B-Day Invasion

Just like they practiced it!

This is just too nutty for words. Here's a throwback to football's rugby days ...

Silly Signage

From the side of a bottle of Zeigler's Apple Cider:

Blended to Perfection

... and then two lines later:

Shake Well

I guess you can't expect perfection to be perfect anymore.

There are times ...

There are times when you feel bitter because you're not "getting what you deserve." Those are usually the times you should feel thankful for it.

Today I am most thankful.

Breaking the silence

OK, so I had every intent of finishing some of the more dignified posts on which I am mulling, er, working. But then I got this:

The camel article.

Last week in a nutshell

Well fans, I am back from vacation.

(Physically, that is. Mentally is a different story altogether.)

I will write about the trip in more detail over the next few days. Suffice it to say, we had a great time, did lots of great things, spent too much money, and even managed to get our luggage back.

Current Conditions

Wind Pressure Humidity Dew Point

Nada Dropping Dripping More like "don't point"

Crappy

83°F Feels Like SHIT

Future vacation destinations

Ms N and I have a short list of vacations we'd like to take in the reasonably near future. We're going to Alaska in a few weeks (which for me is a trip home), we'd like to get down to Puerto Rico to visit her homeland, we'd like to get over to Europe at least twice (once to Spain at her request, once to Germany and Denmark for me).

But after a bit of surfin' the web, I've stumbled across a new destination to add to the list ...

Waco, Texas.

Waco is not on my list because of the two infamous centers of cult activity nearby (the Branch Davidians being just to the northeast and Crawford being a bit further to the west). Nor is it on my list because of Baylor University, either, even though after 151 years they have finally allowed dancing on campus.

(Do you know why Baptists don't allow couples to have sex while standing up? It may lead to dancing.)

Nope. It's because of this museum:

Sorry, Walker fans. It's not the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. Why would I travel half way across the country to see that?

I want to see the Dr Pepper Museum. I would like to be a pepper, too.

Oh, those 23 flavors of carbonated out-of-the-ordinary goodness. I love me some Dr Pepper!

I even love me some knock-off brands, like Dr. W and Mr. Pibb.

Ms N, of course, thinks I am insane. She is decidedly not a pepper.

Dr Pepper makes up half of the duo of soft drinks that she won't touch on cultural grounds. Having grown up in the mean streets of Brooklyn, she insists that Dr Pepper and Mountain Dew are the beverages "only white people drink."

Naturally, I take exception to that statement. Granted, Dr Pepper was much more prevalent in the Redneck Riviera than up here. And although I've never seen it myself, I'm sure somewhere out there is a non-Caucasian Dr Pepper drinker. Come to think of it, I once saw an African-American enjoying a can so much that he immediately started dancing with joy.

Oh wait, that was in a commercial.

I'm not complaining. Her refusal to imbibe simply means more bebida de blanca for me. And if she never gets to enjoy the wonders of the post-Pepper belch, well, that's her loss.

Now all I have to do is convince her that Waco is a place we should visit, which may be a tough sell. After all, the lure of free Dr Pepper is enticing to only one of us.

What a wonderful day outside ...

... to be inside.

The first heat wave of the summer is here, and I think I speak for almost everyone in the Delaware Valley when I say:

UUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!

While the mice are away, the cats will play

The kids are off on their annual summer vacation with Grandma and Grandpa. That means that for the next four weeks or so I am free from my parenting responsibilities. (Now I know what life is like for their mother!) (Oops ... did I type that out loud?) So now Ms N and I have the whole place to ourselves with no concern about the babies' momma dropping them off early.

Wo-hoo!

So Ms N and I have taken this opportunity to do what we never really could do with such freedom ...

Sleep.

This, of course, is aided by the fact that the two of us are exhibiting flu-like symptoms. I think it's my cousin's fault. He came down from NYC to spend the Fourth with us. We had a barbecue, went to see Transformers (an excellent movie!), watched some other movies like Stripes, and had Mr. and Mrs. CWV over as well. All was good.

But my cousin had made several comments to the effect of "I'd better keep my distance. I've been sick lately."

Apparently, my cousin left something behind and we found it. So we've been congested, sore throated, and miserable. (Normally we're miserable without the congestion and sore throats.) And with the ailment has come lethargy.

Much more than my normal lethargy.

I think I have slept more already this weekend than I have in any whole week in the past six months. I am taking medication (viva las drugas!) that is supposed to be non-drowsy, but I haven't been able to stay awake long enough to feel if I'm drowsy or not.

So now that the hour is getting late, I have a bit of a problem. I need to get up early, but I have been sleeping all day. I may not be able to get to sleep tonight, meaning I'll be tired all day tomorrow.

Fortunately, they make a night-time version, too. I just took some. Let's see how long it takes to get to sleeeeeeeeeee

State of Denial

I feel so rejected. My car failed its biannual inspection.

I have not had the best of luck with these things. I've probably been through 12 New Jersey inspections and I think I only passed on the first try three times. And I have never failed because of emissions - the whole reason why inspections started in the first place.

It's always stupid crap, like that third brake light up in the back window. Those damned things must be designed to go out just before inspection time. Thanks to the state of New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission, I now know how to replace the friggin' third brake lights on Windstars, Chevy Luminae, and Chevy Celebrities.

Wagons and sedans.

I miss the old Alaska inspection. Back in the day, Alaska didn't actually have an inspection, it was Anchorage that did. And that inspection was a breeze. The car could have no doors and be on fire, but so long as the flame coming off the engine block was burning clean, you passed.

In Jersey, I fail for everything. Brake lights. Alginment. Enlarged prostate.

So once I pulled into the inspection station with a car that I knew would fail for everything. This car was so crappy that I was able to pay for with a single personal check. The inspector hit the horn and nothing happened. No noise, no squeak, nothing.

