I know exactly how 'K' feels. My favorite from the article? Sex Fruit. How could you possibly hate that name?

I really empathize with her though, because I too have a name that's embarrassing; which is why I go by shank in the blogosphere. My real name is actually Richard Cocking. There I said it in front of you all, my real name.

Religion, bringing the reason to the season since. . . 0.

I’m vindicated at last. I’ve written many posts about people microwaving popcorn at work. The stench of burning popcorn permeates the whole floor…in some instances several floors, like mustard gas. I never thought it was dangerous but it infuriated me to the point of wanting to physically beat someone down. Well, that foul stench has been declared lethal.

“… doctors there believe they have the first case of a consumer who developed lung disease from the fumes of microwaving popcorn several times a day for years.”

Any stench that foul is bound to be lethal.

Use of the word “party” as verb.

Have you ever had good friend call up and tell you they were getting a divorce or dumping their boy/girl friend and you went on a super long rant about how you never liked them anyway, and how happy you were that finally, you'd never have to see the offensive party again, and listed a lot of really good reasons why that person was a horrible piece of shit, and added in plenty of name calling and really insulting, derogatory shit only to have them call you a few weeks later and tell you they’re getting back together?

Doh!

Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five I subscribed to Gentleman’s Quarterly. This is more of a confession than a fact. I do not repent.

I concoct very elaborate stories about myself in strange situations. If I go to a party and don’t know too many people I usually make up a cover life and go into incredible detail. A lot of people out there think they’ve met an Earl or a Duke. Others think they’ve had dinner with the foremost authority on Algonquin languages, Burmese antiquities, medieval soil analysis or the descendent of a wide range of famous Wild West types. In the past I’ve had business cards made up with various impressive credentials. My theory is that if you’re never going to see a person again, why not make up incredible characters and lives for them. Once in line at the grocery store I told the cashier that I was about to go and cheat on my wife. It was a very intense moment for the woman. Next time someone asks you what you do just give it a try. Do you think someone’s going to question you on your made up job as a falcon trainer?

I am non-confrontational and I have a hard time saying no. When I was younger I dated some girls simply because I didn’t have the heart to say no to them. It took a long time to make progress and in the end I never totally changed. Instead of saying no I would just never answer the phone or totally avoid the situation. Then they would go completely crazy and accuse me of using them or stringing them along. These berserker scenes almost always occurred in public.

I don’t usually hold a grudge because I’m forgiving by nature, but on the occasions that I do, it is cast in stone.

If I become interested a subject I will spend years becoming an expert on it. No matter the cost or research time involved.

I hate skiing. Hate it. The feel of those boots on my feet enrage me.

I’m not much of a cook. That’s an understatement, actually. There is almost nothing that I can successfully cook. I dry out eggs from fear of sammy. I burn almost anything that needs to be fried or sautéed. Things tend to be charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle. A few months ago I bought a digital meat thermometer; I thought that would really help but it hasn’t. I’d poke it onto something and all the juice would come out and the thing would read “rare” or I would get no reading at all. Then a few minutes later I’d do it again and it would say “well” and be completely dried out.

I never fared any better on the grill. I’d watch some cooking shows and I learned a little bit, things like cold meat sticks to a hot grill, but for the most part, I’ve ruined a lot of good meat. What makes this all worse is the fact that I’m somewhat of a gourmand. I know a lot about food. The fact that I know what I want and what I like and can’t cook it is starting to wear thin on me. Not that I’m going to start making complex reductions from veal bones or anything, but I should be able to grill a steak without destroying the damned thing.

Last month we decided to get a new grill and I finally fired it up this week. We got a couple of NY Strips and some potatoes and gave it a go. The first thing I notices was if you light this grill and close the lid the thing goes up to 600 degrees really, really fast. My old grill never really got hot enough. So I brushed a little olive oil on them so they wouldn’t stick, some salt and pepper and threw them on. I closed the lid and watched the temperature gauge go back to 600 degrees. When I opened the lid a few minutes later they looked like they were ready to be turned. I flipped them and gave it a few more minutes at 600.

They were perfect. Turns out it wasn’t me after all. You just need to get that bastard up to 600 degrees and keep the lid closed.

Adult suburbia is a lot like high school.

I pick my kid up from dancing lessons and other events. I’m forced to attend the odd birthday parties as well, and I’m here to tell you that high school behavior is alive and well, long after your Camaro’s been sold for scrap.

When I pick my kid up from dancing I am always the only man there. The gaggle of mothers all look up when I walk in and then go back to talking amongst themselves. None of them will look me in the eye. I always nod and smile because I’m polite. They all look away. After a few minutes a couple of them will start staring at me when they think I’m not looking. And I mean stare. Like I have two heads.

Most of them pretend I’m not there at all. Like I give a shit. Every once in a while I’ll look up quickly and catch one of them staring at me and they panic and look away. This goes on week after week. Are they threatened by me? Are they wondering why their own worthless husbands can’t contribute a little more? I’ll probably never know. They have a definite pecking order as well. In fact a couple of the women are ignored as well.

Anyway, a friend of the family started taking her kid to the same dance school and now I have someone to talk to when I show up, much to the dismay of the other mothers. They are clearly pissed off by my talking to this woman. What they really need to do is relax and develop some damned social graces.

The only difference between this situation and high school is the frump factor. And a cloud of dope smoke. Most of these broads look like they’ve had the life beaten out of them. A few keep in shape but most are pretty far gone, and they’re younger than I am. Maybe that’s where the hostility comes from.

The same thing happens when I’m forced to go to a birthday party. I walk in and either all conversation stops or they pretend I’m not there. Like they’re punishing me. Do these broads think I like going to these things? Do they think I want to share they’re company? Maybe get a play date going or something? Because I’m here to tell you broads something. I don’t like you. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you in those horrifying clothes you wear. The sweat pants and the saggy-baggy old crap that’s hanging off of you. You all need to get your fucking hair done, learn to put on some makeup that wasn’t purchased in a Northern New Jersey drugstore and learn to sit up straight.

These women look at me like I have two heads and they’re the ones that look like they slept on the floor in their clothes all night. They’re the ones that better not get a divorce because it’s going to be CAT CITY for them.

My life is cluttered with useless people and mindless chores.

Yesterday someone was hovering in my office doorway while I was working on something complex. I couldn’t lose my place and I was trying to finish something before looking up.

“Am I bothering you?” they asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

It had the desired effect. I glanced up and saw that the person had no idea how to reply to that. Didn’t know whether to flee or not. And they cut right to the chase and it was fairly painless for me. People usually stand there and try to talk about some TV show or something before they get around to asking me the question they came in for. I guess it’s an attempt at bonding.

I don’t fraternize at work. I have a professional life and a private life and never shall they meet. I’m very polite, but I don’t share, bond, relate or participate in small talk. I smile a lot. I’m courteous. I’m professional most of the time unless someone invokes my anger with stupidity above and beyond the standard that I have come to expect.

I can’t personally take credit for the “Not yet” line. I saw it or read it somewhere, but I’ve been dying to put it to use.

In other news, Bill has already vanished, having exhausted his repertoire of items that have been inserted up his ass.

I’ve been watching The Tudors, a new series on Showtime about Henry the 8th and Ann Boleyn. Very entertaining. I had no idea how popular doggy style sex was amongst the royal court was back then.

I’m also taken with the show Cash in the Atticon BBC America. That’s where an antiques expert goes to someone’s house and rummages through all their shit to find stuff to sell at auction. Then just before the auction the idiots set reserves twice as high as the value of the item and nothing sells. It’s amazing though, the amount of Victorian and Edwardian furniture people have lying around in England. All made of walnut, mahogany and oak. And the stuff sells for less than I paid for a coffee table in a middle range furniture store. My wife now wants to visit England just for the auctions.

I’ve never been to an auction but I really need to go just for the material. People touching their noses and shit to bid versus the people holding up giant placards with their number on it. People hiding in the back and then jumping out at the end for a bid just before the hammer strikes. I’m fascinated by that stuff.

Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?

Well, here we are again - Ash Wednesday, the only Holy Day in the Calendar year when you can smoke in church. And two days before Christ is beaten up by the Italians, spit on by the Hebes and then crucified by his own father. His father then forsakens him as well, adding insult to injury.

But it is also a happy time. A time for spiral hams, peeps, dyed hard-boiled eggs, patent leather shoes, frilly bonnets, jelly beans, pastels and polyester, bunnys, and of course, your annual visit to church. Ah, happy times indeed. Except the church part that is. But once you're done with all that blathering voodoo, what better than a few cocktails and a nice brunch. And to start off that brunch, or as a light snack while you get drunk, try a little Cheeses Christ. Enjoy!

Cheeses Christ

1 pkg. Cream Cheese
½ c. Sour Cream
½ c. Ricotta Cheese
1 pkg. Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix
1 Tbs. Chives
¼ c. Pimentos Chopped

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Form into the shape of a cross. Serve with a light Eucharist, unleavened bread or Ritz crackers.

Alternatives

Cheeses, Mary and Joseph

If you’re feeling creative and have some artistic ability, double the recipe and, using your favorite picture of Joseph and the Virgin Mary, sculpt the cheese mixture into a likeness of the two. Closely place individual kernels of corn around their heads to form halos!

Update: By the way, Snooze Button Dreams doesn't have a monopoly on the "cheeses" thing. I was doing that shit years ago. Yes, I just stole from myself but that's not the point. The point is, SBD is stealing from me...from 2002. You think you assholes are so fucking clever. I guess you are - stealing five year old shit from the master. Nice!

And you're welcome.

Some moron actually spent a (relatively) considerable amount of time and effort developing paint that blocks wireless signals.

That's a wonderful idea if you live in a windowless building; ya dipshit. Do I need to paint the ceiling too? I'd bet a finski that it comes in a range of vibrant colors with oddly similar sounding names: deep charcoal, moonless midnight, and Wesley Snipes.

It also seems to have slipped by this forward-thinking product development department that houses have interior walls. So there you are painting your entire house one color, fervently preventing the hordes of hackers at your virtual gates (because your home network is, apparently, the best in the universe); and you can't even get signal in your own living room because the three rooms between your dumb ass and the antenna are covered in Information Age prophylactic. You dickass!

Still, this is probably the best alternative you have. Honestly. I mean, until someone comes up with a way for you to protect your network with a key...or maybe a password...if only there was a way!

Here’s a piece on ten of the best April Fool's Day hoaxes.

