone fully restored, “its disorganized, uncooperative, drug-addled population—then we shall prepare to launch our assault at once. Alert the tactical officer.”

“Sir,” Ar-Tokk saluted again, and hurried off.

***

“I said a half-caff cappuccino, extra whipped cream,” huffed Bruce Holland, esquire, aged 48, at Addie Halackna, barista, aged 23. “What exactly is so hard about that?”

Ms. Halackna’s response was inaudible.

“Well something obviously is because I can tell by the smell that this is 100% caffeinated and Helen Keller could see that that’s not extra whipped cream,” the illustrious Mr. Holland continued.

“I’ll wait right here for you to do your job properly.”

He liberated the overtaxed buttons of his two-thousand dollar suit and sat down at the empty table.

And picked up the Korakkian probe, streaming his genetic information directly to the warship about to disintegrate him and the rest of his ridiculous species.

A Dynamite Note For A Dynamite Guy

2010-02-24T07:03:00.001-05:00

A few days ago, my cousin had an unfortunate accident.

Now, this wasn't just any cousin -- it was the shining pillar of manhood who requested and received the Thor's Hammer haircut a couple of years back -- and this wasn't just any accident, either -- in keeping with the super-testosteroney theme, he badly burned both hands and arms when the batch of homemade rocket fuel he was cooking up achieved premature liftoff.

He is a peach of a kid -- smart, funny, and perhaps the most supremely agreeable person I know, so instead of getting into the subject of what on earth he was thinking, or whether it'd be in bad taste to make a terrorist joke, or whether Homeland Security will ever let him board a commercial airliner again, let's just all agree that third-degree burns are terrible no matter how they happen.

(Well, I guess let's let those of you who have actually had third-degree burns agree to that. I'll just agree that I got a really bad sunburn once, and while I was every bit as courageous as you surely imagined, I'd be more than happy to never experience worse.)

Anyway, since the accident, Little Thor has been undergoing excruciating daily treatments in which such painful-sounding things are done to him that I'm not confident I could write about them without making you sick. So I won't. I'll just show you a picture of the "get well soon" card I dropped off at his house yesterday afternoon.

Three quick explanatory notes, in haiku form:

The young rocketeer
Beardophile extraordinaire
As all brave men are.

Permanence of ink
My brain intimidated
Errors everywhere

Handwritten letters
A special effort reserved
For the great, the burned.

Voila.

(Yes that is real beard hair, yes it hurt to yank it out, no I did not just reference my own hairpulling pain in a post about third-degree burns.)

Get well soon, Will!

Annnd a Gold Medal For Me

2010-02-17T18:05:00.006-05:00

Say you tuned into the Olympics at some point this week.

And say that you're a much patienter person than I am, and that you didn't gouge your eyeballs out at event coverage so spastic, so random, that it seemed the only possible explanation was that some (maple) sugar-overloaded 4-year-old was controlling the broadcast feeds.

So say you stuck around long enough to watch some ski jumping, and some biathlon, and maybe some luge too.

And say that it eventually struck you that all of the competitors in all of the events were essentially wearing the same single-zipper unitards, that they were, just to pick one of the events at random, all wearing luge suits.

So say you decided to do a Google Images search for "luge suits," trying to get a better idea of what these things looked like up close and why everyone seemed to be wearing them.

And say you focused on the first hit that appeared, figuring it likely to be the best, highest-quality result.

Ta.

Da.

These, At Dawn

2010-02-12T12:31:00.004-05:00

Time was, men were men.

Women were women, too, but that's for another story.

Time was, if one man insulted another -- if he questioned his intelligence or wondered at his fashion sense or laughed at his steed, they settled things properly.

Not with Twitter feuds or lawsuits, as has become the unfortunate norm for today's sniveling excuse for the sex, but with real, proud, deadly force.

A challenge was issued. And invariably accepted. Seconds were chosen, ground rules were set, and the combatants faced off the way that all true gentlemen must. One-on-one. With bravery and honor. In deadly combat.

In the SPINJAS Dome™.

You know the mighty rectangular arena to which I refer. Its smooth, bright plastic, roughly 12 inches square, sloping gently from the corners to the brutal, deadly center.

You know also the valiant SPINJAS Warriors™ that did dizzying battle upon such famous ground. These proud, tiny gladiators, spinning frantically in whizzing, whirring circles, fighting to the death to prove that their owners did in fact know what it meant to "do it," or that L.A. Gears were still cool, or that mountain bikes could be tough even if they had neon beads on their spokes.

The rules of the SPINJAS Dome were clear and inviolate.

Should your Warrior either knock your opponent's out of the Dome or remain upright and spinning the longest, you prevailed. It was that simple. There were no comebacks or appeals or "@ replies."

Time was, men were men, and this was how they handled their disputes.

Today, incredibly, this time has come again.

For today, The Butler's (second) birthday present arrived (the first being several industrial-sized cases of my greatest, most treasured daily enjoyment). It consisted of an unopened starter pack containing a Dome and two Warriors, and a booster pack containing four additional Warriors. It was a treasure far beyond my capacity for description.

The only (tiny) downside to its otherwise unassailable magnificence was that the eBay seller -- or manly artifact curator -- from whom Kev acquired it used at least six plastic bags, half a pound of bubble wrap, and about 400 yards of Priority Mail tape to secure it within its mailer box. Which obviously was exceedingly displeasing to the environment. Which obviously now wants to fight Mr. Alonso Suarez from San Diego. Which obviously means that we're all headed. . .

To the SPINJA Dome!

"Load, Fire, Fight!"®

Super Bowl Points of Note

2010-02-07T21:53:00.005-05:00

Until this year, there had only been two types of Super Bowls in my life.