A functioning horn is not only mandatory to pass inspection, it is also an essential part of the New Jersey driving experience (especially if you hold your cell phone in your finger-flipping hand).

The second inspector (New Jersey vehicle inspection is a two-person job) didn't even realize that my car was on its way to his station because he was relying on the noise from the horn to wake him up. And yet that car passed.

So this time I failed because of insufficient tire tread. Oh well. At least my engine meets pollution standards.

And my third brake light works.

Chancletas de Jesus

The following story is true.
Names have been changed to protect the (allegedly) innocent.

Everybody has their own personal pet peeves - those often commonplace things, events, or situations that for some reason grate on a person's nerves like a microplane separating the zest off a lemon.

(Wow ... I've got to stop letting Ms N use the remote. Way too much Food Network!)

I was reminded recently of an old high school buddy of mine - let's just call him "Jim" - who had two of the peeviest pet peeves I have ever seen.

Even though Jim was a male teenager in high school, he was actually a reasonably smart guy. "Raul," he'd tell me, "it really does no good to change your own name in this story. I mean, my identity will be safe with the name change, but people already know who you are!"

Jim could be smart that way.

But those peeves ...

For normal people, pet peeves cause unreasonable and irrational reactions. For Jim it was far more. They weren't just the fingernails on his chalkboard, they were his Kryptonite.

They weren't Jim's pet peeves, he was the peeves' pet Jim.

(Special thanks to the late Johnny Cochran for inspiring that one!)

In retrospect, Jim's one unreasonable, irrational peeve was at least reasonable and rational at its source. When Jim was a kid he was riding the bus to school. A tractor-trailer driving next to the bus ran over something sharp, puncturing the tire and causing it (the tire) to explode. It was right next to the young Mr. Jim, and it scar(r)ed him for life.

Ever since then, he has had a "thing" about big-tired vehicles. The kind of thing that would cause him to change lanes, accelerate, decelerate, or even change roads rather than drive next to a semi.

Jim's other unreasonable, irrational peeve had nary a reasonable nor rational explanation.

Jim hated Jesus sandals.

Anytime Jim saw anybody who wasn't Jesus (or at least an apostle) wearing sandals, he got irked.

It wasn't that Jim thought that sandals were so special that only a messiah was worthy to wear them; that a mere mortal having the audacity to don a pair holy flip-flops constituted blasphemy of the highest order. It was more that he couldn't stand seeing anyone wearing sandals, but Jesus - with the whole "son of God" and "dying on the cross and then overcoming death just for us" thing - gets a pass.

Jim, being an Army brat, lived wherever his dad was stationed. As a result, he spent some of his younger years in the Middle East. Jesus sandals were everywhere there, and most of the people wearing them were by no means Jesuses.

Moving to Alaska, a place where you would more expect to find Jesus snowshoes, Jim was still unable to escape the dreaded footwear. This was the early ninties. Once clear of the snowy and slushy months, people would put on their Berkenstocks (and white socks!).

And Jim would stew.

Boy would he stew. Were a family to walk by with Mom, Dad, and the kids all wearing Jesus sandals, Jim would pop out a dumpling.

"One of these years," Jim would, ahem, allegedly tell us, "you're going to turn on the news and see that a Jesus sandal factory has been blown up, and you'll know it was me!"

I have no idea where Jim is now. It has been many years since last we spoke. I still have yet to see "Explosion Destroys Jesus Sandal Factory" scrolling across CNN, which I take to be a sign that he has found something better to do, like date.

I am curious to see what's become of him.

Then again, this past weekend I bought myself (by which I mean "Ms N bought me") my first ever pair of Jesus sandals (or as I've been calling them, chancletas de Jesus).

After wearing them around a bit, I think I am hooked. To be honest, I really wish I had gotten these things a long time ago. Of course, having just come to this revalation, this might not be the best time to suddenly run into Jim.

If you see him, tell him Raul moved away ...

Find a Penny

I dropped a penny this morning.

This would typically not be noteworthy, were it not for the fact that:

a) I was in the shower

b) dressed accordingly (ergo sans pockets), and

c) I am not in the habit of carrying loose change with me when I bathe.

Apparently I forgot to clear everything off the bed before going to sleep last night. I rolled onto it and it stuck to my back. It fell off when I ran my hand across it while washing.

At least that's what I've been able to piece together having had time to wake up and think about it.

Normally I am groggy in the mornings. It takes the rush of water (sometimes very cold water) to de-grog. Today I moved my schedule up by an hour to get into work early, so I was extra groggy.

Trying to figure out the source of a sudden clank at a quarter-to-five and in such and advance state of grog is not the easiest thing to do.

That there is a penny-sized sore spot on my back has helped confirm where the darned thing was. For several groggy moments, I was beginning to question whether my kids may have been right all along.

You see, they seem to think I have money coming out my wazoo.

Chillin' in the O.C.

Ms N had to attend a another conference for work. She spent most of April schlepping around backwoods Pennsylvania presenting to one small-town government after another all by her lonesomes. So when this latest presentation came up, I decided that I would be the wonderful fiance that I claim to be and take a few days off from work so I could go keep her company.

Of course, since I was not a registered attendee at the conference, I was not supposed to be in the convention center. So while Ms N got to have fun meeting local government representatives from towns and cities throughout the state of Maryland, I had to spend the days trying to find something to do here:

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Ocean City, Maryland

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(The Redneck Riviera)

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Naturally, whenever you visit a new town, you always want to take in the sights and meet the local people.

Unfortunately, I never saw these bikini babes ...

But I did see some biker chicks!

I also got to swim in the ocean for the first time in a year, which is something I just love to do.

I am a real dork when it comes to ocean swimming, as Ms N will attest.