In 1996, American fast-food chain Taco Bell announced that it had bought Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, a historic symbol of American independence, from the federal government and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell.

How do you think that went over? Aside from the astounding fact that many, many people believed it, you have to wonder who signed off on that one. Some say there’s no bad publicity, but I envision pickup trucks and molotov cocktails converging on Taco Bell. You can never reckon what you’ll get from the “we’ll teach them a lesson” crowd in suburban America.

In 1998, a newsletter titled New Mexicans for Science and Reason carried an article that the state of Alabama had voted to change the value of pi from 3.14159 to the "Biblical value" of 3.0.

I’m pretty sure that most evangelist types are wholly ignorant of pi, but at the mere mention of the bible I bet a bunch of them jumped on the bandwagon out of faith. Regardless, when I was in school they didn’t even use the decimal form. When I was a kid pi was 22/7. It’s been brought to my attention that some people (virgin, male comic book readers) can recite upwards of three or four thousand decimals of pi from memory. My initial reaction is to set up a BB gun firing squad for these folks.

And here’s my favorite:

Noted British astronomer Patrick Moore announced on the radio in 1976 that at 9:47 am, a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, in which Pluto would pass behind Jupiter, would cause a gravitational alignment that would reduce the Earth's gravity. Moore told listeners that if they jumped in the air at the exact moment of the planetary alignment, they would experience a floating sensation. Hundreds of people called in to report feeling the sensation.

I simply cannot fathom the idiocy most people. These are the same people that feel better when they wave a magnet over an injury. The same people who send cash to Nigeria. The people that scald their balls with drive-through coffee.

It’s a large pool to draw from. New age hippy types, frequent customers of palm readers, people who look directly into the hose when there’s a kink in it, “Jackass” impersonators, Bermuda triangle aficionados, the “black helicopter” crowd, unemployed poets, urban myth spreaders (excluding the dog & peanut butter story), ad nausium.

On an unrelated note, the only thing that’s ever been up my ass are a doctor’s fingers. I don’t want anything in my ass. If Angelina Jolie was begging me to stick her finger in my ass during sex I would decline adamantly. It’s a personal choice—do whatever you want, just stay away from my ass. Aside from not relishing the feeling of any type of probe, no matter how many times she washed her finger I’d be consumed with watching that finger all night long and keeping it away from me. Who knows, it could put me off for weeks.

And while we’re at it, leave my balls alone too. They’re fragile.

I had been shanghaied into attending an afternoon “party” at my mother-in-law’s condo, which is populated by exclusively by people older than Moses. My wife laid down the law, that we were stuck there for at least two hours before I could “come down with the flux” or pretend to have a fever, thus extricating myself from the affair. It was rough.

As soon as I walked into the clubhouse I became depressed. Gaudy furniture, wood paneling and the smell of death. As we made our way to an empty table I looked around and took in the scene. These people were fucking old. You know what I mean. Full grown adult women shrunk down to the size of leprechauns, every third person had a walker and scattered about were a few with portable oxygen tanks.

A buffet was being set up that contained “pot luck” dishes made by the attendees. Let me first say that I don’t eat things other people have prepared behind closed doors. I will eat dinner at friend’s houses because I have known most of my friends for twenty years or more. I know their food preparation habits. I lived with some of these people and they’re clean and smart. However, under no circumstances will I eat pot luck food at work or anywhere else. Especially not shit that’s been prepared by these old bags. They looked like they could have voted for Lincoln. I couldn’t even identify some of the shit they cooked and I was sure it contained rubber gloves and morphine patches and cotton balls and who-knows-what-else.

I did drink a glass of “wine” which came from a bottle with a screw on cap; only because it was the only thing I could find to anesthetize myself from the whole affair. And if that wasn’t enough some old bastard was setting up a PA system and trying to fix the reed on a tenor saxophone. I am not making this shit up. Meanwhile I was being introduced to people as fast as they could shuffle by, which wasn’t very. It was 2:00PM and they announced that the food would be served at 3:00. That meant I had to sit there for an hour with the pre-dead. Just then the guy with the saxophone cranked up his karaoke machine and started singing along with it as if that was a fucking acceptable thing to do. And it was bad. Very bad, and very old. I felt a part of me die as belted out “Quando, Quando, Quando.” He couldn’t get with the beat, probably because he was listening to the Angel Gabriel calling him home.

I started to feel light-headed. I had another glass of “wine.” And every once in a while the old guy singing would start blowing into his saxophone and it would cut through my head like a hot knife through butter. And then the food was served.

I was determined not to get up any reason but then my mother-in-law asked me to get her a plate of food. The worst part was I knew that I could not possibly fulfill this request to her exacting specifications. So I got up and walked over and stood in the line. It was peaceful enough for a minute or two but soon the old folks realized they had forgot to push and shove and when they realized their mistake they made up for lost time with gusto. I kept getting jabbed by some guy’s walked, the leprechaun women were moving in under my arms and the whole thing was just too much to weather. Since they couldn’t see they were dropping food all over the floor and meanwhile the old bastard was blowing into his saxophone and I freaked out and went back to the table and pleaded to my wife to please, for the love of God, help me before I became wholly undone.

By the time I got home I went right to the bottle which is where I find myself still, some hours later. Forsaken.

Had buffalo meatloaf for dinner tonight and it was pretty damned good.

On an unrelated note, the next time someone at work uses the phrase, “Think outside the box,” I’m going to punch them in the windpipe and no one will be able to stop me. People think they’re so cutting edge with that, when in reality, it’s like fifteen years old.

When I hear that phrase I almost can’t control myself. I will become violent.

And then there are words that should be altogether dropped from the vernacular. Words and phrases that are passe, lame, or just sound dumb; and only make the speaker seem clueless.

'jumped the shark' - A phrase that has completed a self-fulfilling cycle so fast that the mind reels. I shouldn't even have written it here without censoring it, it's so dumb. From here on out, let's just consider it profanity. We promise not to use it in polite company, and when we have to use it (for reference only, as we do here); asterisks will be used as such: 'j*mp*d the sh*rk'.
'gobsmacking, -ly' - I don't know who came up with this, but I can't possibly imagine what kind of beatdown they recieved from the first person they spoke it to. Seriously, I keep a rusty crowbar in my trunk should someone utter this word. Consider yourselves warned.
'quiche' - Okay firstly, this word looks nothing like it sounds; which is actually a compliment because it sounds like the noise of a frog bursting, were someone to gradually squeeze it in a vise: 'Keesh!' Secondly, quiche is gross.
'stool' - This seems like an odd word to find here, no? Well, I'm only referring to a particular use here. When people refer to crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top as 'stool'; it's irksome. With all the other great variants for crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top; why use the word stool? I'll tell you why, because they want to use a word without any vulgarity attached to it. Look people! It's shit, shit's vulgar!
'panties' - Now, this might just be a me thing here, but this word sounds awkward out loud. Say it: panties. It just, I don't know. When I hear myself say it, it sounds like something a pussy might say. "Oh, my panties!"

I’ve done very little sailing in my day, but I’m a huge fan of nautical terminology. I’ve decided to start using some nautical terms at every opportunity.

Some of my favorites:

Yaw
Scuppers
Gunwale
Belay
Abeam
Thwartships

And of course, my favorite: Coxswain.

I encourage everyone to throw the word coxswain into as many conversations as possible, especially in the workplace. I believe the correct pronunciation is “Cox’n” but the phonetic pronunciation works well too.

It was a fair enough question.

“You are, without a doubt, the most critical person I have ever met,” my wife continued.

“You criticize everything and everyone.”

“It’s not always negative,” I replied. “I simply call them as I see them.”

We were watching American Idol and when one of the cheeseballs started singing I said that he sucked.

“How could you judge him so fast? He just opened his mouth…it couldn’t have been more than one or two seconds!”

“I set the bar very high—for other people.”

It may have been the best line I’d ever used.

People who put two spaces after a period.

That’s from the caveman days, people. In the days of typeset printing and typewriters you needed two spaces because the fonts were non-proportional. Nowadays, most fonts are indeed proportional (except maybe Courier). That extra space is useless.

Please stop now.

Paranoia Strikes Deep

Last week I decided to clean our home office. No business gets done in here, but it’s where we pay the bills, the computers in here and it’s got a big desk and filing cabinets. Over the past year I noticed a giant pile of papers was stacking up in a corner. Since it was my wife’s doing I left it alone for a long, long time. And last week, in an effort to clean up and find our tax receipts I took a look at the papers. They were credit card statements, water bills, electric bill, et cetera. They all had a date written on them of when they had been paid. It seems my wife is good at paying bills on time, but not so good at filing the records.

I flipped through and saw they went all the way back to 2005. Then I looked in the filing cabinets and saw why they weren’t filed. Every folder was completely jam packed. And you can’t just throw that shit away because of account numbers, social security numbers, et. al.

Since our shredder is so old I thought I’d upgrade to a level 3 shredder because I’m a paranoid and I always assume the worst. So I empty out all the files, make new folders and whatnot and by the time I’m done I have a stack of papers waist high that all need shredding. The new shredder supposedly takes ten sheets at a time so I load in five and it almost grinds to a fucking halt. Come to find when they say ten sheets at a time they’re reffering to tissue paper. So I start loading these things in and the machine starts cagging and shutting itself down after every fifteen sheets or so and you have to wait thirty minutes for it to cool down. So while I’m waiting for it to cool down I start looking in the closet and I find these boxes and when I open them up I see that they are all documents that need to be shredded. Six boxes in all. I was almost in tears by then, because the whole process is so painfully slow and once I start something there’s no stopping me.

After a brief analysis I realized that we had every bank statement, investment portfolio statement and retire fund statement since 1992. They were fairly thick and every page had a social on it. In addition we had saved every single credit card statement, water bill, electric bill, insurance, mortgage, cable, cars—you name it—going back for fifteen years or so. Every single pay stub I ever got as an adult, plus two because the wife saved hers as well. Fifteen years, times two statements per month is over 700 pay stubs to shred. Not including all the credit card convenience checks that we would never use and those things come in the mail every day.

I had the shredder cranked up like a lawn mower. In fact, I got the old one out was using two at a time. It sounded like I was mulching fucking trees up here. And every time I emptied the bin on the shredder I was engulfed in a huge cloud of paper dust. Soon the dust was everywhere. I had to change the all the filters in the house once a day. I was sneezing and coughing paper dust. Meanwhile the shredders kept running and I kept pouring oil in and when they overheated I would use the time to lug big plastic bags of the confetti down to the garage and line them up against the wall.
Yesterday I shredded the last document. And in today’s mail I received a bunch of credit card checks that I’ll never use. Now I’ve got the shredder set up right there in the kitchen. 90% of the mail will go directly in the damned thing. I never, ever want to go through this again. It was a shitty, shitty ordeal.

