Thursday, December 14, 2006

Pain in the glass

Posted January 5, 2007

Some jackhole broke into my car.

I wasn't the only one. My neighbor's car was parked in the same row as mine. His also got broken into. In both cases it was the same thing - that little triangular window on the back driver's side door was busted. The perp (look at me with the cop-talk) could reach in and unlock the back door, then enter the car and rummage for stuff. The back door of my neighbor's car was left ajar; mine was still closed. Of course, my car alarm goes off as soon as the latch is pressed, his was disengaged.

No other car in our part of the lot was touched.

Then again, no other car in our part of the lot had stuff on the seats. My neighbor had some CDs and other stuff. I had a gift bag for our office gift exchange.

For those of you who have never lived near the drug trade, most car break-ins are not done by people who want the car. Heck, most of the time the bastards don't even take the more valuable items in the car, like the radio or the dashboard Mary. People breaking into cars are looking for cash or something that can be turned into cash quickly so they can buy their next fix. A radio has to be disassembled and then sold; that takes time. Gathering ten bucks from two or three different cars only takes a few minutes.

When I lived in Philly my car got broken into. The only thing I lost was my $80 sunglasses, but the greeting cards I left in the glove compartment had been torn open. That SOB wasn't looking for a Hallmark moment. Remember, people put money in greeting cards.

My apartment complex occasionally gets the unsavory sort wandering through. Across the nearby main road are several motels, which see less and less business from travelers and "John and Mrs. Smith" types now that some better hotels were built nearby. The motels now double as low-income housing for people on welfare (and are among the few places in town far enough away from schools for sex-offenders to live). A cop in town told me that there are actually gangs forming over there.

While off the beaten path for drivers, my complex is on the walking route between the motels and the local Wawa (a convenience store chain common in this area). I'm glad I'm moving.

Speaking of which, I move in two days. In two stinkin' days my car will no longer be parked in this lot overnight. Six years with no problems, then this happens 48 measly hours before I leave.

Grrr. Argh.

I took my car to the local Chevy dealer and hitched a ride into work with Ms N. I figured it would be about $200 or so to get a new window.

I thought wrong.

I'm assuming that the jackhole chose that little windows thinking he was doing us a favor. It made things no easier for him - the smaller surface area meant it takes more force to break through, then he had to clear enough away to reach the door lock inside. Had he gone through the main window, he would have had plenty of clear space for his arm. Yeah, I broke your window, but I only broke the tiny window!

Guess what, fothermucker, that window happens to be the most expensive piece of glass on the entire freakin' car!

You see, the bigger windows on the door roll up and down, which means they are not permanently affixed to the vehicle. If one of those breaks, you pop the inside cover off the door, clean out the glass, stick in a new window, and reattach the liner. No big deal.

Those small windows, on the other hand, are permanently attached. To swap one out, you have to take out pieces and reattach other pieces, then put on the weather-stripping and whatnot. Hello new window, good-bye $730.

Growl. Snarl.

Oh, and the gift bag most likely led to the break-in? Every year we have a secret Santa gift exchange. Last year I forgot to bring my present in, meaning the admin whose name I drew didn't get her gift until a day after everyone else. For the past two weeks my co-workers have been ribbing me about it. In order to make sure I didn't forget the gift this year, I put the bag in the car as soon as I finished wrapping the gifts.

My previous job had a $20 limit on the gift exchange, but not my current one. We have two unique rules to ours.

1) You give your lucky recipient five separate gifts, each of which has to be useful to or representative of that person.

2) You can only buy the gifts at a dollar store.

Monday, December 11, 2006

In One Hundred Hours ...

... we'll be first-time homeowners!

Wo-hoo!

Oh, and it seems that your well-wishes may have had an effect, too. I'll find out for certain later.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Wish me luck, folks ...

I need it.

And for those who have taken the time to complain about my lack of posting, what can I say? Other than custody squabbles, buying a house, Thanksgiving traffic, realtors, lawyers, home inspectors, a department-wide reallignment at work, moving, a kid's birthday, Ms N's and my second anniversary, quirky car issues, and the bitterly painful collapse of my beloved Gigantes, there really hasn't been much to write about.

Thanks for checking in, anyways.

Oh, and don't forget to wish me luck!

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Rollin' wit da homies

I found my theme song ...

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Jersey Magic

I couldn't figure it out.

I'd been watching Monday Night Football and going N-V-T-S nuts.

In a nutshell, the Giants had been sucking like so many $10 whores. Were it not for Jacksonville's bad opening drive and a quirky fumble in the red zone, the score would likely have been 20-0 at the half. There had been no Giants running game – Brandon Jacobs couldn't even pull off third and short. The team's very first first down was immediately followed by an interception. Eli Manning had been throwing the ball all over the field. And over all the receivers.

Psst! Eli! You’re supposed to throw it to the receivers!

Psst! Receivers! When Eli throws it to you, catch it!

Psst! Plaxico! If you are ever near a defender who has just intercepted the ball, you are supposed to tackle that guy, not push him gingerly towards the end zone!

Nuts, I tell you.

So halftime came and went and los Gigantes were soon down 13-3 in the 3rd quarter. Eli had just thrown the ball away to avoid a nearly dreadful sack when it hit me.

I wasn't wearing my lucky jersey!

I have three Giants jerseys – one Shockey and two #73s (one home blue, the other away white) with my own last name on the back.