(Actually, Ms N will attest to me being a dork when it comes to lots of things. Ocean swimming, computer games, blogging, Sudoku, football, Killer Sudoku, boobs, accounting, comedies, Weird Al ... I could go on, or you could just ask her.)

I love the feeling of bobbing about amongst the waves, fighting or following the current as it drifts to and fro, peeing freely, going from knee-deep to chin-deep to knee-deep water without so much as lifting a foot from the sand; all while relaxing to the melodic symphony of crashing waves and calling sea birds.

Things to do ...

Besides the beach (not to mention beside the beach!), Ocean City has a lively 3 mile long boardwalk which ends at the amusement park.

Having enjoyed our meals, we decided to forgo the upchuck-inducing thrill rides. We were going to forgo rides altogether, but after a bit of prodding I managed to sucker Ms N into taking a ride on the Ferris wheel.

The walk down the boardwalk was made all the more enjoyable by the distractions along the way, such as this reminder from home. The walk back was made all the more enjoyable by the fact that we did it sitting down. Even at $2.75, those tram cars are worth every penny.

One of the first things you see in Ocean City is the wild mini golf courses. Mini golf seems to be the official sport. Philadelphia Ave is riddled with courses of various themes, from pre-historic to dragon to Amazonian adventure.

And just to show that alarmist warning signs you see everywhere are nothing new, note the sign found at this prehistoric site.

Lava rocks may be sharp!

But before you blow all of your money trying to sink your balls, stop by the Kite Loft. I never thought a kite store could have so much interesting stuff in it. Too bad they wouldn't let me kite a check ...

Good Lord ...

This was one of several Christian-themed sand sculptures all done by the same artist.

I took this picture while driving past the Lutheran church. I didn't see what was on the marquee until I got back to the hotel.

I guess they don't take the "I left my checkbook at home" excuse when passin' the plate.

About those rednecks ...

To be fair, the town's neck has changed its hue in recent years. The Ocean Gallery pictured above is a throwback to Ocean City's more rednecky times. Most of the town had some degree of sophistication (Lava rock warning signs notwithstanding). (In fact, I really only heard two or three families speaking yokel.)

I had to seek out stores that catered to those with necks of red.

I didn't have to search hard, mind you, but I did have to search nonetheless.

Note that even at the cigar store, the smoking section is outside!

Personally, I stop drinking about the time my beverages sprout legs and start dancin'.

Apparently Anthony thinks otherwise ...

Parting Shots ...

Ah, a place for us accountants to whine and dine ...

Joggers X-ing next half mile?

This cab was vintage! The shifter was on the steering column and the driver smoked while shuttling passengers around.

Something fishy

I grew up in Alaska, a state synonymous with the great outdoors.

Alaska: the Last Frontier.

Alaska: the Great Land.

Alaska: the Land of the Midnight Sun.

Alaska: the place where Man sits comfortably atop the food chain ... until he steps outside.

Alaska: the place so friggin' cold that before you can finish writing your name in the snow, your outside plumbing fixtures have become inside fixtures.

So naturally, over here in Jersey: the Land of the Midnight Carjacking, everyone assumes that I am a die-hard outdoorsman. "Oh," they say, "you're from Alaska? You must love to fish. You must love to hunt. You must love to hike. You must love camping. You must love nature."

Yeah, right.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I dislike nature. In fact, I'm quite fond of nature. Especially the tasty bits. (Have you ever marinated bear meat in teriyaki sauce, then thrown it on a grill? Mmmm-mmmm!) I just think nature is something best appreciated from indoors.

(It has been my experience that the most vocal advocates of the "Mother Nature is fragile and personkind needs to tend to her ever so gently" philosophy live in big cities or the suburbs sprawling around them. "We must protect Mother Nature," they say on their way to pilates with mochaccino froth on their lips. Having lived next door to Mother Nature for most of my life, I can assure you that she can fend for herself. Far from being a delicate flower, she is a first class bitch and she can kill you in ways you can't even imagine. But I digress ...)

My son loves fishing. Unfortunately, despite my father's and grandfather's best efforts to teach me, I know slightly more than squat about that particular pastime, other than to make sure that you remember which cooler is for the fish and which is for the beer.

Luckily for us, we happened across a really nice family at the park the other day. The father was taking his kids out to fish. The son clearly enjoyed catching fish. The daughter clearly enjoyed watching the ducklings. As luck would have it, there was a spare kid-sized pole sitting unused on the ground.

A spare pink pole.

It could have had pansies and streamers on it for all Alex cared. He was offered a chance to fish and he took it.

Now mind you, fishing at Laurel Acres Park is not really fishing. Being that there's no beer allowed, you wind up spending your time actually trying to catch fish. And the fish you get are not the big fighters you see on TV (see - I'm savvy enough about nature to know you can find shows about it). The fish pictured here (left, on the hook) was the biggest catch of the day.

The pond at the park has a bunch of little fish in it that nibble at everything. Everything! When you show up at the edge of the water with a fishing pole, they gather in the shallows, face you, and patiently wait their chance to get a bite of bait.

Alex caught seven during the hour and a half he was at it. All got thrown back; just some got thrown farther than others. But he had a great time.

As luck would continue to have it, one time when he was visiting his mom she got him a fishing pole. Luck had it even more because she was due to bring his sister back from their day together shortly after we got home. He called her up, and lo and behold she happened to have that pole in the trunk of her car.

(The ex has a lot of stuff in the trunk of her car. Fishing poles, laundry, important papers, unimportant papers, probably the Holy Grail. The scary part is that she hadn't used that pole since back when she drove her previous car. When she got the new car, she actually moved the crap from the old trunk into the new one. Yep, there's lots of junk in her trunk!)

So today we went back to the park with a pole of our own.

And bait.