There’s a phenomena in my neighborhood that I just don’t understand. I see it every day driving in and out. People open their garage doors, set a lawn chair just inside the open door, and stare into the street. Are they on patrol? Whatever, I wish they would go inside and seal themselves in like I do. I don’t like a lot of activity near my abode. Perhaps the cold weather will drive them in where they belong.

I get run off the road at least three times a week. When I finally chase the culprits down, without exception, they are all talking on a cell phone.

On a similar but different note, I’m finding it more difficult every day to merge onto the freeway. It seems that people would just as soon run you into the concrete wall or off an embankment rather than let you just get on the road. I’ve noticed that people speed up to 75 or 85 MPH just to make sure you don’t get on in front of them. Because I don’t relish dying in a burning car wreck, I am forced to speed up and get in anyway, only to find that they then back off to their usual 50 MPH after you’ve safely managed to merge. They must be horribly disappointed.

I recently started watching Dog, The Bounty Hunter. I’m absolutely fascinated by it. I’ve always been interested in freak shows and it qualifies. There is so much wrong with this on so many levels.

Grilled cheese sandwiches rock.

My kid got walkie-talkies for Christmas and they have been commandeered by me and my wife. If one of us is upstairs and one is downstairs we usually have to scream to be heard. Even if she’s in the bedroom downstairs and I’m in the living room it used to be a screaming match. Now it’s a thing of beauty.

“Momma Bear, you got your ears on?”

Exasperated: “What now?”

“What’s the status of those cookies I’m waiting for?”

“Shut up, I’m bringing the damned things now.”

I had to go to the mall today to get my kid some new sneakers. So I’m standing there in the sneaker store waiting to be helped when the screaming started.

I looked over and saw a guy, looked to be about forty years old, raising his voice to a young woman who worked there. I didn’t think much of it at first, but got louder and louder and I walked over to see exactly what was going on. I have a nose for this kind of thing…I generally know when violence is about to occur. And I could tell by the sound of this guy’s voice that he was pretty close.

I walked up and saw that the guy was pointing his finger in the woman’s face and screaming, in an absolute rage, about the return policy. I looked around and saw two other employees, both high school age, and both looked terrified. I looked back to the guy, who was screaming even louder at this point, and I didn’t see any bulges, but he still could have had a gun. By now the woman was really scared. I have some experience in these things and I knew this guy was not in control of himself. It was a blind rage.

I have rules about getting involved in other people’s business. I generally don’t. This had nothing to do with me. If I got involved and things got physical there could be problems—like a lawsuit. But the overriding factor for me was the fact that this asshole was threatening a woman and she was scared shitless. I simply can’t tolerate that.

The woman walked behind the sales counter to put some distance between her and the nutcase and when the guy started following her around the counter and I knew what was coming next. I closed the gap instantly so I was right behind him. The woman looked at me pleadingly and I mimicked holding a telephone and mouthed, “Security.”

She went for the phone and the guy went for her. I was literally twelve inched behind him and he had no idea.

“That’s far enough, Chief.”

He turned and found me standing on his heels and went pale. He was off balance and I had several choices, although the most appealing was swinging my elbow across his jaw so it would have to be wired for six weeks or so. I had a second to decide to strike or not. I used restraint.

“The lady asked you to leave.”

He just stared at me.

“One way or another, you’re going out the door. Choose now.”

He left without saying a word. I realized at that point that there was zero tension in my body. I was completely relaxed, which isn’t always the case in an adrenaline type situation. From experience I can tell you that in a relaxed state during a physical altercation you can do some amazing things. That guy will probably never know how close he came to the worst day of his life.

I really don’t like violence. In fact I abhor violence, but if my kid wasn’t there he’d still be in the emergency room.

I haven’t been in a situation like that in many years. I was taught that if all someone understands is violence, then give them violence. And beat them so severely that they never bother another peaceful living soul again.

And I thought about that, because just like on TV I flashed back to my teacher explaining that philosophy to me. It was twenty years ago, but in an instant I there again. The scene was so vivid I could smell the cup of tea he was always sipping from. And in another instant I was back standing there in the store with the asshole standing in front of me. It was like time travel.

The rest of the day was uneventful.

The Monty Hall Problem

This problem originated when it was sent in to Parade Magazine and was published in the column of Marilyn vos Savant on September 9, 1990.

Savant was touted as the person with the highest I.Q. in Guinness Book of World Records, and while the actual value of her I.Q. is in dispute (as are all I.Q. values), I think we can stipulate that this broad’s pretty goddamned smart.

The question is based on the old game show, Let’s Make A Deal, whose host was named Monty Hall. It goes like this:

Suppose you're on a game show, and you're given the choice of three doors: Behind one door is a car; behind the others, goats. You pick a door, say No. 1, and the host, who knows what's behind the doors, opens another door, say No. 3, which has a goat. He then says to you, "Do you want to pick door No. 2?" Is it to your advantage to switch your choice?

So basically, you’re given a choice between three doors. Two goats and one car. The host opens a door you did not pick and shows you a goat. There are two doors left, the one you picked and the one you didn’t. One has a goat behind it, the other has a car. The host then asks if you want to change your pick. What do you think?

It’s a 50%-50% chance right?

Actually, it’s not. If you change your pick you actually improve your odds of winning from ½ to 2/3.

Savant got a shitload of letters from professors all over the place claiming she was an idiot. Of course, in the end, she was right.

You cannot ignore the past here like you can with a coin flip. You originally had a 1/3 chance of winning, but by switching your choice you improve to 2/3 chance to win.

The contestant should choose to switch to the remaining door. The chance of winning the car is doubled when the player switches to another door rather than sticking with the original choice. The reason for this is that to win the car by sticking with the original choice, the player must choose the door with the car first, and the probability of initially choosing the car is one in three. Whereas, to win the car by switching, the player must originally choose a door with a goat first, and the probability of choosing a goat door first is two in three.

If you’re still confused, and it took a while for it to sink in for me, the solutions and aids to understanding can be found here.

I was nine, maybe ten years old at the time. A family member living in SE Asia was moving to another location and was forced to part with their dog. We got a long letter about the dog and finally the thing was shipped around the world in a small cage and my parents picked it up at Kennedy airport while I was at school one day.

My excitement level was high. I really wanted a dog and now I was finally getting one. When I got home from school there was no evidence of a dog. I ran through the house looking everywhere and there was simply no sign of the thing. My father was out back watering the lawn. I noticed a bandage on his hand.

“Where’s the dog?”

“Somewhere in the house,” he said.

“Look,” he continued,” I need to tell you how it is. This animal was trapped in a cage for a long time as it flew around the world. It’s afraid. Who knows what the hell happened to it on those planes, but you need to stay away from him for a while. He’s on edge. Just leave him alone for a few days.”

“Okay. I understand. What happened to your hand?”

“Sammy bit me.” Sammy was the dog’s name.

I went back in the house to look for the dog. I at least had to look at the thing. I didn’t even know what kind of dog it was. A room to room search produced no results and soon I was reduced to looking closets and whatnot. Finally, I found the dog lying far underneath a sofa hiding. I still couldn’t see what the hell it looked like. It seemed to be a large, hairy ball. I stuck my head under there as close as I could. He started growling. I spoke to him in a soothing voice and reached my hand in. I was sure that if I could just pet him he would understand that he had a friend. Just as my hand reached him he lunged for it. It was like a fucking crocodile. I snatched my hand away just in time—I mean it was close. I backed off.

I was disillusioned. My new friend turned out to be a goddamned vicious beast. A goddamned ocelot. I still didn’t even know what I was looking at. It was just a big hairy monster.

I left the thing alone for a few days. I didn’t even see it around the house. It was about a week later when I came home from school and saw it in the yard that realized it might be a normal dog after all. I opened the gate and it didn’t run away so I picked up a stick and threw it and Sammy brought it back. He let me pet him. He seemed to pretty happy. And that night he jumped up on my bed and slept with me.

Sammy and I became inseparable. He would wait by the fence every day for me to get home from school. When he saw me coming he would go berserk. Sammy turned out to be a great dog. I kept trying to find out what kind of a dog it was but I didn’t have much luck. None of my friends had ever seen anything like it either. Sammy didn’t mind my friends as long as they didn’t get too close. Any threatening gesture and Sammy would lunge at them. He was very protective. In fact, if my parents so much as raised their voice to me Sammy started growling at them. And that big bastard could be scary.

One afternoon I came home from school and Sammy wasn’t there. I was worried and ran into the house looking for my old man.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“Your mother took him to the vet or something. They’ll be back.”

I was lying on my bed when I heard the car door slam. I heard Sammy running down the hall towards my room and I opened the door and got the shock of my life. Sammy had been shaved down. All the fur was gone and he was about half the size he was before. And worse than that—he was a poodle. He had been shaped into one of those French poodles that you see on TV. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. He was going crazy, excited to see me and everything and I reached down and started to pet him but it was all too much. All too much.

I got over the fact that Sammy was a poodle. It came down to the fact that he was the same dog as before, but with a fucked up haircut. But when people asked me what kind of dog I had I never really answered. I just mumbled something. And when I was out walking the dog I felt like ass. But in the end Sammy was my friend. I guess it was no fault of his. Last night I had a dream that Sammy was still alive. And I woke up and felt a weight against me in bed I reached down to pet him, but it was my wife lying against me, not Sammy. It was a cruel way to wake up. But now the story is told and I feel somewhat better about the whole thing. Poodle or not, he was a goddamned vicious beast.

I was watching the football game.

"Daddy, what are tampons?"

"I have no idea, sweetie. Ask your Mom when she gets home."

It appears as if collecting African babies is all the rage in Hollywood.

Famous people with too much money have been doing wacky shit from the outset and no one seems to have learned any lessons yet. Most of you are probably too young to remember the Beatles and the Maharishi. The Maharishi was the leader of a money grubbing cult of sorts. His schtick was transcendental meditation. It was all the rage with the hip crowd.

The Beatles, along with a group of Hollywood idiots were lured to India to study transcendental meditation from the great master, after of course, coming up with certified checks. It lasted about a week before they got bored and the Maharishi was caught trying to fondle Mia Farrow. Some people never see it coming.