Why my own name, you ask. Well, I'm never going to be cut, traded, or lost to free agency, of course. Besides, if they ever need me on the field I'll be ready to go.

I have found through extensive trial and error that the away jersey must be worn on game day if the Giants are to have a chance of winning. I can't explain it; it's some magical connection that I have with the team even though they are sometimes thousands of miles away.

Well, here we were in the third quarter and I was just in a T-shirt. (And shorts. I don't watch football naked – at least not when the kids are home.)

A T-shirt! Oh, how I was letting my team down.

I quickly got the jersey, threw it on, then sat down in front of the TV and tried to send cosmic signals to Florida to let the guys know I was in uniform.

Lo and behold, on the very next play, Eli dropped back to pass, spun to elude the Jaguar pursuit, brought his arm up to throw ...

[insert pregnant pause here]

... and then he dropped the ball on the ground, whereupon it was promptly picked up by a defender and run into the end zone for a Jacksonville touchdown.

At that moment I gave birth.

(Quite a surprise, what with my XY chromosomes and lack of uterus and all. It's a boy.)

Half the Jaguars were doing line dances, circus acts, and the Macarena in the end zone. While I was prepping the jersey for use as a swaddling cloth, I noticed that the rest of the defense was not celebrating at all.

There was a flag on the play. Face-mask, defense.

The touchdown was nullified, the Cirque du Soleil artists were lowered back down from the goalposts, and the Giants got the ball back plus a few yards and a first down.

Manning and Co. finally got things working and pieced together an amazing drive of their own, culminating in a touchdown. An apparent 20-3 suddenly turned into 13-10! The jersey worked! We were back in the game!

Note to self: leave the celebratory spike to the guys on the field who know for certain that what is in their hands is indeed a football. Oh well, I didn't want a third kid anyways.

It’s upon this type of success that I think the team needs to better capitalize. I'm more than happy to bring this jersey to the sidelines where the mojo will undoubtedly be so much more potent; I'm just waiting for the team to send down the limo. I'd even settle for the luxury box. We're talking about a playoff run, guys.

OK, so the excitement was short lived. The Giants quickly restored their severe barometric pressure deficit vis-à-vis the Jaguars. They gave up 13 more points and a couple turnovers while failing to score again before the game mercifully ended. The Giants slipped to 6-4, three games behind the Bears and tied with the suddenly resurgent and always detestable Dallas Cowboys.

How disappointing.

I can only imagine what would have been different if I had put the jersey on earlier.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Happy Birthday, Ms N

For this,
your [redacted] trip
around the ol' sun,
here's hoping:


your
birthday
wishes
come
true

your
dreams
are
fulfilled

... and there's never a shortage of shoes

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

What have you blogged for me lately?

Ooo-oo-ooo-yeah!

Some people are never satisfied.

I've been blogging for about as long as Brittany Spears and K-Fed have been married. During that time, I have had some extended spells where I have failed to post. A week here, a month there ... you get the picture.

Postless in New Jersey.

Lo and behold, after going merely the length of Brittany Spears’ first marriage without a post, Alaska Jen tells me that I am letting her down. "You haven’t posted in a long time," she whined, er, said Thursday night, granting me no credit for hanging on into the wee hours of election night to complete my Est-iest awards. "I’m getting bored."

"Don’t worry," I assured her. "There will be something posted tomorrow."

Sucker.

OK, so now it has been a week. But I think my material today will make up for the lapse. Quality over quantity, you know.

Wikitainment

While mindlessly trolling through Wikipedia, I stumbled upon a spiffy idea for a web challenge.

We’ve all heard of six degrees of separation – the notion that any two people can be connected through six other people. I, for one, have some entertaining contacts just two or three degrees away. For example, my former insurance agent’s son has three Super Bowl rings, my grandfather knew the pilot of the Enola Gay, I’ve had one-on-one conversations with a member of the Reagan administration and with Nixon’s Secretary of the Interior, and my mom works with Mary Kay Latourneau’s ex-husband.

Presidents to pedophiles … oh, yeah.

So here’s the challenge. Start with a topic on Wikipedia – say Hillary Clinton. Then pick another topic – say Castration. Now see how many (well, few) clicks it takes using only linked Wikipedia articles to connect the two.

(Hillary-to-Castration takes five clicks: Prostate Cancer, Androgens, Vas deferens, Vasectomy, Castration.)

The challenge, then, is to find two topics which seem to have no bearing on each other and find the shortest route between them. Bonus points are awarded based on degree of obscurity.

Please pass this idea on and send back your challenge ideas.

It’s like butt-ah

My daughter's Girl Scout troupe had a bake sale at our church Sunday. Our church has two services, so we had two rounds of sales. In between, the girls diligently readied the tables for the second rush of customers and we parents hung out just out of earshot sharing off-color anecdotes.

One of the dads had a great one about the one that didn’t get away. It was a true inspirational tale for all of us who had those moments where, three hours removed from a conversation, we suddenly come up with what we should have said.

My wife had to make several batches of cookies, so I went to the store to get ingredients. This really snooty woman was standing right in front of the butter looking through ingredients of the gourmet yogurts.
"Excuse me," I said, "can I please get to the butter?" She moved about six inches – still in the way but I could reach what I needed.
I took out five boxes of butter and was about to walk away when I realized it was salted. I needed unsalted.
"I’m sorry," I said to her, "I grabbed the wrong kind. Can I get in here again?"
She leered at me as I switched the boxes. "It’s not going to make a difference," she huffed. "Salted or not, the cholesterol is still going to kill you."
"Oh, I'm not going to eat this," I replied. "We use this as lubricant for anal sex."