Unfortunately, it's easier to catch fish with worms than with Airheads. It's not that the fish don't like the Airheads ... actually, those little buggers loved the sweet sugary goodness of Airheads.

Once that candy hit the water, the fish went wild. They pushed, they shoved, they rammed each other out of the way. Finfights broke out; it was crazy.

The problem was that Airheads can be nibbled much easier than worms. The fish could dart up, grab a bit, and dart away without ever getting the hook in their mouths. I suspect that they were even dartier their second time around, what with the sugar rush and all.

Needless to say, we lost a lot of bait. And then we hit another snag, so to speak. While I was rebaiting the hook (I am a master baiter, you know), a gust of wind blew the wrapper out of my pocket and into the water.

Now I may not be a tree-hugging, eco-crazy environmentalist nutjob, but I am also not a litterer-er. I was intent on getting that wrapper back ashore and into a trash can where it belonged.

So first I asked the fish to get it. They were jonesin' for more candy; I figured we could work out a deal. But fish hopped up on sugar are not all that cooperative.

Then we hit on a better idea. I had Alex cast the line out so it passed over the wrapper, then reel it in hoping to snag the thing. It started to come back a bit, but then we lost it. To make things worse, the wind started blowing the wrapper out past where Alex could cast. My daughter's friend, who was with us even though I haven't written about her as of yet, tried to cast it out farther. Again, she got the line out past the wrapper, but again it didn't catch. I knew it was up to me to save the day.

Of course, I haven't actually cast a line in many years. I gave it a try, though. I brought my wrist back, held the release button, flung my arm water-ward ...

"You have to let go of the button," Alex said, as the bobber and hook spun circles around the end of the pole.

So I tried again, this time knowing that I had to release in order for the line to make it out to the wrapper. Again I sized up my target, wound up, flung my wrist, and released my thumb.

I watched as the hook and bobber made a perfect arc as they flew through the air toward the wrapper.

And I watched the pole making it's less than perfect arc as it flew through the air behind them.

Apparently, I released with more than my thumb. And now there was a candy wrapper and a pole in the lake. Fortunately, Katrina, the friend, was willing to wander into the water to get the pole.

The line on the reel never really cast well after it's submersion excursion. By the end of the day, we had only caught one fish, albeit a good one. I'm certain that we left a whole bunch of lethargic fish behind. After coming down off their Airhead-induced high, they're probably still swimming listlessly about.

Oh, and before you think I spoiled Mother Nature's beauty by leaving behind the candy wrapper, I was able to retrieve it from the water.

You see, the pond at Laurel Acres Park is not that big. The wind blew the wrapper out of our reach where we were standing, but its path downwind intersected with the shoreline about 100 yards away. When I saw the sun reflecting off the washed up wrapper, I moseyed on over and picked it up.

Strobe Light-ning Bugs

'Twas the damndest thing ...

As the twilight dwindled, my son and I were observing the crepuscular ritual of the photuris lucicrescens, flaunting their abdominal bioluminescence so as to draw the attention of prospective mates (in other words, the fireflies wanted to get laid so they made their butts glow), when I noticed something I have never seen before.

You see, up until recently - by which I mean two days ago - all the fireflies I've seen have pretty much followed the same basic routine: they get airborne, fly to someplace with good sightlines, and then they set their asses aglow for as long as possible. Like an emergency flare burning strong and steady, their booty beacons brazenly blaze brightly for several seconds at a time. This is a good way for a fly guy in the mood for l'amore to let the honeys know that he's ready for a little sump'n sump'n (and that he can keep the ol' fire burning for quite some time, if you know what I mean).

Of course, it's also a good way to let the birds know where to find an evening snack. It's nature's equivalent to the big fluorescent Taco Bell sign.

Late Nite Fly Thru open 'til midnight.

Last night, however, was different. It was much more like the convenience store signs where the fluorescent bulbs never work so well. Instead of the steady burn, the shiny hineys were flickering on and off in rapid succession. And it wasn't just one or two ... it was all of them. Wednesday night they were glowing, Thursday night they were blinking. It was like they were all signaling left turns or something.

We stayed outside for a bit longer than planned watching the little greenish strobe lights fly about. It's not that often that you encounter such a change. It's a wondrous thing, and a bit perplexing, too. Is it club night in firefly land? Did they switch to the red-eye prevention setting?

Or did they somehow figure out that school ended on Wednesday and now bedtimes for the neighborhood kids have reverted to the more lenient summer schedules? After all, as my son pointed out, when the lightning bugs are blinking they are much harder to catch.

Spiders, Politicians, and Other Vermin

Special thanks to my dad for finding this great idea for political reform ...

And extra special thanks to my big brother for unearthing this wonderful documentary on spiders ...

Here are some chickens playing tennis ...

And some mischevious Guinea Pigs ...

And finally, a rat gettin' his scratch on ...

Prang! Go out and play!

What a job title!

Peter Cornall, of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, must get great reactions when he hands over his business card. One look at his title and you have to wonder, is this the work of a stuffy, isolated, alarmist nerdy guy or cool, suave, favorite camp counselor guy?

Perhaps he's a favorite stuffy, cool, suave, alarmist, isolated, nerdy, camp counselor.

Whatever the case, Mr. Cornall is RoSPA's "Head of Leisure Safety." And as such, Mr. Cornall has a message for all of us parents. Namely:

Throw the kids out of the house!

He doesn't mean abandon them, of course. He just means send them outside, and fret less about doing so.

The RoSPA notes that the modern parent is overprotective. For example, 43% of the parents they surveyed said kids should not be allowed to play outside unsupervised until they are 14.

Fourteen?

If anything, fourteen is when the supervision should resume! I mean, it's cute when a toddler says, "Happy Burfday, Gramma," but if the candles on the cake have the numbers 5 and 3 and they are not in that order, it's a problem.