Since then many an Hollywood idiot has jumped aboard any bandwagon that was in range of them. One of the latest rages has been the kabbalah. If you don’t know what that is you’re not alone. Neither do half the people learning it. Some tout it as Jewish mysticism, some as fortune telling and others as an ancient secret to life. Aleister Crowley based his whole black magic thing around it. Regardless, Hollywood is now filled with teachers of whatever it is and the rich and famous are running their lives around it. At least until they get bored, which is already happening. Then it will be on to something else. Like collecting African children.

Famous idiots with too much money are now flying to Africa and picking what they like from a flesh and blood line up of children. I don’t want to suggest that’s like a slave auction or anything, but it’s like a fucking slave auction. If one more Hollywood idiot does this I predict it will become a national craze. And I predict that right now Paris Hilton is thinking about it. After all, it would be so cute, just like the tiny little dog she carries around in her purse. Until these people start getting bored, like they did with meditation, kabbalah, etcetera. Then these kids will be regulated to the guest house and the nanny until their old enough to start robbing liquor stores.

Meanwhile, this thing is still on the upswing. African baby acquisition has at least another year before the charm wears off. Pretty soon when you lease a new car it will come with satellite radio and a one year old African kid (with approved credit).

Last week I sat on a plane for five hours contemplating suicide. The only food available was tiny bags of pretzels. There was a baby in front of me crying non-stop. The armrest fight with my neighbor, a phlegmy cougher, was goddamned brutal. Delays kept us sitting on the tarmac for an hour before takeoff and when we arrived there was no gate for us so we sat there like idiots for another thirty minutes. I got to thinking how this could be improved upon and I think some of these ideas have potential:

The first thing they need to do is rip out some of the seats and install a craps table. Maybe a couple of black jack tables as well. Nothing takes the sting out of boredom like casino gambling.

A roast beef carving station.

A bar. Sitting there waiting for a drink while they stop at every seat on the way to pass out tiny cups of soda is more than inconvenient. It’s torture. How about a bar where I can walk up and order a cocktail or knock back a couple of boilermakers?

An adults only section.

All of the above are not only good solutions to the problems that travelers face on a daily basis, but they’re also alternate revenue streams. How hard could it be to make this happen?

So there's much ado about what someone's beer says about them. Don't believe me? Just look at the advertising dollars thrown at creating a brand image for any beer bottle out there. Well, regardless of what millions of dollars in advertising will tell you; there's only one thing a beer says about you. Thank God for me, because not only do I know the truth about beer, but I'm going to share it with you. Free of charge. Well, not exactly free; you'll have to hit the tip jar.*

1. PBR - As much crap as PBR gets, if it's good enough for guys who ride bulls for a living; goddamnit it's good enough for you. I don't know anyone who doesn't respect a person who drinks PBR, and it's been my experience that nothing gets you laid better and quicker than being seen with a PBR in your hand and a smile on your face.

2. Bud Light - "This mixer is ten times better than it was last semester. The pledges suck worse though. Fags. Oh, has anyone seen my pink polo shirt? The Chi-Psi girls are coming over soon and I look best in a popped collar." Seriously people. Don't drink Bud Light outside your homes. I was in a bar in Dublin once, and I saw a guy get his ass handed to him for ordering one. And they didn't even serve it there.

3. Milwaukee's Best - "I never drink less than 18 beers at a time. Hey, does your mom have an older sister?"

4. Blue Moon - "Oh my God, I got the greatest deal on a pair of boots at Structure today. You wouldn't believe it. And the salesboy? To die for!"

5. Miller High Life - High Life is the patron beer of the homeless. It's the dollar draft in more bars than any other, which makes it the obvious choice to quench the thirst that can only come from spending an entire day begging for change. And I'm not being cynical either. There are guys that spend their entire day begging for change right outside our bar, and without fail they show up at sundown with pocketfuls of freshly begged George Washingtons.

6. New Castle - "Dude, that last Widespread show was soooo dank." New Castle has become the beer for indiscriminant drinkers everywhere who want people to think they're discriminant. It's a shame, because New Castle reall is a good beer. But half the time I see someone drinking it, they simply order it by default; making the practice no more different than ordering any other mainstream American ale.

7. Heiniken - "I enjoy the taste of ice cold, imported piss. Won't you let me buy you a drink?"

8. Fruit Flavored Beers - Apricot Ales, blueberry, cherry, and raspberry rails; even the cherished pumpkin brew. These beers are strictly for females. Hot females, but females nonetheless. Be familiar with them, but it's not something you want to bring to the next poker game.

9. Here you'll find a list of beers that are in no specific order. They're good beers (in my highly prejudiced, oft scrutinized opinion) for a varying number of resons, which means if you're drinking them you're probably going to have to open your yapper before I publicly declare you an insufferable boor. Killian's Irish Red, Stella Artois, Anchor Steam, Yeungling, Pacifico, and depending on what you've had for dinner; Guiness or Harp.

I recently revived what was a pretty good practical joke on my wife.

I taught the kid to say a couple a phrases:

“My mommy’s still on the sauce.”

“My mommy drinks too much gin.”

I had the kid primed to spit these phrases out at the grocery store, play dates and such and trust me, it was effective. Right up until the retaliation came.

I was picking the kid up from practice and I was the only guy there and this whole sewing circle of mommies had me cornered and I was being a real swell guy until the kid walked up and shouted, “My Daddy’s medicine is called whiskey!”

I was appalled, but it could have been worse. My wife’s fairly devious and it could have been something like, “My daddy’s got the crabs again!”

I don’t know whether to escalate this or surrender.

No matter how bad my mood is, I always say, “Good morning” to people. And when that greeting is not returned my natural instinct is throw my elbow into the side of the offenders jaw. How big of an ass do you have to be not to give or return a simple goddamned salutation? I realize that I can’t go around thrashing people for not saying good morning, but sometimes I have a hard time controlling mouth.

Like this morning when I said “Good morning” to someone and when there was a long pause I added “asshole.” It wasn’t a whisper, I barked it out. The look on the guy’s face was disbelief.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said ‘good morning,’ and when you ignored my salutation, I added ‘asshole.’ Because when someone looks at you and smiles and says ‘good morning’ and you just stare back for a moment and then look away, that’s what you are. An asshole.”

He just stared at me. I could see he was wrestling with himself internally. I don’t know if I would classify it as fight or flight, but he’d been insulted and he was torn about how to respond. Then I smiled, relieving him of his obligation to try and be the alpha male.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “It’s been a bad morning…I really apologize.”

“I understand,” I said.

I thought about hammering the point home but decided to leave it alone and continue on my way. I can’t wait for tomorrow morning. There are some things I simply cannot abide.

I hate people when they're not polite.
...Psycho Killer
The Talking Heads

Life is a horrible grind.

Yesterday I was forced to go to the grocery store. Grocery stores are a microcosm of society and I suppose that if I had the right prescription I might find it educational or amusing, but for the most parts it’s just depressing.

Anyway I’m in the bakery section and some old bastard is standing directly in front of the fresh rolls like he’s guarding them. He was talking, actually hollering, into a cell phone. From what I could gather from his side of the conversation his wife was berating him and telling him exactly what to buy, right down to the smallest detail. Meanwhile he’s blocking the rolls. I stood there respectfully for about a minute, not wanting to interrupt his conversation and say excuse me, but my patience has a limit. I finally just edged him aside, grabbed the tongs and a bag and cleaned out every roll they had in the joint.

Just as I started to turn away I heard him holler into the phone, “Oh my God! Some guy just took all the Kaiser rolls!� I turned and gave him a little wave and started to walk away. His wife must not have liked what he said because he started stammering and then I heard, “He’s got all the Kaiser rolls! He’s leaving with all the Kaiser rolls!�

And indeed I was. He started to follow me like he was going to debate my right to them or even threaten to take them by force but in the end he skulked away without approaching me. And as I walked toward the checkout I could still hear him on the phone trying to explain about the guy who absconded with all the Kaiser rolls. “He even took the ones with sesame seeds!�

I drove away feeling exhilarated and optimistic.

Is there something in the water in Los Angeles? I mean, just when you thought you’ve seen it all. Please, go forth and read this.

But sometimes it just has to be done. If you are a man, and you wear cologne, you are wearing way too much of it. It’s offensive and migraine inducing. You know, it’s all about subtly. Swimming laps in that shit is not going to get you layed.

And if you do wear cologne there are only two acceptable types. Very expensive or very cheap. Ignore the middle ground. I wear a tiny bit of cologne; you’d have to be close enough to lick my neck to smell it. I won’t disclose exactly what it is because it’s not important, but it is of the very expensive variety. Anybody close enough to smell it immediately swoons. If you’re in the market, look for something classic that’s been on the market for many years. There’s a reason it’s been around a long time.

If you decide to go cheap, go very cheap. Old Spice. Yeah, it’s sweet, but not nauseating like a lot of middle ground products, including but not limited to, Polo, Drakkar, et. al.

Recently I’ve come across a few women who are wearing way too much perfume as well. In fact this post was partially inspired by a lunchtime incident, where I was walking into the building and even though the breeze was blowing I could smell perfume. By the time I entered the lobby I saw the source of the odor entering an elevator. I pity the people trapped in there with her. Good thing there’s no smoking allowed anywhere anymore because that broad would have gone up like that Buddhist monk on the cover of Life.

Walking back down the hall to my office I was overwhelmed, as I am everyday after lunch, by the smell of men’s cologne. Maybe I should put out a memo that dousing yourself with cologne after a break does not cover up the smell of pot.

I’m having a hard time differentiating between the technically stupid, those having a very low IQ, and those who are either crazy or emotionally disturbed. I used to think that people who were acting unreasonably about something were all half-wits. My wife patiently explained to me that that’s not always the case. Her claim was that some people are so emotionally immature/disturbed that that it overrides the logical thought process.

We were discussing the idiots who claim that 9/11 was perpetrated not by terrorists but by our government. She reasoned that some people, in spite of normal intelligence, are so emotionally invested, in this case with their hatred of Chimpy, that reasonable thought is simply not possible.

I countered with the fact that if that is indeed true, and that they can’t “think straight� due to whatever emotional problems they might have, that they are crazy. There was a debate about temporary insanity versus just plain crazy, but we decided that yeah, they’re crazy.