On a related topic, I am adding another new word to the vernacular. Those militant snotty elitist know-it-alls who insist that you comply with their view on diet, the environment, fashion, etc:

Snotzis

Out of the Ordainary

My brother doesn't surprise me much.

It's not that he’s mundane, he's not. He is the polar opposite of mundane. He is, shall we say, very much his own person.

In some ways I envy him. He is blissfully unburdened by the expectations of others. He is comfortable enough with himself that he is able to act as he chooses. When he felt like having a unique style, he didn’t go down to Hot Topic to pick up the current version of uniqueness that everybody else has, he shaved three-quarters of his head and braided the remaining hair. He personifies the notion that those who matter don't mind and those who mind don’t matter.

I got a call from him Saturday night. He wanted to know if I'd heard the new Weird Al CD and if I'd heard the original R. Kelly song "Trapped in a Closet" and, oh, by the way, he just got ordained.

Screech!

OK, he surprised me with that one.

So my brother – the octopus head – is now clergy. He's now part of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

Some would say he’s not really clergy because he got his ordination on-line. But I doubt my brother is bothered by their scoffing.

Faith is like that, you know. Besides, Tyler Durden says we should let that which does not truly matter completely slide.

Later in the call, after the conversation had shifted to a few different topics, he mentioned that he was going through his collection of adult-oriented videos.

"Oh," I said. "Is this part of your ministry?"

Monday, November 13, 2006

That explains it!

I just noticed ... it's Monday the 13th!

Just another manic Monday

The Bangles didn't mention this in their song.

I'm having one of those "had to disassemble and remove the lock on my front door so I could leave the house" kind of days.

Our admin said I was the first person to call out late for such a reason.

I almost didn’t encounter this problem at all. I was about to drop my son off with the people who watch him until the bus comes.

"Oh, no," he said with a somewhat panicked tone as he was getting out of the car.

Oh crap, I thought silently.

You see, a panicked tone from my son means there is not really a problem, he just thinks there is and is overreacting accordingly. It’s the somewhat panicked tones that tell me something is definitely amiss.

"I grabbed the wrong bookbag."

Yup. Problem.

He got back in the car and we rushed back home. I opened the door, got the right bag, tried to leave, and the key was stuck.

Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought. Humid day ... cheap-o apartment lock ... the Fates farting in my general direction because they find it amusing ...

This lock has done this before. Many times. I already have a key extraction routine down pat that requires just the right amount of wiggling, wriggling, twisting, swearing, and, of course, a mallet.

Note to readers: Never, ever, ever twist a key with too much force or hit the key handle from the side with blunt object. The key will snap in the lock, and you will be hosed.

By the time I repeated step 14 for the 23rd time, it occurred to me that this one was definitely out of the ordinary.

Out came the screwdriver, off came the lock. I had to twist the deadbolt mechanism so I could actually close the door. Fortunately, about the time my then-toddler son showed a propensity for walking out the front door, I installed a chain lock up near the top. I locked the chain, left the house, and then left a colorful message on the apartment complex's emergency maintenance line that I sure hope sounded amusing when they heard it.

I did take a moment to reflect on perhaps the only nice thing about apartment living ... someone else is paying to fix this.

I had some weekend-related posts ready to go, but they'll have to wait for tonight.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Politics as unusual

Since you all just can't get enough of election coverage, I'm proud to present

Mr. E's Election Night
Est-iest Awards


Smarmiest Democrat ad goes to John Eaves

Narrators Congressmen John Lewis, Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin, and Former UN Ambassador Andy Young
"On November 7 we face the most dangerous situation we've ever had. You think fighting off dogs and water hoses in the 60's was bad and there we sit idly and let the right wing Republicans take over the Fulton County Commission."
"The efforts of Martin and Corretta King, Josea Williams, Maynard Jackson, and many others will be lost and that's why we must stand up and we must turn out the vote for the Democrats on election day."
"And especially for John Eaves for Fulton County Commission Chairman."
"Unless you want them to turn back the clock on equal rights, human rights, and economic opportunity for all of us, vote for John eaves as Fulton County Chairman."
"Your very life may depend on it."
Announcer: This message paid for by the Committee to Elect John Eaves

Your very life may depend on John Eaves becomming a County Chairman? This is a gang that needs their hyperbole licenses revoked!

Smarmiest Republican ad goes to Vernon Robinson

Announcer: "You needed that job and you were the best qualified - but they gave it to an illegal alien so they could pay him under the table. It's happening all over America because of politicians like your Congressman, Brad Miller.
"Millions of Americans have lost their jobs to people who aren't even supposed to be here. Instead of securing the borders, Brad Miller voted to give these illegal aliens driver's licenses, Social Security benefits, and many other government freebies. He even actually voted to allow convicted child molesters to immigrate to America.
"These illegal aliens pay no taxes but take our jobs and our government handouts, then spit in our face and burn our flag.
"Well, Vernon Robinson has had enough. Vernon Robinson is an Air Force Academy graduate who proudly served in uniform under the American flag, a flag Brad Miller voted to let illegal aliens burn and trample."
Vern: "I'm Vern Robinson and I approve this message. If you send me to Congress, I'll secure the borders, stop the handouts, and protect your jobs."
Announcer: "Paid for by Robinson for Congress."