While it sounds counter-intuitive, the RoSPA rightly points out that kids need to get hurt more, and can only do so if parents stop being such ninnies. Kids need scrapes and bruises - and occasionally a cast - to learn for themselves what they can and can not do and, more importantly, why.

Overprotective parents, myself included, teach their kids to fear injury, when what kids ought to be learning is how to smartly avoid injury. And by constantly stopping the kids from feeling any pain, parents fail to teach them how to live with the pain they will inevitably feel in their lives.

Besides, as the RoSPA points out, sheltered kids are not necessarily remaining free from injury. Carpal tunnel syndrome and tendonitis in the trigger finger aren't exactly the best things for a kid to face.

I must say that since I moved out of my apartment, which was located next to the intersection of a freeway and major arterial route, behind a gas station and across the street from a row of motels that turned into housing for some less than upstanding members of the community, I have been much more generous with giving the kids outside time. It certainly helps that my daughter is more than happy to walk or bike to her friends' houses.

I'd like to think that the years being cooped up will give the kids an appreciation for the freedoms they are getting now. I'd like to think that they've at least gained an understanding of some of the hazards that exist, which is helping them make better decisions when they are looking for stuff to do now. I'd like to think that they'll look back on this time in their lives and say, "Wow, although he was rightly concerned about our safety and well-being, he was a cool, suave, favorite camp-counselor kind of dad."

I'd like to think all of that, but then I listen to my daughter nad realize what kind of stuffy, isolated, alarmist nerd I've been all this time.

More fun from the In-Bin

OK, so some of you have seen this before, but I just got such a kick out of it I wanted it saved for posterior, er, posterity. Many thanks to the original author, wherever you are.

This simple test illustrates the extent to which people today have become too dependant upon their computers.

To determine your gender, look down.

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(It said look down, not scroll down, dummy!)

One of those pound-me-into-ash prisons ...

I just got done watching Office Space, one of my all time favorite movies, on E!, one of my all time least favorite networks.

I have this movie on DVD -- the "Special Edition With Flair!" even -- but for some reason (such as accidentally letting Ms N near the remote again) I am watching the edited-for-content, riddled-with-commercial-breaks, safe-for-TV flairless edition.

I never figured out why it is that people do this. You could have a full movie, complete with extras, deleted scenes, subtitles in English, French, Spanish, Swahili, and Klingon, the original colorful metaphors as originally spoken by the original actors, and every last body part in its full unblurred splendor sitting on your shelf untouched for the past seven months, but flip through channels and find the TV version with the best lines dubbed over and nary a nipple in sight and that you watch. And while you complain about the stuff that's edited out, as you get up during the many commercial breaks to either get a drink or get rid of one you won't simply grab the DVD so you can watch the real thing.

Actually, there is a side benefit to watching a movie that's been edited for TV. For while the scenes that answer the age-old question "Why does my DVD remote have a slow-motion button?" are cut completely (and any remaining naughty bits deemed too essential to be cut obscured by that dang blur box), the voice-over substitutions for the original potty-mouth scripts can be quite comical.

Nothing quite beats the voice-over of Kurt Russell when Backdraft was first aired on network TV. Amidst a tense argument between Russell and some other guy, Kurt, teeth a-glistenin' and hair a-wavin', shouts, "Well, Forget-it You!"

Forget-it you? Forget-it you? Who the forget-it did they get to write the voice-overs? And what the forget-it was he thinking?

If all they wanted to do was clean up the language, they could have Kurt say "Forget you!" Granted, it's not nearly as forceful as the original, but it is actually something somebody might actually say in such a moment. Such a dub might even go unnoticed by the viewing public, what with their attention diverted by those a-glistenin' chompers and all.

"Forget-it you," on the the other hand, sobers everyone out of their a-glistenin' stupor and forces them to consciously think about what must have been said in order to warrant such an odd comment.

Office Space is chock-full of great lines. Unfortunately, most of the best were voiced over.

I missed one of my favorite lines, where the character Michael Bolton calls his Grammy-winning namesake a "no-talent ass-clown", but luckily Bolton was not finished.

This particular gem:

If we get caught laundering money, we're not going to white-collar resort prison. No, no. We're going to federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison!

did not escape the censor's attention. Safe-for-TV Michael Bolton fears being sent to one of those "pound us into ash" prisons.

The commercial breaks also gave me a chance to go Googley, which is how I came to find bullshitjob.com, a site where you can listen to many clips from the movie in all their original glory. Not only do they have their tribute to Office Space but they also have their own Bullshit Job Title Generator.

One can but wonder what kind of exciting work a Dynamic Optimization Orchestrator gets to do for a big company. Oh, the excitement! It's almost enough to give you the O-face.

Forget-it yeah!

Upsides to Allergies

The latest storm surge of pollen has crashed against my immune system's protective seawalls. Unfortunately, some overzealous and somewhat misguided first-responder Immunoglobulin E antibodies have triggered an excessive activation of leukocytes, causing a breach in my levees of nasal mucosa, releasing a flood of phlegm from my Lake Ponchartrain of goblet cells.

Not only am I suffering from a swollen, teary eye and continual runny nose, but from this poorly developed rhetorical trope as well.

I have at least come to the realization that there can be upsides to allergies.

For example, if you are ever feeling insufficiently blessed, sneeze at work.

(This works best if you are in a high-walled cube farm. Having your own office means few co-workers will be within earshot, having low or no walls means more co-workers will be able to see you when it happens, which, of course, means you are less likely to hear the desired "Bless you" and more likely to hear "Eeewwwww".)

The other upside is only theoretical at the moment. However, based on my recent tissue consumption and apparent nasal discharge rate, I think it's safe to say that by day's end I just may drop a few pounds.

We are mostly water, right? Does that not mean that losing water is essential to losing weight? I may have stumbled across the next miracle in weight loss!

