Boo-yah!

Happy Halloween!

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.

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!

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

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.

Too bad I drafted Foley

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

(Reuters write up)

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 ...

This picture found on Tonatos21

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?

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!

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.

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?

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