I'm sorry ... what House Resolution was it that allowed illegal aliens to burn the flag?

Second-Dumbest Statement by a Non-Candidate goes to Senator John Kerry for saying that if you don't use your brain, "you get stuck in Iraq."

Dumbest Statement by a Non-Candidate goes to Senator John Kerry for saying that he was sorry that we, the people, misunderstood what he said. No, John, we understood what you said; you said it wrong. "I'm sorry that you're so stupid" is not an apology.

Best Campaign Slogan goes to - D'oh, I missed the name - for "Why the hell not?" Please, please, please tell me this candidate's name if you know it.

Baseleast Argument goes to the Republican National Committee for "Lois Murphey doesn't support our values ... she even criticized a bill that included body armor for our troops." She criticized a bill that "included body armor for our troops"? How dare she? You can never criticize a bill that includes body armor for our troops. Everybody knows that including body armor for our troops makes a bill uncriticizable ... even if said bill reinstates the draft and slavery, hikes taxes, repeals woman's sufferage and the Dewey Decimal System, and requires all women to wear nothing but floral-print burkas!

Jumping the gunniest - runner up goes to the Philadelphia Inquirer online edition for calling the election in favor of incumbent Governor Ed Rendell while the polls were still open and "0% reporting".

Jumping the gunniest goes to Senator Charles Schumer (D-NY) for saying the Democrats "had taken Ohio" seventeen minutes before pricincts were legally allowed to report results.

Oddest Call: NJ Senate race. At 8:45 pm, with a tally of 51% for Kean, Jr to 48% for Menendez, called in favor of Menendez because of what Wolff Blitzer called "hard numbers from exit polls." You know, because those worked so well predicting the Bush defeats in 2000 and 2004.

Odderest Call: Democrat Ben Cardin was forecast as winner of the Maryland Senate seat based upon his 44% of the votes. His opponent, Republican Michael Steele, only managed to muster 55% of the then-counted vote.

Confusedest Blogger goes to me at this very moment. I have now seen at least 5 cases where the networks have called races in favor of the canidate who was trailing in the vote count. If FOX News was calling these types of races in favor of trailing Rs I wouldn't be so confused, but even they are saying trailing Dems will be taking seats.

Ego-shatteringest Results go to Democrat hopeful Tim Mahoney. Dude. If you can't garner significantly more votes than a disgraced gay stalker of underage boys (Mark Foley), you really need a new campaign manager.

Right-Oniest Candidate Pairing goes to the Virginia 5th District for giving us the Goode-Weed race.

Successfullest Republican Strategery goes to the RNC for getting Democrat-ish Senator Lieberman elected in Connecticut. Perhaps the biggest win of the night for the G.O.P.

Unusualiest Race (for yours truly, at least) goes to the Texas 14th House District. Republican incumbent Ron Paul is facing off against Democrat Shane Sklar. I got sued once. Plaintiff's counsel? Sklar & Paul. Different Sklar, different Paul, but still ...

Hilariest Results Tracker goes to Comedy Central's Colbert Report for the Catastroph-o-meter, used to measure Democratic victories. The red side had Jesus, the blue side had Osama bin Laden

It doesn't matter who you vote for ...

... the government's still going to get elected.


Re-Elect
Nobody!

Monday, November 06, 2006

So ya say it's your birthday ...

Happy birthday to me,
Tho' I'm old as a tree
I'm still younger than my coworkers,
Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee!

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Better late than never

So, it's a little late for Halloween. This was just too funny to not share ...


(This picture found on Belle of the Brawl)

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Hallowinners

Between the Halloween parties over the weekend and the parade on Main Street last night, I saw lots and lots of costumes. Unlike some previous years, there were actually a lot of really good ones this time around.

Considering that there are so many things people shoot for with their costume selection - funniest, scariest, goriest, sultriest, ugliest, etc., - it is really hard to say what the best costume was. But since I insist on having an opinion about everything, I'll try.

And so, without further ado, I present:

Mr. E's Halloween
"Est"-iest Awards

Scariest: Glowing-eyed Grim Reaper
A guy at the party had a grim reaper outfit with a black cloth that covered the face. Underneath, he had glasses with red lights on them that glowed through the fabric.

Cutest: The Pooh-bear Family
The dad was dressed like Tigger, the mom like Winnie T. Pooh, the stroller was made to look like a honey-pot and the kids were bees.

Funniest: Boy in Outhouse
A kid in the parade decorated a large appliance box to look like an outhouse with an open door. He was standing inside the box with his body poking up through the, ahem, portal. He had fake legs attached to the front of his shirt, making it appear as if he was a much shorter guy sitting upon the throne.

Bunniest: Ty, the 6'5" Playboy Bunny
Ty is a tall dude, making his Playboy bunny outfit all the more amusing. He was the first bunny ever to require 4-page centerfold. The kicker: his girlfriend was dressed as Heff.

Grossest: Dr. Mike Hunt, Gynecologist
From afar, the good doctor looked like any other horror movie maniacal surgeon. He had the facemask, his formerly white scrubs were a bloody mess ... Upon reading his nametag, however, you suddenly get that moment of "ahhh", followed by many moments of "ewww".