Be sure to look for my upcoming book, Snot: The All-Natural Secret to a Thinner You in a bookstore near you.

Abitu Haiku

A bit too chilly?
That became a bit too hot
a bit too quickly.

Sleeping on it

Supposedly you're supposed to do some of your most creative thinking while sleeping. While that may be true, it certainly was not reflected by my draft of the post I was planning for today. Apparently, in the midst of my typing I drifted off to "creative thinking," for when I went to review what I had written thus far I saw this on my screen:

The weather lately has been incredible. Save for a storm front that blew through the area Tuesday night, it has been mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

(I'm paraphrasing, of course, for space purposes.)

The weird thing (is if there is ever only one weird thing in my life) is I was certain I had typed more of the legible stuff than that. This means that I had been dreaming that I was sitting at my computer typing.

Sitting? Typing? What kind of effed-up dream is that?!?

It was not that long ago that my dreams consisted of, well, the stuff that dreams are made of. And while it may be somewhat of a letdown waking up and realizing that I am not really visiting a tropical resort at the same time as the convention of billionaire nymphomaniac bikini models, once that disappointment fades there are still residual memories to relish.

Even a bad dream is good in its own way. Ever wake up startled, only to be suddenly quite relieved that a) you're still alive, 2) all of your toes are still attached, and c) you don't really drive a Pinto?

I've woken up startled, relaxed, afraid, relieved, inspired, ecstatic, angry, perplexed, determined, awed, aggravated, content, liberated, confined, motivated, de-motivated, excited, energetic, (ahem) relieved, devoted, dejected, enthused, laughing, crying, arguing, hungry, horny, hopeful, pessimistic, optimistic, antagonistic, proud, happy, confused, uncertain, certain, convinced, impressed, depressed, pressured, and serene. I've woken up unsure of the time, unsure of the day, unsure of the year, and unsure that I can make it to a restroom in time. Sometimes I've woken up filled with a deep sense of wow-I-sure-hope-nobody-ever-finds-out-that-I-thought-that!

Good or bad, those varied reactions to my nocturnal musings have had their effect on me. If nothing else, they've helped me feel more alive.

But just how alive am I supposed to feel when my dreams have withered to the point that the all I can come up with is me ... sitting at a computer ... typing?

Do tell me what wondrous climax awaits me in this oh-so-titilating fantasy world I created.

Perhaps, had I not woken up so early, there would have been something more substantial. I might have set myself upon some grand (albeit dorky) quest. If my writing was any clue, I might have been on my way to see those M&M guys. Perhaps it was to involve something tasty, like an bottomless bag of Cheezy Poofs.

Maybe I'm being too cynical about this whole thing. For all I know, by waking up, I may have missed out on my chance at enlightenment. I can see it all now ...

There I am, typing away at a Cheez-encrusted keyboard. The clicking and crunching sounds fuse together to form an angelic harmony. Then suddenly, as I reach into the bag, I realize that I hold in my hand the final Poof. My voracious snacking has led me to the ultimate triumph! I have reached the end of the endless supply of Cheezy-Poofs!

I place the final bite-size artificially-orange powdery morsel into my mouth and savor the Cheezy goodness.

And with that, I reach infinity. Transcendence is mine.

Before me appears a light unlike any light I have ever seen. It beckons me closer. I walk towards the heavenly glow and realize that it's the gateway to Nirvana. I pause long enough to take in the enormity of it all, then head through the existential portal.

It is only then that I realize that the infinite supply of Cheezy Poofs gave me an infinitely fat ass, which naturally gets itself wedged into the crappy little gateway.

I'm left at the edge of the universe, staring at Heaven and mooning everything else. There I wait, twiddling my tremendously pudgy thumbs and pondering what kind of idiot would make a gateway that small knowing that you have to eat a whole effing lot of food to get to it, until my alarm finally goes off and calls me back to reality.

Oh well. In retrospect, I guess it's better that I woke up when I did.

Memorable Moments

My son has come to my room a couple times in recent weeks complaining that he "couldn't sleep." Being the obvious problem-solver that I am, I pointed out the obvious - that somehow his TV and light managed to turn back after I last visited the room - and suggested that were I to remove the cables from the back of the TV (thereby making the Static Channel the only option) it might help induce a slumberous state.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, the true problem is not the problem that is brought up initially. And while I have been taking courses on Active Listening wherein I am learning how to better seek out the underlying concern behind outward behaviors, 10:30pm is not the time at which I would like to employ these measures.

Last night, my son approached me differently.

"Dad," he said.

"Yes?" I replied calmly (it was before bedtime - after bedtime the response is "WHAT?!?").

"When can I come and sleep in your room again?" he asked.

In my last apartment, my son shared a room with his sister. When she got older (and when the X x-ited), I moved him into my room, as it was of sufficient size to hold two beds and still have substantial floor space. Until we moved into the house, he had always shared a room with someone else. Getting his own room was bittersweet; he has his own room, but it's just him in there at night.

"You've got your own room now," I said. "You need to sleep in there."

"But you've let me sleep in here before," he countered.

I did? I thought to myself. When?

"I did?" I asked. "When?"

As you see, I am a complex individual.

"That one night when you let me sleep at your feet," he answered.

Oh, yeah, I thought (this time to myself).

Before you get the impression that I treat my kid like the family dog, it's important to specify three things. First, we don't have a dog. Second, the boy likes table scraps. And third, he was remembering the night when he woke me up close to midnight and I was too tired to shoo him back to his room, so I capitulated and told him to get his comforter and pillow he could sleep on top of my bed.

What struck me was how he spoke of that memory so fondly. It was a Big Deal to him that he got to sleep in my room. For him, that was a Special Event, so special that it warrants Capital Letters when writing about it.