I have assembled the following formulas to aid in your understanding of these matters:

A genuine moron = a genuine moron

Normal IQ + emotional instability = a half-wit (for all intents and purposes)

A moron + emotional instability = an online customer service rep or blogger

High IQ + emotional instability = a serial killer or mad scientist

How crazy is crazy? I don’t know, but I suspect a lot of people I have contact with every day are a hell of a lot crazier than many people under lock and key on the 8th floor somewhere. I reckon it to alcoholics. You have your unemployed blathering hobos and your functioning alcoholics. Same with crazies.

And nobody knows what to do with the nuts. As long as they’re not killing people were content to let them walk around with the rest of us. It’s really the only explanation for a lot of the people I see every day. And the range is huge. I know a guy who walks around all day grunting, laughing too hard at almost anything anyone says and occasionally singing in gibberish like a toddler. He’s a fucking nut. All I can do is keep my distance and shake my head.

But I’ll tell you this. Not a day goes by where I don’t expect somebody to start clawing at themselves and jump through a first floor window.

I bought a new grill over the weekend which was a real pain in the ass. I’m the kind of guy that researches every grill made before buying one. Anyway, the market is now full of stainless steel grills because people have finally gotten tired of replacing these things every year and by now all the manufacturers have realized they can get more money for stainless.

Unfortunately, the quality of stainless steel varies greatly. When you buy silverware, actually cheap flatware, you can see on the box the ratio of nickel to stainless, usually 18/10 or 18/8. The stuff with more nickel has a higher luster. Well, you can’t do that on a grill yet but I’m here to tell you, you get what you pay for and most of these stainless grills are of poor quality stainless and will look like shit directly. Also, the burners, the important part, are sometimes made out of crap while the rest of the grill is stainless.

Regardless, I picked one but the half-wit at Home Depot decides he doesn’t want to look for one in the box, he wants to sell me the floor model. I know the floor model won’t fit into my car because I was bright enough to measure before coming into the store and I was standing there with my own tape measure when he tried to pawn it off.

“This won’t fit in my car.�

“What kind of car do you have?�

“Just get me one in a box.�

“We can deliver it.�

“Get me one in a box.�

Forty-five minutes later I leave with the grill. I carefully unpacked each piece. I opened up the bag with all the screws, counted them, and placed each individual size into it’s own little Tupperware things which I keep for these occasions. I laid out all the tools I could possibly need and more, just in case. I am an expert assembler.

I then checked all the parts according to the instructions and put them into a rough order as I would need them. The final step was to sit down on the couch and read the instructions cover to cover, insuring I knew how the process would pan out as I progressed. I noted that there were some problems with the illustrations, namely, that they seemed to be rough crayon type sketches similar to what a child draws when they have no sense of perspective. There was no detail at all, just rough blocks of out of focus shapes.

Well, I could work around that. However, the instructions themselves seemed to have a lot of words I’d never come across before and I have a large vocabulary. In three languages. I figured I could work around that too, being mechanically inclined. In addition, there was no mention anywhere in the instructions of the many washers and lock-washers enclosed. Not enough for every bolt but plenty of them and I would have to guess on those, as well as a large piece of grill, about 24� x 6� that was also mentioned nowhere in the instructions.

After struggling for thirty minutes trying to attach the heavy-ass weighted base to some legs with no help, on the next step I realized I had them on backwards and had to start again. They were backwards because the instructions were backwards. Literally. That started a long afternoon of swearing and sweating. The high point was trying to decifer sentences that went like this:

“Place F end C into equipment section vsentraew.�

Nice, huh? By the time I got the damned thing together I was fit to be tied and I’m good at that crap. I was a broken man by days end.

Blogging has been light due to circumstances beyond my control. I appreciate the emails inquiring as to my plight, but all is relatively well, I’ve just been busy. And it brought Jim out of retirement. I wondered what would happen the day the page turned white, and sure as eggs is eggs, Jim mounted up and rode onto the field. I am pleased.

On to new business.

If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s an unannounced visitor. When I’m at home relaxing after a hard day, the last thing I want to hear is the doorbell. I used to pretend I wasn’t at home—I’d quietly sneak up to the door and peer out the little hole to see who was invading my privacy, at which point I’d either slink away or open up, depending on who it was.

For some reason the doorbell only rings when my wife is out, leaving me to deal with it. She’s out a lot. I’m a homebody and she’s a social creature so it works out well, with me getting my alone time. Except for when the doorbell rings.

Neighbors are never given an audience. I don’t care if music was blaring and both cars were in the driveway. Yes, they know I’m in there and I don’t care. I’m not putting on pants for them. I generally opened up for my wife’s friends because I enjoy standing there in my underwear watching them try to look me in the eye instead of looking at my drawers, and they were always invited in to wait so that I might prolong the uneasiness. After a while they came to expect it and it was no longer fun, and in fact, started to present a danger.

But those days are over now. As soon as the doorbell rings my kid jumps up and runs towards the door yelping. There’s no way to pretend you’re asleep or not home with all the racket that kid makes. I long for the days of old, when a butler answered the door and visitors were expected to present a calling card, which would be brought to the master on a silver tray.

“Send them away, Throckmorton. I shan’t be receiving today.�

Since that’s not going to happen any time soon I have adapted. I generally just swing the door open and stand there in my drawers regardless of who might be on the other side. I imagine it’s a sight, what with the kid trying to get around me and run out like a mad dog and me standing there with a glass of scotch, but you know, that’s not really my problem.

I don’t know why this bugs me so much, but it does.

Why won’t people use their front doors? Last week I stayed with some friends and during the entire weekend we were not permitted to use the front doors. We had to go in and out through the garage. I’ve noticed that many people instill this rule and it makes me nuts.

Instead of opening the door and walking out we had to go through “the tunnels� as I began to refer to them. A roundabout ass-backwards route to the driveway. What the hell is so special about your front door that you can’t open it to general use?

I’ve also noticed that the same people who won’t use the front door also have “the museum room.� The “museum room� is one room in the house, usually a big room, that no one s allowed to go in. Years ago people called them formal living rooms. Old people insist on covering all the furniture in the museum room with plastic.

Regardless, a shitload of people still have a museum room that people are forbidden to enter. I guess they figure if no one ever walks on the carpet it will last forever, like a shrine. Museum rooms usually have at least one white couch. I think that’s in the handbook somewhere. Anyway, people spend a lot of money for a house and then they cordon off the biggest and best room and declare it off limits. I can only assume what’s in their heads, that maybe someday, maybe, someone important enough will visit and they will enter the museum room and sit very carefully on the furniture for a little while. I don’t know who will qualify, but I’m pretty sure it would have to be a royal, or at least a Baron or a Viscount.

It’s been my experience that no family members will ever qualify to enter the museum room. And since the Queen Mother will probably not be visiting the Detroit suburbs or wherever any time soon, the whole thing is moronic. Three hundred square feet of house is roped off like a police crime seen; completely unusable. I have seen people live in a house for twenty years and never use that room.

In addition, the people who do this don’t have fifteen dollar per square foot wool carpet, priceless oriental rugs or even decent furniture. All I ever see is the standard, middle-class fare, including a shitload of small, inexpensive knick-knacks. Usually white ceramic pieces that are terribly old-fashioned. Maybe some cut glass—certainly not Venetian.

I have also noticed that if the family has a dog, he has been beaten into submission and will never enter the museum room except to shit on the carpet, because that’s the logical place, it will not be found for while.

So. Go ahead people. Keep roping off a big room that your family could use on a daily basis. Keep it reserved for the occasional poodle turd. Because you never know when someone better than you might drop by for a cup of Earl Grey.

I haven’t been able to receive email for who knows how long but it seems to be fixed now.

My car is leaking something again. Just enough to worry about.

I have a world class migraine and a dinner meeting tonight.

Every time my computer comes out of sleep mode the CD door flies open.

My lawn has giant patches of yellow spots from the sprinklers not functioning properly. Soon to be brown spots. The HOA will likely throw a grenade through my window over this.

All of my friends appear to be MIA. Please make yours whereabouts known.

Every time I try to print something I get the message “incorrect ink cartridges installed� even though it’s new and they came with the damn printer and it has worked for the past two weeks.

That pretty much sums it up.

I’m not a big fan of nicknames unless they’re derogatory and used behind someone’s back. But what really tips me over the edge is people who decide they’re going to bestow upon themselves a nickname. And yes, adults do this.

There’s a big difference between legitimate and illegitimate nicknames.

Let’s say a guy buys a boat and tells all his friends about it. Eventually the friends go on the boat which is promptly run aground due to incompetence. The friends decide, spontaneously, to start calling the guy “Captain� much to his dismay. This is a legitimate nickname.

The other way is to pick a nickname for yourself (because you’re mildly retarded) and then try to put that nickname into play. I’ve seen this play a hundred times but two incidents come to mind immediately.

The first time I saw this phenomenon was in college. A guy stuck his hand out and said, “They call me Rebel.�

I was taken off guard and though I knew I was dealing with an asshole I couldn’t be bothered about it. The next time it happened I was ready for it. I was at a barbeque and a guy came up and stuck out his hand:

“They call me Crash.�

“But what’s your name,� I asked. He looked shocked.

“Everybody calls me Crash.�

“But you must have a real name? Is it Cecil or Hubert or something?�

He walked away fuming. Point, game, match.

I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself. Anybody who has the balls to start a sentence with, “They call me…� is going to get shit from me. Not to mention the fact that people with real nicknames never introduce themselves with it. Most wish it would go away.

For the common good, please stamp out self-imposed nicknames at every opportunity.

Today I was walking from my car to the office and there was a guy three cars down who was arriving at the same time. As he got out of his car I was able to smell his cologne from thirty feet away, outdoors. As usual, it enraged me.

What possesses people, both men and women, to swim laps in that shit everyday? Can you imagine working with this guy? Last week I was olfactorily offended at a restaurant by a woman four tables away. This has got to stop.

You shouldn’t be able to smell that shit unless you’re close enough to kiss somebody. Meanwhile I’ve got people at work who reapply that shit three times a day. It’s taking the goddamned paint off the walls. Have you ever had to sit in a conference room with someone who has bathed in perfume? Because I have and I’m here to tell you it’s migraine inducing.

Stop. Now. Before I start accosting you publicly

I went shopping over the weekend. That’s not something I say with pride. Fact of the matter is I needed something and was forced to go get it. We walked into the place and my wife and I split up, her, naturally, to women’s shoes and I to menswear.

My mission was accomplished quickly enough and having no desire to hang around the women’s shoe department so I got to looking around. I saw it all. A pair of men’s jeans that cost $180. WTF? I’m not cheap and I was appalled. I can’t imagine the idiot that spends $180 on jeans but I’d like to meet him.