Inadvertently Kinkiest: Ride'em Cowgirl
My fraternity friend Bill got the nickname "Bull" back in college. He showed up at the party on Friday wearing bull horns and a tail. His wife, a reltively straight-laced woman who to this day is shocked by something that comes out of my mouth at every single social gathering we've both attended (not to mention what comes out of Mrs. CWV's mouth!), was dressed up as a cowgirl. I seem to recall a segment on HBO's Real Sex about rodeo role play ...

Bloodiest: Dr. Mike Hunt, Gynecologist

Original-iest: One-Night Stand
One guy at the party decorated a box to look like a nightstand, complete with condoms coming out of the drawer. That his head was protruding through the top was no problem, thanks to his lampshade hat.

Watch It, She's Not Eighteeniest: Too Many to Count
The prosti-tots were out in abundance yesterday. (Some even with their parents!) I know you find frilly French maids, naughty nurses, seductive secretaries, liberated librarians, voluptuous vixens, and, of course, dominating dominatricies at college Halloween parties (I need to attend more of those), but those women are of age! Listen, girls - just because you're too old to be giggly doesn't make you old enough to be jiggly. (On the bright side, these girls won't have to worry about spending money on new outfits for work. Once they turn 18, all they have to do is find a pole and start dancing.)

Inappropriate-iest: Dr. Mike Hunt, Gynecologist
This kid's in high school, by the way

Chubbliest: Super-Sized Super Hero
Superman with a beer gut hanging over his belt and out from under his shirt. Quite funny.

Same Clothes as Every Other Day-iest: All those goth kids

Cheapest: Male Chauvinist Pig
That was me. T-shirt with witty saying, jeans, and a $2.95 pig mask from Wal-Mart. If I thought about it more, the shirt would have been of either the Beer (Schlitz, of course), NASCAR, or "No Fat Chicks" genre.

Favorite-iest: a tie between Nerd and Alien
What can I say? This judge is biased towards his kids.

And while these are not necessarily costume (or even Halloween) related, here are a few more Estiest awards ...

Funniest Blog Comment goes to Mist1, who responded to Ranger Tom's Intellectual Dildo Awards post with this gem: "If I could find an intellectual dildo, I would give up dating."

Snappiest Email goes to my cousin's husband, Mike, for this reply to my brother's email describing this video as the coolest he's seen in years: "OK, someone needs their hyperbole license revoked."

Rumsfeldiest Coach award goes to Andy Reid of the Philadelphia Eagles (who seems to share the same shoulder-angel as our president) for "staying the course" throughout Sunday's embarrassing loss even though that meant throwing pass after pass after ugly, futile pass despite wind gusts over 30mph.

Hperboliest Post goes to me for this post. Unfortunately, I wasn't expecting to win, so I didn't prepare a speech. I'll just thank the academy and sit down.

And finally ...

Wateriest Eyes goes to you (but only if you've actually read this whole thing in one sitting).

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Boo-yah!



Happy Halloween!

Monday, October 30, 2006

Feeling the blues

Saturday night, Ms N and I were at a Halloween party with Mrs. CWV and Mr. Mrs-CWV. Our wonderful hosts had a fire pit in their backyard and we had all the fixins for Smores; add the 80's mix CD and the brisk wind blowing through the trees and we were all set.

My daughter makes a mean marshmallow flambé, by the way.

So as the conversating continued, Mrs. CVW suddenly turned to me and said, "By the way, Mr E," (because we are on a first initial basis) "as soon as Halloween is over you have got to change the colors on your blog."

"Yeah," said Ms N. "Aren't they horrible?"

¿Que?

It was just 9 posts ago that I sought out feedback about the color scheme, and after scrutinizing all of the responses, I found the word "horrible" exactly, let's see ... carry the one and we get zero times. "Retina-burning" did appear once, but that was from someone who has her brightness on her monitor set to 100%. Even George Bush seems bright on her screen.

Don't get me wrong, here. I'm a big boy and can handle criticism (I certainly got enough practice from my ex - she was like that sadistic old Chinese guy in that Bud Lite commercial, just paler and without the Fu Manchu mustache. Again!).

If the colors suck, they suck. It doesn't bother me; I can change them.

What bothers me is not that Mrs. CWV, who I consider a very good friend, and Ms N, the woman who (for some reason) seems to want to become Mrs N-E, thought the colors sucked, but that neither thought it necessary to share that tidbit of information with me for over two weeks. That post was from Torsdag, Oktober 12*, for goodness sake.

I don't like things to be sugar-coated (metaphorically, that is ... when it comes to actual food, sugar-coat away! Caramel salad, anyone?). This time, tell me what you really think.**



* For those who are wondering, my dates are all in Swedish***

** About the new colors, that is. I'm not sure if I want some other things mentioned in this particular forum.

*** For those wondering why I have the dates in Swedish, what can I say? I'm an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a who-gives-a-rat's-ass.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Speaking his mind

Thanks to the good folks at Comics.com, for the minor inconvenience of a bit more Spam I get a Dilbert cartoon emailed to me daily. I always look forward to this email. It's a morning pick-me-up that is caffiene-free and requires no prescription (or trip to a back alley) to get.

Being the astute person I am, it only took me getting these emails every day for almost a year to realize that each one has a link to Scott Adams' blog.

Oh, yeah, I'm on top of things.