It dawned on me then how much effort I expend trying to artificially inflate the importance of one set of things and in doing so overlook another set of much simpler things that wind up having more value in the long run. I try (and often fail) to do a few things that are spectacular, yet I would probably get greater results if I invested the same amount of energy to do more things that are simply good.

"I really liked that," he said.

Wow. Something that cost me neither time nor money (it didn't even cost me much sleep!) turned into a positive memory that he's been holding onto and will continue to do so.

"Well, until the morning when you farted in my face."

Dudey's Dooties

Ms N came back from a three-night business trip today, so naturally I was up early this morning cleaning all of the parts of the house I had failed to clean during the previous three nights.

The kids were at my babies' momma's apartment overnight, so I had no worries of having to break from any tasks to go wake my son up for the third time or anything like that. Today was "schlep your kids to work" day, so I did have to pick up my daughter on my way to the train (which we missed by 2 minutes anyways), but other than that the morning was mine.

I had my schedule planned out perfectly: Get up at 5:15, go feed the cats, pull the sheets off the bed, get the extra bedding stuff out of my son's room (he got new sheets on Sunday, the old ones were still in a pile on his floor), take all the aformentioned linens downstairs, put the sheets and pillowcases in the wash, scoop up the cat crap from the litter boxes, go back to the kitchen and get the dishes, take the trash outside (it did, after all, have a bag of cat crap in it), put the sheets in the dryer, straighten up the coffee table, clean up the rest of the stuff in my son's room, take a shower, fold the two loads of laundry that I did on Tuesday, put my portion away, put my son's portion in his room, put Ms N's portion in a nice stack, brush my teeth, gather my stuff for work, get the sheets out of the dryer, make the bed, and head out by 7:25.

You know, a typical morning.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work as I planned. I didn't have time to bring the sheets back up and make the bed, and I left at 7:32, hence the missed train.

Oh, and one more thing ...

Ms N came back home and Leo, the primary cat, was acting a bit strange. Dude, the emergency backup cat, didn't so much as come to the living room to see her. She mistook the attention Leo was paying to her as some sort of "I missed you" gesture. (Ridiculous, I know ... cats don't miss anybody unless they are not being fed. I doubt the cats even notice that we're gone.) When she got upstairs, however, Leo ran straight to my son's door and started meowing.

That's when it dawned on her ... Dude wasn't being lazy or indifferent; he didn't come to see her because he was stuck behind a closed door.

Apparently, while I was in straightening up the room, Dude wandered in. He just failed to wander out before I left.

I got home soon after Ms N and she told me about Dude's traumatic ordeal. He seemed to be recovering well. Then again, Dude always seems to be doing well. If you translate his meows, he says, "Dude".

As I walked into my son's room, I quickly realized that Dude had, ahem, done his dooty while trapped therein. You can't blame him - when nature calls you can't send it to voicemail. The problem is he's a cat, and cats have some sort of turd-topping instinct. When dogs mess on the floor, it's always easy to find (especially if you have bare feet); they let their chips lay where they fall. Cats, though, are modest.

It took a few minutes of searching, but I finally found them ... neatly tucked underneath my son's stuffed turtle. Now matter how hard I try, I can't stop picturing the cat pushing that turtle across the floor just to have something under which he could hide his dooties.

Comb 'em if you got 'em

Last night I had the most uplifting experience a middle-age guy like myself can get (and still talk about publicly, that is).

There comes a point in every boy's life where he looks at older men and realizes "Oh, crap. Someday I may become just as bald as they are!"

Like the platypus, androgenetic alopecia (or male-pattern baldness for those of you who didn't seek out that article on Wikipedia) is proof that God has quite the sense of humor.

The problem is you have no way of knowing if the joke's on you.

It's very unnerving, really. You can spend decades hiding that inner fear. One day life is all fine and dandy, and then you see an uncle you haven't seen in a few years and suddenly you're in front of the bathroom mirror tracing your hairline with your finger to see if it's moved since the last time you checked.

My father, himself part of God's punchline, describes the part in his hair as "very wide." Growing up with him was like watching a stadium roof retract very, very, very slowly. Before I was even out of high school my brother's hair was like Mary-Kate Olsen. (And I do not mean long and blonde - that's Mary-Kate's hair. I mean his hair was no longer thin, it was emaciated.) He finally gave up combing and took up shaving.

Needless to say, it was not the most comfortable environment in which to remain vain.

So last night I got a haircut. After trimming the sides and taking down the length, without so much as asking the stylist grabbed that other set of shears - you know, the ones that cut some hairs out while leaving others in place.

It seems there was a problem with the hair atop my head. And while past performance is no guarantee of future results, it was promising, nonetheless.

My hair was too thick.

Mr. E's medical tip of the day

Replace your Zoloft with Cialis.

Enraged? Become enraptured, instead. Stop giving the finger when you have much better things to give. Turn your F You's into F Me's. Cialis works up to 36 hours, so you don't have to plan, you don't have to rush, you don't have to worry about time. The next time a relaxing moment turns into the wrong moment, you can be ready. While Cialis does nothing to stop the anxiety, Great Smokies does it make it more enjoyable!

Cialis is not for everyone. Do not take Cialis if you are single and unattractive. Before replacing your Zoloft, consult your physician to determine if you are healthy enough to be angry. Anger lasting for more than four hours is the sign of a serious condition which requires immediate treatment, meaning you'd better hope to God that you didn't say anything stupid to your significant other during your fit of frustration, as she is the one who administers said treatment. Piss her off and she'll tell you to go treat yourself, you F-ing A-hole.