Next I went to sport coats which I’m always in the market for. I love me my sport coats. It’s amazing what will catch your eye when you’re not looking for something specific. And that’s just what happened because I glanced up and sitting there before my eyes was a seersucker suit. It was a thing of beauty. I reached up and touched the fabric and smiled.

The first thing that occurred to me was I would need a straw hat to go with it. The next thing that occurred to me was what a perfect ass I would look like wearing that thing. I stood there lost in thought for a few moments; it was as if my whole life was flashing before my eyes. Yes, if I wore that suit I would look like a pompous ass. The perfect ass. I immediately started looking for my size when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?� It was my wife.

“I’m buying this fine suit of clothes.�

“Have you lost your fucking mind?�

“On the contrary—“

“Stop. You realize that you’ll have to wear white shoes with this? Are you prepared to wear white shoes?�

I wasn’t. That was a show stopper for me. And gingerly, I put the suit back on the shelf. When I turned she was already walking away and I had to trot to catch up. She had already forgotten the suit.

Four days later, I have not. And this morning I found out that it’s permissible, even fashionable, to wear tan loafers with a seersucker. I’d been had.

I don’t see the point of criticizing others unless it’s done it jest or the person really deserves some grief, but there are a shitload of bloggers I can’t stand. Some of them are popular but most of the people on the list aren’t especially high traffic sites.

The Great Pretender
I have a lot of pet peeves and a lot of things annoy me. One of those things is when people pretend to be experts on things or talk about things as if they had a great deal of knowledge, experience or insight when in fact they’re completely off base or just plain wrong. I’m not talking about opinions, which are subjective, I’m talking about facts. There’s an old saying…A Chinaman can say anything about kung-fu and be believed, no matter how ridiculous. The same is true for the Internet.

The One Trick Pony
Yawn.

A Dollar Short
Some bloggers become obsessed with a post they write or a topic that amuses them. Temporarily. They then try and milk it for a week before they decide no one gives a shit but them. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. These people have more false starts than the 400 meter event at a school for the hearing impaired.

The Shockblogger
Self explanatory. This sleight of hand technique is used to misdirect you from the absence of actual writing.

The Tin Men
Here we go round the mulberry bush. Some people would shoot their mother for a hundred more hits a day. Trying too hard reeks of desperation and is terribly sad. I recommend a drive in the country or perhaps a good prescription drug.

I don’t think I need to point out that these are not mutually exclusive.

Feel free to add your own in the comments or take a shot at me. I’m thick skinned.

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That’s what I see when I visit some blogs. It’s not browser trouble.

The paragraph above is actually more interesting than most of the stuff I’ve read in the past few days. Sorry.

Someone keeps searching this site for the words “throat yogurt.� Another big search here seems to be “urination stories�.

I guess we all have to make decisions about what to do with our spare time on the Internet.

I can just picture these people too, sitting in some mold infested, filthy apartment with Jerry Springer on in the background.

Or a balding guy in a suit overlooking central park, typing away at Google, searching for the mother load. He probably had a sandwich for lunch. I’m thinking pastrami on a rye, brown mustard, a fountain drink with too much ice. Hasn’t bought his own underwear since college. His wife, who settled, probably still buys three packs of Hanes when they’re on sale. What a fucking momo.

My imagination is really too active for my own good.

Happy with it?

I’m a big believer in the fact that we control our own destiny. Cause and effect. If you drink too much, you’ll get drunk. Run in into traffic, get hit by a car. Yet every day I’m amazed at people when they declare they don’t know why XYZ happened to them.

I fucking know why—you need to pay your bills before you start boozing it up or flying to Jamaica on a credit card. I know I’ve said this before, but if you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you really can’t afford it 19%. It’s almost like going to a shy for the money.

However I’m no longer stunned when I hear people say, “It must have been God’s will.� I’m not a believer, but many people are. I’m genuinely happy for them because psychologically it’s probably very healthy in the right doses. Yet some people use God as an excuse. They fuck something up, either through stupidity, laziness or otherwise through their own volition and then they tell you it was God’s will.

Some of these people are assholes; some of them are not. A lot of folks are just plain stupid, regardless of religion or lack of it and we shouldn’t confuse the two. Some truly believe that God has laid out a plan for their life, right up to what they’re having for dinner every night. They are having meatloaf tonight because God has willed it. Pee on the toilet seat? No need to clean that up, that’s God’s will.

Before that vein in your neck bursts let me say that I’m not anti religion. I grew up going to church and so did almost everyone else I know and nobody was leaving pee droplets on the toilet seat. Normal, intelligent people. Using God as an excuse would never occur to them. I was never really into it personally. My family faked it pretty good except for the old man, who refused to go to church. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen they felt like they did their best and finally relaxed and said fuck it, the jig is up.

I have a lot of respect for religious folks so long as they aren’t selling or telling me how I should live my life. I’m glad they found something, because a lot of people are looking and the alternatives are sometimes scarier than we like to think.

Some people believe in both God and luck. Somehow I can’t reconcile that one. Some people pick and choose which aspects of a religion appeal to them and ignore others. Some people are only religious when it’s convenient for them. And some people are genuinely pious, humble folks. I don’t wish to offend the latter.

This post was inspired by an incident this morning where a guy told me it was God’s will that something work-based happened, which has pushed me over the edge.

I knew it was going to be trouble the day before. Somebody in my neighborhood was lighting fireworks. No big deal, right? Except it was almost one in the morning and the shit was loud. My kid was sick and every time she fell asleep…�Kaboom!�

Finally I had enough. I got out of bed in a fit of rage and started pulling on clothes.

“What are you doing?� my wife said.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing.�

She intervened and there was a brief but tense altercation before I acquiesced and got back in bed, under the condition of if I hear one more, and I mean one more, nobody’s going to stop me.

Thankfully it was quiet after that.

On the actual 4th of July I expected all hell to break to break loose with fireworks so I’m not too unhappy when the entire neighborhood starts shooting shit off around seven in the evening. By eight o’clock it was intense. I was trying to watch Platoon and I swear the sound from outside was louder than my home theater system.

Still, it was no big deal. It’s the 4th and everything so who am I to complain.

10:00 PM: It now sounds as though my house is under siege. I was getting jumpy. I had looked around outside to see if they were good fireworks or just noisemakers and I couldn’t see anything, but they sounded close.

10:30 PM: My discerning ear tells me that someone a few houses down has gotten hold of at least a few hundred dollars worth of M-80s. They were tossing them into the street one at a time, nonstop. I start to ponder how bad it would be if I lived in a shitty neighborhood. I can’t imagine.

10:45 PM: The barrage of shells going off from every quadrant is astounding. I can’t fully describe the sound. This shit is LOUD and I’m experienced in fireworks. I can’t imagine what they’ve gotten their hands on. Fearing my perimeter has been breached I go outside for a look. I can’t see who is lighting shit off, but it’s coming from every direction. There were so many rounds going off at once, and for such a long duration, that I cannot fathom the thousands of dollars spent. It sounded as if twenty families had each spent a week’s paycheck on fireworks and decided to shoot them off simultaneously, with no breaks whatsoever, for as long as they would last.

11:00 PM: If anything it’s intensifying. I’m praying the kid doesn’t wake up and start coughing again. I put my shoes on go outside for a look and my wife gets that look on her face.

“Where are you going?�

“I just want to make sure I know who is doing it.�

“Why?�

“Retribution. Not anytime soon, but I’m gonna be egging some houses in the future.�

12:30 PM: I’m in bed reading a book, as is the wife. All is quiet except for one asshole. Every once in a while he lights an M-80. Kaboom! I look over at the wife.

“You realize what this is, don’t you?� she asks.

I shrug.

“Karma. Do you know how many times you’ve been on the other end of this? And the worst part is I’m always included in your karmak paybacks…by proximity.

I got an emailed question regarding food in bars. Oh man, this is a tough one, because it's highly subject to some very nebulous criteria. Firstly, when I go to a bar I'm not chasing down a meal. The bar at Outback Steakhouse is not a real bar - it's a way for them to cram more people into their restraunt. Bar food is limited to something one can eat while in a bar - a bar being a place where people converse, shoot pool, play darts, watch TV, or punch each other in the nuts. My bar doesn't have a menu; they've got potato chips and pork rinds, slim jims, hot pockets, and microwaveable corn dogs. It's a bar people, let's remember that. I wouldn't be averse to a plate of cheese fries or maybe some quesadillas; but here we skirt the line. A bar shouldn't offer a whole host of finger foods, prepared side items, and salads. I'm sorry, that's just not what bars do. Bars serve drinks, good times, and that's it.

Off the topic of 'good' bars, Paul hit on something that I'm a strict believer in. A bar, for me, has to have a story. As commercial as Sloppy Joes has become, I'll always spend at least one night there every time I'm in Key West because I like the history. And dive bars go a long way with a guy like me. The Wife and I had our late-night after party at a local beach dive that most people don't even know exists. The best part is they've built a refrigerated big-rig trailer into the bar itself that acts as the beer room. You walk in, pick a beer from easily 150 bottled brews (domestic, international, micro, etc) and bring it to the bartender. The place is decorated with swap meet furniture, 4x6 prints of past summer parties, and items from ships that sunk off the Cape Fear river in the last hundred years or so. The floor, where there is one, is brick laid right down on the sandy ground. There's a backyard with a big steeldrum barbecue and what must be the world's largest black lab.

These are just my opinions of what a good bar is, and many times I'm in different types of bars; as Paul mentioned he does. Understand here that a good bar isn't defined by myself, but by the people who make it their joint and how well you gel with those people. I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you think either of us are wrong on what a 'good bar' consists of; that's okay.

Even though you wear a striped shirt and your favorite drink is a jello shot. You toolbag.

Much to the dismay of my wife, I have recently come into a family heirloom. It’s an oil painting of me done when I was about ten years old. It was painted by an artist of some note and it’s top quality work.

In the painting I look quite handsome and athletic. Once when I was in high school some friends came over and saw it hanging over the fireplace. One of them, a guy with a large bag of weed in his sock, stepped closer and studied it for a while before stating, “You know, it looks like you could have turned out to be a real asshole.� It was a memorable moment in my life.

This particular painting has been the cause of much controversy since it’s first showing. My sister was not a big fan of it.