Naturally, given the recurring theme of the cartoon, I was expecting to find amusing discussions of workplace Beaurocratic Situations (BS). I was not expecting a crash course in Spasmodic Dysphonia, and most certainly not expecting to read about [Warning Alaska Jen: Do not read the rest of this sentence until you've had your morning coffee] neck injections.

Yuck.

In a nutshell, Spasmodic Dysphonia is a brain disorder that renders a person unable to speak normally (my coworker wants to know how his mother-in-law's could contract this). Speech is a complicated process that involves many parts of the brain; the disorder may only effect some of those parts. As a result, some types of verbal communication (i.e. singing) may still be possible. There is no known cure.

Scott Adams has been suffering from Spasmodic Dysphonia for a year and a half. He can still talk to a large audience, but he hasn't been able to talk to people one-on-one or on the phone.

Until this past Monday, that is.

Read Scott's October 24 post. Obviously, you don't need to read all of the 1,237 comments (as of this posting) that follow, but Scott's story is definitely worth the read.

Congratulations, Mr. Adams, and best of luck with your continued recovery!

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Heard it on TV

"By throwing a party like those rich girls on MTV, I've suddenly become just like them"

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, Satan."

Satan and evil minion
South Park

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Snot a good way at all

Over a long enough time frame, Ed Norton tells us in Fight Club, the survival rate for everyone is zero.

Last night I fell asleep on the couch watching the World Series. I woke up about two hours later wondering if I would make it to see morning.

Having had a few hours now to piece together the events of the evening, I’ve come to the conclusion that I probably inhaled post-nasal drip. My head was tilted backwards, so drainage would be towards the throat. The heavy fluid in my airway would lead to the convulsive coughing fit that a) woke me up and b) severely increased the pressure in my left frontal sinus cavity, thereby causing the massive headache.

Keep in mind, this is after having time to recover, sleep on it, and apply some rational thought.

At the time, all I knew is I was suddenly awake, unable to breathe, choking, coughing uncontrollably, and pretty much convinced that my brain was about to explode, if it hadn’t already.

I had to cough to breathe, but every cough transformed the pain in my head from excruciating to torturous beyond belief. Medieval dungeons had rackloads of people who felt less pain than I did last night. The searing pain behind my eye was so bad I could barely stay upright, which was not easy anyways, being that I still wasn’t really awake.

Between gasps for air and my attempts to stay balanced, my thoughts darted amongst the possible outcomes that could cause me to assume room temperature by the time my kids woke up. Suffocation? Aneurism? Loss of consciousness leading to head wound?

Wonderful , I thought. Death by Mucus.

Periodically we find ourselves reminded of our mortality. I’ve been involved in near-misses (or, as George Carlin pointed out, near-hits) on the highway, I’ve been screened for cancer and checked for cholesterol. I once had a near-death experience on the playground at my elementary school after finding out the hard way why you are not supposed to run across the top of the equipment. (Yes, I have seen The Light.)

You never really know when or by what means you will be evicted from your meat suit. I suspect that like me, you readers have at least considered some of the possibilities. And while we may not have a mortality wish list, some final moments are more favorable than others.

I think most people list "passing peacefully while sleeping" as their preference (publicly, at least ... privately they choose "following mind-numbing rapture", even though that one could have a lasting traumatic effect on their partner(s)).

Pressing the perpetual snooze alarm does have its blissful appeal. Unfortunately, I figure I’m more likely to meet my maker by accident (car, skiing, don’t-worry-it’s-not-poisonous ... something like that). I could live with fatal heart attack.

Well, figuratively.

Other than leaving a lingering sinus headache, last night assured me of one thing. Of all the ways that I would prefer to go, drowning in my own snot is not one of them.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Too bad I drafted Foley

Fantasy sports may have met it's match ...

(Reuters write up)

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Construya una pared para nosotros, por favor

This land is my land,
That land is your land ...

I'm not a big proponent of fencing off the southern border. Looking north from Tijuana last summer brought back sad memories of West Berlin in 1986. I know the fundamental difference between the Iron Curtain, which was meant to keep people in, and the Adobe Curtain, which is meant to keep people out; I just can't get over the fact that we draw inspiration from the Deutsche Demokratische Republik.

The Great Wall of America is not the anti-terrorism elixer certain Capitol Hill occupants like to think it is, and cracking down on the employers who give illegal immigrants the illegal jobs for which they illegally immgrate here would do a heck of a lot to stem the flow. Besides, as Carlos Mencia pointed out, who are we going to get to build it?

Something about the fence seems downright unAmerican. Taken to its logical conclusion, the ideology behind the fence turns us into the land of the free, the home of the brave; from border fence to border fence and sea barricade to shining sea barricade. The current batch of so-called "Reagan Republicans" are tarnishing Reagan's (and Mondale's) (and Kennedy's) (and Winthorp's) (oh yeah, and Jesus's) shining city upon the hill. Remember the farewell address?

I've spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don't know if I ever quite communicated what I saw when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, windswept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here. That's how I saw it, and see it still.

Then again, somewhere out there is this guy ...

http://tanatos21.blogspot.com
This picture found on Tonatos21

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

A Jim by any other name

Alaska Jen finds it was funny that I remember football games that were on TV the day after each of my kids was born, but I cannot remember some trivial meaningless tidbits like, say, the name of my roommate during my second term of college.