Above and beyond the call of Daddy

Were you to ask me years ago, as I was first venturing out into the world as a young adult, from whom I learned the importance of love, decency, and kindness, I would reply without hesitation that my mother was the predominant teacher of that lesson. Out of the two, it was my mother who was more empathetic. She was also more patient, more involved with my daily activities, easier to talk to ... I could go on, but suffice it to say that for someone as emotionally demanding as I was, she was the parent with whom I could most easily relate. More often than not, if I wanted to talk about something or show off something that I had done, I would go right to Mom.

It never occurred to me then that I was shortchanging my dad (and my mom and myself, for that matter) by favoring my mom as I did. Then again, it never would have occurred to me to ponder if I was shortchanging anyone. I was a kid -- it was supposed to be all about me!

I guess I had the psycho part down pat, just not the analyzing.

Things have changed since then. I've gotten older, wiser, fatter ... and kids.

The process of raising a child helps the parent grow, too. If you're smart and/or lucky, somewhere around the time you start turning into your parents, you will start to learn all sorts of things about them.

As I've watched my kids grow -- as they've had their various encounters with the world -- I've often thought back to when I had similar experiences. And the more I think back, the more I appreciate the role my dad played.

For all those times that I went to Mom first, I cannot think of a single time where Dad showed the slightest bit of disappointment. While I'm sure that at least some of the time he was glad I was pestering someone other than him, I know now that a large part of it had to do with the type of father he is. It was the epitome of selflessness: whether I gave him credit for making my life better was unimportant so long as my life was, indeed, better.

Nothing put this lesson into focus for me more than my grandfather's death. Grandpa Ace was the center of my world. He was big and strong and fun. He could put my brother and I each on a shoulder and carry us around. He was kind and giving. He whittled wood down to make hulls so we could build boats. He knew everything about everything and made the world's best milkshakes. I thought my dad must have been so lucky having grown up with Grandpa Ace around all the time.

I came to find out that Grandpa Ace had learned a few things himself over the years, and that he was a much different grandfather than father. I found out that my dad had gone to great lengths to make sure he did not become the father he had. There was enough tension between the two of them that nobody would have faulted my dad if he moved far away and kept my brother and me away from his folks.

Dad did the former, but most certainly not the latter. My brother and I spent most of our summers with my grandparents and it was great. They came up to Alaska to visit us several times, too. And Dad, despite (or perhaps because of) his own difficulties, was seemingly at his happiest when we talked about how great my grandfather was. Fortunately for all concerned, my dad has turned into a great grandfather, too. My kids now go to Alaska for their summers, and I think they, too, will remember these trips among the highlights of their early years.

Inasmuch as he was a fun-oriented guy, Dad did an amazing job of keeping his priorities in order. Naturally, I didn't get it, so sometimes I felt his priorities were inverted. He would work late, work early, and sleep a lot in between. He still does, come to think of it. Yet the amazing thing about Dad is how while it seemed like he was always busy, he also managed to eke out a heck of a lot of time for us.

And boy did he know how to use that free time! He could really let his hair down (which is only appropriate, being that his hair has since let him down).

One of my favorite things about my dad is how much of a kid he is. While Mom made sure we had good clothes, Dad made sure we had good toys. He made sure we had more than that -- plenty to eat, a roof over our heads, yadda, yadda, yadda -- but the toys were what really stuck out for a ten year-old me. Shopping with Dad could be a rewarding adventure.

Dad is also quite the joker. Mom made sure we understood knew reverence, Dad made sure we knew irreverence. Between the two of them, my brother and I developed a wonderful blend of propriety and cynicism. Granted, I'm sure Mom had somewhat of a talk with Dad the day I told a certain joke to the pastor at brunch one Sunday. Tact, it seems, takes longer to master.

As the years have gone by, I've realized some important things. Some of the greatest lessons in life are not learned right away. Some gifts are so great that you can't appreciate them fully when you first get them (sometimes you don't even realize you've gotten them at all). Sometimes the greatest acts are those that go unnoticed. And sometimes the guy you’ve always thought of as a big irreverent prankster is an exemplar of love, respect, and fatherhood at its heart.

Today is Dad's 60th birthday. Dad, thank you for your amazing patience, love, selflessness, and, of course, irreverence. Thank you for providing an example of what I should strive to be as a father and a man. Thank you for giving so much (and for those certain times when you did not give).

Thank you for everything, Dad.
Happy Birthday!

The blogger's conundrum

Over the past few weeks I learned two new things.

Catawampus is a real word.

The more time you spend doing things worth blogging about, the less time you have to actually blog about them.

I have several things in partial form, waiting for some final touches before they take the grand stage that is this web page, and several other ideas that I would like to get in, but my time has been so restricted lately that I have not been able to do any of it. I could finish these tidbits and post them as I get to them, but posting Thanksgiving stories dated January seems a bit odd.

Not that being odd has ever stopped me before ...

I could also backfill, but then none of you would know which postings you've seen and which you haven't, and I know how you all just can't stand to miss any of my postings.

Luckily, I have come up with a wonderful idea.

I am going to backfill the blog (pinning stories to their appropriate time), but link to the stories on this post here. This should stay up long enough for you all (both?) to see what's there, and your browser should tell you which links you've already followed so, using your amazing powers of deduction, you should be able to see what you have yet to read.

Go, me!

So here is what to expect in the coming days (... weeks, months, or however long it takes me to finish this stuff!):

Thanksgiving traff*ck

Gettin' Red-Nekkid

Los(t) Gigantes

Pain in the glass (1/5/07)

Not bad for one week

Packing outside the box

TV, or not TV?

I was racially profiled ... by Wal-Mart

Oh, sh*t (The plumbing story)

Home Sweet Home Depot

Viking Hooch (and other Christmas memories)

At least I'm good for something

Channeling my inner Bob Vila

Like rabbits, I tell you!

It could be worse ... it could be happening to me

New Year's Resolution: Blog Regularly

Cockroach goes best with a white wine

Enjoy!