“Why the hell is his picture on the goddamned mantle?�

Good question actually. I was certainly not the favored child in my opinion, but who knows. I guess it is pretty obnoxious to hang an oil painting of one of your children in a prominent place while the other looks on.

Now the picture is in my possession and causing problems again. This time with my wife.

“So now we’re going to start hanging large pictures of ourselves?� she said, clearly appalled.

“It’s not a snapshot from Six Flags, it’s a fucking portrait in oil!�

“What difference does it make? You can’t hang portraits of yourself in your own house!�

“I rather like it and I can’t see stuffing the only real piece of art we have into a closet.�

“The only real piece of art we have? What about—“

“The only real oil painting we have.�

She stared at me for a long time before laughing quietly and dismissing me with her hand. Her show was back from commercial.

I can’t fully explain my hatred for them. I can’t complain about the way they maintain their house or their landscaping, it’s almost perfect. They don’t have parties, they’re not too noisy and they pressure clean the sidewalks. But they are indeed strange people.

I’ve been in this house about five years now and up until last month we’ve never really spoken. Almost every time I’m coming or going I see one of them skulking over there. I always wave and smile, just in case, because that’s the kind of guy I am. If they happen to glance up they will return a wave but you can tell it’s taxing them. Some people just don’t exude warmth.

I’ve always suspected they’re up to no good. For one thing they’re always pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of they’re house on the phone. It’s not a cell phone either; it’s just the cordless phone from the house. And though I’ve heard them speak English they also mumble in a tongue that I can’t identify, though I suspect it’s Greek.

In the last week I noticed an addition to the family. An old man in a wife-beater that sits in a lawn chair out front all day. It’s very classy. Of course there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s no bi-law in the HOA rules that says an old man can’t sit out front in his undershirt all day like a fucking Turkish coppersmith or something. And now that the long summer evenings have arrived the new ritual is for the whole clan to bring their lawn chairs out back every night, face them towards my house, and watch me barbeque. They simply stare at me. The first time I go out there I’ll give a quick wave and one of them will return it, but that’s the extent of our communication. I can’t begin to tell you how uncomfortable it is.

One night about two years ago I overheard an argument while I was taking out the trash. It was one of the few times I actually heard anything from that direction. It was the younger one and he seemed to be dressing down the rest of them. The one clear statement I heard, repeated twice, was, “That’s worshipping false idols!� He was screaming it at the top of his voice.

On that note I retreated to the relative safety of my couch and wondered if I should fire a couple of warning shots through their front bay window. Kind of a preemptive strike on whatever brand of insanity may have brewing been over there. My wife reasoned against it as she’s wont to do on those infrequent occasions when I become agitated.

Since then I have suspected they are some type of Christian crazies. Whenever I hear a family argument about “worshipping false idols� I suspect the worst. One of them probably bought a garden gnome or something and it set off the crazy factor.

I remain vigilant.

I've never jumped out of a plane either. Honestly, I don't know if I'm scared neccesarily; but I'm just not too jazzed up about it.

Given blood. Now that's something that approaches fear. I hate going to the doctor, because I'm terrified that they're going to recommend I undergo some horrible procedure involving needles, narcotics, and a sledgehammer. The wife's a nurse, so she loves these gory-ass shows on DiscoveryHealth that show live operations and shit. Makes me want to ralph.

Joined the mile high club. But I don't think I'd really enjoy it all that much, because at 6'4 I have a hard enough time just pissing in the damn lavatory; let alone getting in there with someone else and dirtyin' them up.

Been so drunk that I pissed/shit the bed. I mean, who does that?

And since I missed Smut Thursday yesterday, here's an article on the social history of the blowjob. There's a Jenelle joke in there somewhere, but I just can't seem to put it together.

It’s worth noting that during the American Revolution, many colonists remained loyal to the British. I’m not talking about a few either, I’m talking between twenty and thirty percent. In addition, when the war was over, at least 70,000 of those losers left the country, most to Canada, but some to British colonies in the Caribbean and the England.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence, (I conjure you to believe me fellow citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake; since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of Republican Government.

........... George Washington, Farewell Address, September 19, 1796

I have never jumped out of a plane. My wife was big on it for a while, “You have to try it!� she said. “It’s incredible.� Sorry. Not going to happen. I’m ascared of that and I won’t change my mind no mater how many people try to convince me.

I have never ridden a horse. I’m not afraid, on the contrary, I think it would be great, but somehow the opportunity never came about.

I have never eaten turnips or rhubarb. I’m not sure they’re even real things.

On a somewhat related note, I eschew cream sauces.

Every once in a while I come across something that makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. It's usually at someone else's expense, but hey, at least I'm honest.

Allow me to introduce you to Mariah, a young girl terrified of pickles. This chick fears pickles like little kids fear the bogey man. I love when she runs screaming from the pickle factory.

Somehow I think there are deeper issues here.

I don’t know if I believe in luck or not, but this week has been full of bad juju for me.

Yesterday after work I noticed my mailbox is falling down from wood rot and I can’t abide shit like that—another thing to fix. Then there was a power outage. Last night I was awaked from my slumber first by thunder, then a siren and finally a scared child. When I don’t sleep well I’m cranky. I’ll leave out the rest of the list but trust me; this is the work of the evil eye. Too many little things going wrong.

Today I began to take precautions. I don’t wear jewelry except for the wedding band and a watch, but I found what I was looking for in the safe at the back of my closet. An old family heirloom. I’m wearing it today, well hidden under my shirt so as not to arouse suspicion. The evil doer shall be repaid in the same coin, seven fold.

Of course all this can probably be chalked up to my obsessive compulsive tendencies, paranoia and a host of yet undiagnosed mental illnesses that I’m sure I harbor. I’m one of those people that locks a door, drives 300 miles and then starts to question whether or not I locked the door.

I just read this article about how people have fewer friends now than they did twenty years ago.

“Nearly a quarter of people surveyed said they had "zero" close friends with whom to discuss personal matters.�

I don’t discuss “personal matters� with friends. That’s why I have friends. I suspect that if I started calling them up and bellyaching all the time I would be a royal pain in the ass.

Yes, part of that is me being facetious, but there’s a lot of truth to it. I really don’t have many friends. I have, perhaps, six, close friends. Most of them I have known for over twenty years. I have a close friend that I met in kindergarten that I still talk to a lot—a guy that can be depended on in case of nuclear winter or other highly dramatic events where it’s kill or be killed.

I’ve had a lot of acquaintances over the years. I guess I still do, but it’s not really the same. I was one of those people who knew “everybody� but I was never foolish enough to think most people were my friends. And once you leave high school and start working your way through the world you have a tendency to cut people loose.

The guy who always drank too much in college and was “a blast to hang out with� sometimes turns out to be a pain in the ass alcoholic in later years. There comes a time between high school and age thirty where people are forced to become responsible adults, earn a wage and stop playing quarters every night. And it has been my experience that a certain percentage of these guys never make the cut. They are failures as men. They either cannot or will not provide for their young families or stay locked in a time warp forever and expect you to do the same.

I had a very close friend that never grew up. First it was funny. Then it was a pain in the ass. Before long it was sad and eventually it became dangerous. I was forced to set him adrift with a hard kick in the ass. Many people are faced with betrayal from friends, be it in the form of girlfriend stealing or cash theft. Some people make the transition from friend to giant sponge.

I have never slept with a girl that friend was dating, though I was accused of it constantly. I did sleep with a girl who had a serious boyfriend but I didn’t know the guy except to maybe nod at if I saw him at a party. It’s an interesting story actually because she took advantage of me when I was buzzed and then started making appointments with me to have sex and it’s a long story but she would get off on me going into the bar she and her boyfriend worked at and talking dirty to me while the boyfriend was close by. Both she and the boyfriend were annoying and stupid and I extracted myself from the whole sordid affair when she attempted to give me a hand job while I was sitting at the bar and her boyfriend was across bartending two feet away.

But I’ve gotten off topic if there ever was one.

I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil yesterday. It’s one of those books everyone has read but me. I liked it a lot, probably due to the setting. I’m a sucker for Savannah. Definitely a city with feel all it’s own.

I can’t believe companies are actually doing this.

One in five companies let's you take your pet to work?

Let’s face it; most people can’t take care of themselves let alone their pets. I love animals but I don’t need a petting zoo down at the office. I don’t want to smell dog while I’m negotiating and I don’t want to hear barking when I’m on the phone. I may not want to pet someone’s dog that hasn’t had a bath in weeks.

Just because you know how to train and care for animals doesn’t mean everyone does. How’d you like to walk into the building and have some dog start humping your leg? What if the animals don’t get along well with others? What happens when your dog jumps on me and starts scratching at my expensive suit?

The problems are endless and people have allergies and all kinds of shit can go wrong. And I'm not even addressing people bringing howler monkies and gibbons.

The policy has drawbacks, she conceded. "I'm talking to you in the bathroom because I don't want my dogs to start barking and interrupting our conversation," she said from her home office in Cape Coral, Florida. "They can get a little loud."

Yeah. I’ll start making my calls from the shitter. I can’t spend enough time in a small room while people are taking dumps. Maybe I’ll move my desk in there full time, huh?

Idiots.

How hard can it be to cancel an AOL account?

One man's frustrating call, caught on tape, resounds in the blogosphere

This is absolutely incredible. I’m not surprised at all, but it still leaves me incensed. A guy tries to cancel his AOL but it plays out like he’s trying to leave the Church of Scientology. Unfortunately for AO-hell, the guy recorded the conversation.

You really need to read the transcript of the call because it’s priceless.

“I think I could've put up with everything, but at the point when he asked to speak to my father, I came very close to losing it at that point,� said 30-year-old Ferrari.

Actually, I think the call itself is out there somewhere but I’m way too lazy.

Meanwhile, AOL goes crazy when the guy posts this and sends him an apology telling him how sorry they are and how that should never happen. You know what happens next:

To put this claim to the test, CNBC reporter Matt Lefkowitz called again. Here is a rough transcript:

It took him 45 minutes to finally get his account canceled.

Maybe they share a building with the scientologists.

Update

Here's a better transcript

***Update***

Here's the blog, which has a clip from him on the today show.

***Update***

Here's the audio

Whenever the Germans accumulate in large numbers you have to be careful. It must be something in the blood.