With my son, that I would remember the football game is not much of a surprise. He was born the Saturday before a Super Bowl and the hospital extended visiting hours the next night so I could watch the big game with my first-born son. (This is where the audience is shown a placard that says "Awwww") That's a memory that will pretty much stick. My daughter, on the other hand, was born around Thanksgiving - right in the middle of the season. I'll admit that retaining memories of a midseason game between two teams I don't care for seems a bit much, but keep in mind that it was my first time doing something with my first-born child, so I feel no shame in keeping that memory, thank you very much. It's not like I remember the play-by-play (except for one play, that is).

Granted, a bigger problem is I tend to forget a lot of other things. The day after I turned 22, that little spot in my mind that is supposed to retain my current age stopped working for seven years. Somewhere during 29 it started working again and continued to do so throughout 30, then it shut off once again. Ask me on any given day (other than my birthday, of course) how old I am and I'll ask you what year it is. Fortunately I'm good at math, because I have to use it every time I fill out a state form.

I also tend to forget things on my mental to-do list. I forget to call people back. And when I do remember to write down things I need to remember, I forget to look back at the paper until sometime after the time I was supposed to have things done. I forget what's in my pockets until I leave a room. I'm reminded because I habitually check for my phone, wallet, and keys. I call it pocket Memento.

Meanwhile, I can tell you which teams played in every Super Bowl from XX to XL, who won, and, with the exception of two years, who I watched the game with. I watched Dallas clobber Buffalo in Super Bowl XXVII, for example, with What's-His-Face, my college roommate.

I am blessed with football recall. Alaska Jen and I have been friends since high school. The only reason why I remember her birthday is because it was on Super Bowl Sunday our freshman year. (I skipped her party so I could watch the game at another friend's party - his birthday was the same day.) While the date constantly slips my mind, I at least know where I can go to look it up. Of course, I never think to look it up before the date (the Super Bowl has moved back two weeks since then), so I'm always, shall we say, fashionably late with the "Happy Birthday" call.

I did call her on her birthday once - her 30th birthday, at that. A big one. But I lost all credit for making the call when I said mid-conversation "oh, it's your birthday?"

Yes, my mind is like a steel trap. A rusty steel trap.

Ms N naturally finds all this absolutely charming, just like my amazing ability to plan things at the last minute. In fact, sometimes she just can't seem to find words to properly express her feelings about how special I am. Sometimes she resorts to Spanish words that sound really nice, although it's probably for the better that I keep forgetting to look them up.

And now I've forgotten what I was writing about. It was something about football ...

Oh, yeah, names.

My first roommate was a guy named Ananda. That's a name that I doubt I'll forget. His mother was a child of the sixties and so was he, he just had the misfortune of growing up in the eighties. My third and final dorm roommate was a guy named Dave. He's the guy who, during an otherwise quiet evening of homework, broke the silence by singing "much carnage, much slaughter." Dave and his friend Curt showed up one evening with a wheelchair that they claimed they "found outside". Drexel's in West Philly ... it's possible, but I'm still suspicious. Our fraternity name for Dave was the two Greek letters Pi and Rho smushed together. "Pyro" was an interesting individual indeed, who, last I checked, became a successful computer engineer in California.

Between Ananda and Dave happened to be a roommate who I didn't hang out with much and had a very generic name. Between the Mikes and Matts and Jims and such that I've known over the years, his name has pretty much blended into my mental abyss. Of the things I've had on my mind, his name is not one of them. What can I say? I've had a busy decade.

So I was back on Drexel's campus enjoying my lunch once again when I overheard another conversation. A guy at a neighboring table was talking to a woman about people they knew. She was of Indian descent, but, based on her accent, appears to have learned English here in the states. He was talking about someone whose name he couldn't remember.

"It's one of those quick names," he said, "Like Matt or Paul or something."

Ah-ha! I thought. That's exactly what I told Alaska Jen when she was making fun of me, I just used different names. Basic generic names are ubiquitous. I remember what kind of guy my roommate was, what he looked like, what his girlfriend looked like (and, of course, how odd they looked next to each other, he being tall and lanky and she being neither). I remember things he did, music he listened to, jokes he told. But his name was one of those "quick" names.

The woman was amused by the guy's comment. Her name was a traditional Indian name. She has always stuck out.

"That's what I love about your white names," she said. "They're short; they're snappy. They all blend into the sea of white faces. It seems so much easier ... there's all the Michaels over there, and the Tims are there ..."

And then I remembered that this is exactly the reason why Alaska Jen is "Alaska Jen". Between Jenn-X (my ex-wife) Nurse Jen (who lived in the building next to mine), Intern Jen, Dakota Jen, Jersey Jen, and perhaps a few I've forgotten, I've had to come up with some way to differentiate amongst the multitude of Jens (not that I could ever confuse my ex with any of the others).

"Jen" could almost be a pronoun for "white girls born in the years following the release of Love Story", "Alaska Jen" identifies her as a unique individual.

Generic names, like generic people, are interchangeable. Find me something that a Mike could do that a Matt couldn't do just as well. Can't find a Tim? Get a Tom. (I get the feeling someone in Florida is Googling like crazy right now trying to make sure there are no "Ranger Tims" out there.)

For the record, Alaska Jen, my roommate's name was Joe.

Now what was his last name?

Saturday, October 14, 2006

If it involves exploding sheep, it can't be bad

So for the first time in the past several visits [queue ominous music], I actually (gasp!) lost money in Atlantic City.

Growl.

And my favorite game, Gettin' Lucky, was being used by one old fogey after another all night long.