The first covered The Games In Which The Steelers Were Participating. This type was most noteworthy for outlandish screaming at the television, outlandisher blood pressure levels, and, with one Neil O'Donnell-ed exception, 365 days of yes-I-did-have-something-to-do-with-that gloating.

The other type comprised the rest of the games, The Ones I Didn't Really Watch. So fine, I did watch the one in which the cheating Patsies blew their chance at a perfect cheating season, but that was it. All of the rest of them entailed nothing more than partially-viewed games and partially-enjoyed parties.

This year was different, though.

The Steelers weren't playing, but I watched the whole thing anyway. Why? It was a decent enough matchup and I really, truly, had nothing better to do. The rest of my family had left for parties of their own, Snownobyl still had me less than enthused about hitting the roads myself, and, have you ever seen the sacrificial programming lambs that the rest of the television universe throws out there to be torn asunder by the SuperBowlRatingsasaurus?*

So I watched it. Game, commercials, everything. And since I wasn't either redlining my heart or trying to figure out how early I could leave without being rude, I actually absorbed enough to be able to provide the following Super Bowl Points of Note.

Point #1 - My Prediction Was Almost Awesome: This is, word-for-word, the prediction I made at 4:34 PM today:

Literally anything could happen during the first three and a half quarters. The Saints could score eight touchdowns. The Colts' offensive line could get abducted by aliens. The halftime show could not suck.

It doesn't matter. At some point, before it's all over, Peyton Manning will decide that he wants to win the game and he will. Singlehandedly.

Final Score: Who Dey - It Doesn't Matter, Colts - It Doesn't Matter +2

Amazing, right? Well, I mean, almost. Not that this was particularly clairvoyant or anything, but good luck getting me to admit that if it had worked out.

#2 - The Saints' Interception Broke Twitter: The play that derailed my prediction had a similar effect on everyone's favorite microblogging tool. Truly, I don't think Tracy Porter made it to the 15-yard line before it crashed, and it wasn't until at least 15 minutes after the airing of the World's Most Incomprehensible Commercial (see below) that it finally staggered back to its feet. I thought of and forgot at least five lame jokes that I would have tweeted in that time frame.

#3 - Phil Simms Is Edging Ever-Closer To Joe Morgan/Tim McCarver/Dan Dierdorf Territory: I guess this is kind of like predicting "Peyton Manning will do something good in a football game," but how insufferable is Phil Simms? We understand. You're old and miserable and wish more people thought you were awesome. We don't. So move along already and let us watch our sports in peace.

#4 - There Are Only Two Remaining Profitable Businesses In The Country: Budweiser and Doritos. Either that, or they were each about $50M in losses away from qualifying for some sort of bailout program, so they just went ahead and cleaned themselves the rest of the way out. Really, though, I watched every single commercial except maybe two or three, and the only one from either of these two that sticks in my mind was the this-is-so-moronic-I'm-still-waiting-for-the-punchline horse and bull one.

#5 - I Still Can't Understand Charles Barkley: I like Charles Barkley. I like his attitude, I like his smile, I love his golf swing. I'd want nothing more than to be able to understand what the hell he is saying when he talks, but I can't. It sounds to me like he has the world's worst cold and is speaking in Klingon. What was Taco Bell thinking? And is it possible that Lamar Odom was even more incomprehensible than Sir Charles? From the entire 30 seconds, all I took away was that Taco Bell now serves Happy Meals. Somebody help.

#6 - Danica Patrick Is The New Paris Hilton: Really, what is this person on TV for? She drives a car, unremarkably, and is not Rusty Wallace. That seems the extent of her qualifications. Why does anybody think that her painful PG-13 hussyfication is going to trick us into buying discount hosting services? At least Anna Kournikova played a real sport. And was hot. There has to be someone more worthy of our attention out there; let's just agree that it doesn't have to be Reggie Bush's girlfriend.

*For those of you keeping score at home, yes, that is the second bad dinosaur joke in two posts. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Big Snow

2010-02-05T13:49:00.014-05:00

I really wanted this to be about how ridiculously everyone overreacts to the odd winter storm.

The blathering morons of morning television who feverishly whip a few inches of precipitation into "The Storm of the Decade" or "The Snowpocalypse" or "Snowmageddon."

The nervous Nellies on the roads who suddenly behave as if they're driving rickety rickshaws loaded with Ming vases and nuclear warheads.

The panicky sheep that so desperately stampede every supermarket, everywhere, just to engage in Black-Friday-level violence over life-and-death essentials like bottled water and eggs and--in the case of the woman who almost assassinated me yesterday with what had to have been a rocket-propelled shopping cart--somewhere between twenty and fifty frozen pizzas.

That's what I really wanted this to be about.

I was sure it would be, too. I'd head over to the pool for a quick evening swim, treat myself to a chocolate milk on the way home, then sit down and get it all off my chest.

But the pool was closed--"on account of the weather"--when I arrived.

And then the skies opened up like some enormous cheese grater and turned the roads into mozzarellafied Slip-n'-Slides.

And then my fancy step-car, with its rear-wheel drive, claimed to have forgotten its swimsuit.

And then I convinced myself that my brain could overpower the laws of physics and get me home in one piece anyway.

And then I almost died, at least five different times, and I realized that this really was Snowrannosaurus Rex* and I had no choice but to call Big Slow for an emergency pickup in a proper 4-wheel-drive vehicle.

And then, once we arrived safely home, this became about something entirely different.

Big Slow's new nickname.

*I may or may not have invented this term myself, and I may or may not have taken an inordinate liking to it.