Snarl.

Each time I looked over, a different Geri-curled biddy would be sitting at the machine, scowling her wrinkly face at my favorite computer-animated leprechaun as she donated a share of her Social Security check to the “Keep The Don a Billionaire” fund.

It’s not right, I thought to myself as I stared at them with contempt,they don’t love him like I love him!

The leprechaun, I mean; not the Don.

(The leprechaun’s hair, by the way, looks much more natural. But I digress …)

I know better than to get in line behind these ladi … er, women. Some come and go, but the one for which you wait is the one who is planning to sit in front of that machine until either her wallet or her heart fails her. Medicine's getting better nowadays, and since kids and grandkids ain't what they used to be, these women don't seem to care about their leaving anything for their heirs. They're there to spend every penny they can while they can. Asking them when they’ll be done is the quickest way to get a handbag to the crotch. How much crap do they keep in those things?!?

They can just kiss me clovers, I mumbled under my breath as I headed off to find another machine.

But the night wasn't without it's high points. I had a pretty good run on LobsterFest, a lobster-themed slot machine with some fun catch-phrases of its own. When you get to the bonus round, a guy on a boat directs you to pick traps, which are filled with a predetermined amount of lobsters of various point-values. Each lobster is big or small, depending on its point value, and for every point you get you original wager back. As he’s pulling them from the traps, he makes comments in his thick New England accent, such as “ah, this one’s a keepah!” My favorite was, “I’m going to introduce you to some buttah.”

He says nothing when he pulls out the largest lobster (250 points). It growls at him menacingly and he hurriedly tosses it into the hold.

I also did well (by which I mean I took a long time to go through my pre-determined amount of losable money) on a railroad-themed slot at the Wild West. It was one of three machines from which I could have recouped all of my losses for the evening if only I had stopped at my high point. Ms N gave me sound advice on the way home. After a notably good spin, hit the “Cash Out” button.

Behold the power of will.

Unfortunately, the game I found the most amusing was not the game at which I fared the best. I forget the name, but the general theme was unlucky sheep with explosives and it definitely brought back fond memories of Saturday mornings when I’d lie on the floor with my cereal bowl in front of me watching Wile E. Coyote’s vain-yet-unceasing attempts to capture Bugs or the Road Runner or any of Sam’s sheep. Each time you hit three or more in a row, the cartoon sheep would light a match in a roomful of dynamite or try in vain to outrun a bomb or get turned into instant mutton some other way. In a tribute to Stanly Kubrick’s best film, one sheep even rides a bomb Slim Pickens style, waving his hat in the air as he drops from the plane. My chuckles just kept getting heartier as more sheep got blown to bits in new ways.

Ah, yeah. Anytime you can combine gambling with animal cruelty, that’s just good, clean fun!

Friday, October 13, 2006

I wonder what she thinks about Fortran

I like eating my lunch on the nearby campus of Drexel University, my alma sorta. Classes are back and session and groups of students are often walking to and fro, so naturally I overhear snippets of various conversations. Most of the time I drown them out, but when I overheard two young female students discussing programming the other day ... let's just say this one I just had to share:

I just love C++. Make me write something in Java, and I'll look you in the face and say "Fuck you."

Oh yes ... she's one to bring home to Mom.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Brightening up the place

I've been tweaking the site a bit - adding colors, rearranging stuff, embedding secret code that emails seductive pictures of Milton Berle (before he died) to everyone in your address book, etc. You know, the usual stuff.

So what do you all think?

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

New Digs

Well, my dear reader(s), it's time for a change.

After a pretty good run with the old name, I need a fresh look - a fresh feel - a fresh, um, something freshy. What can I say, sometimes I have that not-so-fresh feeling*.

And so, without further ado, it's no more No More Mr. Ice Guy.

In case you're wondering about the name, I found out that there are a few Mr. Ice Guys out there. One is a geologist, one is something else, one is the star of a podcast series, another one is some punk-ass kid who went so far as to post an entry for himself on Wikipedia (it seems the Wikipediots have removed that particular page). The play on "no more Mr. Nice Guy" seemed witty and original when I thought of it, what with my years in Alaska and all, but thanks to the miracle of Google I've discovered how unoriginal I really am. Besides, the URL always seemed more like M-Rice-Guy when I was typing it.

Ms N wanted me to go with something Mr K related, since that's what she always calls me (that I can print, at least). I happen to be blessed with a name that is a homonym of mystery, which means there are several witty phrases from which to choose. The only things catchy I could think of with the K were "Special K" and "Oh, K", neither of which appeal to me. "Oh, K, Can You See?" might have worked, but I just thought of it now and frankly I'm too lazy to go back and change anything.

Not that there aren't any Mr. Es ... "Mister E. Solved," for example, is a title I was pondering before I remembered to Google any potential names, as was "Mister E.'s Mysteries". The "Magical Mister E. Tour" was also taken, much to my disappointment. But surprisingly, I found several possible Mr. E. permutations available. Most hits for Mr. E. are actually postings by psychologists who are redacting the full names of their patients from their published works.

So thus begins our new adventure - our tales of Mr. E., if you will. (I never checked on that one. Oh well, too late.) Sit back, relax, sip (chug) an adult beverage (you might as well, I am!), and (hopefully) enjoy the ride.

* Royce, if you're out there, just remember: SEDDBYNGASCTMTFI