Here’s the interesting part:

“Cologne’s police chief confirmed that the incidents had been sparked by a group of known German football hooligans who were drinking in the Kulisse bar on the Café Alter Markt. Klaus Steffenhagen told The Times: “Our spotters recognised 30 category C football hooligans, some from Cologne and some from other parts of Germany.�

Spotters recognized thirty “category C� hooligans? Have they so many hooligans that they have them categorized? And not only do they have a shitload of hooligans, obviously of varying degrees, but they can recognize thirty of them in a crowd!

Do these people list “Hooligan� as their occupation on tax returns and whatnot? Yeah, I do like to use the word hooligan, so sue me. It’s because I’m fascinated. I wonder where the “category A� hooligans hang out?

***Shank's Update***

An explanation of the hoologan rating system.

Jennifer Aniston has been on my list for about ten years. This morning I finally got a look at her ass. Scroll down past the Ryan Seacrest gay debate and you can’t miss it. It’s a clip from The Break-up.

The other day I posted my feelings about New Orleans, which can be found here. A guy named Jaime from New Orleans took issue with what I had to say and left a comment, more of a post actually, about the situation down there.

I found it to be an eye-opener in many ways. It’s so well executed that I’m posting it here because I think it needs to be read. I’m not going to put it italics as it’s too distracting for a long a piece, but here it is verbatim:

"I would venture a guess that you never left the French Quarter? You are talking a 10 X 10 block area give or take. I lived in Chicago for 3 years. I know all about Downtown and Michigan Ave. but I can’t tell you a thing about Evanston or most of the rest of the area. People from all over the world come here to “party�. It has been a few years now but I have had my own late nights in the French Quarter. I have seen what you are talking about. If you were here for Mardi Gras, Superbowl, Jazz Fest or southern decadence it was most likely a bit worse than normal. For the most part – that is not us…. It’s tourists. They come here and think of the French Quarter as some kind of adult Disneyland – they do things they would never do at home. I used to work in the convention industry and one time I had dinner with a production team from out of town and was walking them back to their hotel. On Bourbon St. there were some girls up on a balcony lifting their shirts for beads and drawing quite a crowd. On of the head honchos said “you people are just crazy down here�. I gave him a look and said “It’s August, those girls are from Michigan or Virginia or some other place like that – they are not from New Orleans.� We made a bet; I asked and won $10 bucks – easy money. The answer was Georgia. It is not fair to look at the quarter and think of us that way. It’s like visiting Graceland and thinking you know all about Memphis.

The other problem with your thinking is that right now we are not an American city. We are a shell of what used to be a city in what is evidently, by many, not actually considered to be part of America (I don’t understand that but it comes off that way too many times). Most of the houses are still unoccupied – many people have never returned and most of the residents that have come back live someplace other than where they were a year ago. We have what amounts to 120 square miles of urban ghost town the likes of which have never been seen before, anywhere. I saw Colin Powell make a speech this month at the dedication of the National WWII museum / awards ceremony for some standout 1st responders. During his keynote he said that he had seen many types of distruction before. He has been through a lot of war zones and has seen several major disaster sites (his last official visit overseas was Indonesia after the tsunami’s). Just like every one else he had closely followed the coverage of Katrina on television. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for what he had just seen while touring the devistation within his own country. That was a few weeks ago, more than 9 months after the levee’s broke. To get back to my point – this is a little different than dealing with crime in an American city for a number of reasons.

You say “we’re not talking about stealing anymore…� but we are. Looting is called burglary again but it is still looting. One of my in-law’s neighbors in Lakeview has been killing himself trying to get his house into shape so his wife and kids could return home once the school year ended. He had finally finished and the day before the move he discovered there was no water. A quick inspection revealed that his entire plumbing system had been stolen for the copper pipes. That’s another deduction from insurance and at least another month without his family and who’s to say it won’t happen again. As fast as people can get appliances delivered they are being stolen. Another big thing is stealing the architectural details that make New Orleans unique. Shutters, pocket doors, mantles, crown molding, decorative ironwork, gingerbread details and other such things are vanishing right before our eyes. You can’t sell the shutters for much but they cost over $300 each to replace. Vultures (many from out of town) are picking us to pieces and it has to stop so we can move on.

There is no one to see suspicious activity and report it so it continues. That takes a lot of patrolling – much more than could ever be done by a police force under normal circumstances. That is what the guard has been called in to do. To help safeguard our personal reconstruction - Thank God!

Now, on to violent crime. Along with the many, many good people that have come back we also have the scum. Some are home grown and some are imports but they are here fighting for turf and power in the ever-popular drug trade. Most of the murders are gang bangers killing each other off for an edge in what basically amounts to an open market. All of the lines that had been drawn between gangs were washed away and the age old game has started from scratch. You are right when you say it is tombstone. No city has ever faced 5 or 10 or maybe even 20 rival gangs all in a rebuilding mode at once. Picture what it would be like if all the mafia bosses had to start their “family buisnesses� again from scratch. It would not mean a hit or two – it would be scores of them. That is what we are going through. The members just need an empty house to set up shop (we have plenty of those) and then they just start fighting. . Our police need to concentrate hard on this so it can be stopped before it gathers more momentum.

You say that things are picking back up. It depends on what corner you are talking about. My in-laws live in their trailer about 50% of the time. There is one other person living on their entire block. Another is there most days working on his house – that’s it. No one lives on the block behind them at all. At my mothers the street is empty as well - it still does not have power. We could not store everything we recovered from her house at our place so we have moved some of it back into the gutted part of the house. I will be glad to have the National Guard in the area. It makes me very nervous that my in-law’s live in a ghost town. If someone showed up and tried to hurt them there would be no one around to hear a thing. I will feel better knowing that the guard will be pass by their house a few times a day as well."

Thanks, Jaime. Very well done and point taken. Hats off to you.

Most people are ineffectual by nature. And by ineffectual I mean lazy, lollygagging dullards. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to surpass them. I suspect an hour a day of solid work is all you need to look better than them.

People who call a lot of meetings fall into these categories:

a.) Can’t or won’t make their own decisions
b.) Believe in decision by committee
c.) Are out of their league intellectually
d.) Are seeking other people to do the heavy lifting

Most people attending meetings are trying not to take on any action items. Your job is to appear busier and smarter than anyone else in the room without talking too much.

Rule #1: Never be early or late to a meeting.

Too early and you look like you’ve got nothing better to do. Also, people could ask questions that if you answered with the room empty become someone else’s ideas when the room is full. Being late is never a good idea either.

If you stroll in five minutes early carrying a grande latte or whatever the hell those things are you look like your relaxed and at ease—and that’s not good. You need to look like you’re working your ass off, not standing in line for expensive ersatz coffee.

Rule #2: Ask for an agenda.

How important can a meeting be if there’s no agenda? A lot of people calling meetings don’t publish one and it makes them look idiotic when you ask. After all, you’re busy and have little time for small talk.

Rule #3: Keep looking at your watch

Don’t overdue it, but you have to look like you have responsibilities and deadlines. I walk around looking like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.

Rule #4: Ask the question

“Who’s going to publish the minutes for this meeting?� It’s always the first thing I ask. By asking who will do it you remove yourself from the equation. It’s also a good idea to let the blowhards know that if they commit to something in that room they will be held to it.

Rule #5: Speak up

Important phrases to use at a meeting:

“I think we’re getting off track here.�
“I think that’s beyond the scope of this meeting.�
“Enough with the abstract, let’s talk about what’s practical.�

The idea is to keep this shit moving, because to most people, a meeting is just a place to sit down and bullshit/pontificate/theorize.

Rule #6: Your opinion

One sentence: “The concept is fundamentally sound.� You really can’t go wrong with that one.

If asked for suggestions I usually let other people speak first and watch the reactions they get. I never look directly at the speaker; I watch the face of the highest ranking officer. If someone starts sinking I’ll usually let them kill themselves unless I smell haughtiness, in which case I’ll jump in and really point out their stupidity.

Rule #7: Things you should never say in a meeting

“I’d like to be more involved with this project.�
“I can expedite some of the paperwork.�
“Jane’s tits can’t possibly be real.�

Need I elaborate?

Rule #8: What not to wear to a meeting

You never want to look too prosperous. Meetings, and the workplace in general, is not a good place to wear a Rolex. Get the idea?

Rule #9: Act like a professional

Gum chewing, pen twirling and leaning back in your chair are not good ideas. Most importantly, for the love of God, don’t keep scratching you head and your ears. You look like you’ve got fucking lice. I sat through a meeting this morning and watched as two separate people dug at their scalp and their ears with total abandon. I was sooo close to screaming at them.

Rule #10: Navigating shallow water

This really entails a full post. Evaluating the battle lines is crucial. Which faction is stronger or more important plays a key part in your strategy. The outcome of most meetings is predetermined anyway. Rarely do people seek honest council in a conference room. The scene played out is usually to reinforce policy or to put pressure on a group to deliver more. Sometimes it’s pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey or hot potato. Who’s budget is getting hit with what, who’s to blame for the Mongolian Cluster in Chicago, etc. It’s best to determine what the purpose of the meeting really is before you get there.

I went to New Orleans once, about ten years ago. Frankly, I thought it was a seedy shithole. I saw people peeing in alleys in the French Quarter, drunks everywhere and a general disregard human decency.

Let me say that I am not a prude. I enjoy a few drinks. Maybe more than a few on occasion. I’ve been known to visit rowdy establishments, roadhouses and strip joints. And even though I haven’t done those things in quite a few years it’s not because I’m against them, it’s because I outgrew them, more or less. But when I was in New Orleans I saw the worst of the worst. The place was pretty gross.

Then Katrina hit and it was a terrible tragedy. I donated money along with everyone else. Things are picking back up now, but since that fateful event the city is still getting plenty of attention from the media. The result is that people from all over the place are now seeing what’s always been there.

Now the National Guard has been called in because the fucking place is like 1881 Tombstone, Arizona.

“…five teenagers in an SUV were shot and killed in the city's deadliest attack in at least 11 years. Police said the attack was apparently motivated by drugs or revenge. Also, a man was stabbed to death Sunday night in an argument over beer.�

It’s hard to believe that that idiot was reelected mayor, but he was. And now he needs to find himself some lawmen because it’s like the wild west.

I’ve been to some wide-open towns before. I’ve partied in places you can’t imagine in both America and overseas, but that place always struck me as being a cesspool. When was the last time the National Guard had to restore order in an American city? Aside from this one? I know what you're going to say. "They don't have as many cops as they used to before the storm." That doesn't mean people have to kill each other. We're not talking about stealing anymore, we're talking about murders.

I’m not one of those people that think NO got what it deserves when that storm hit. I’m not a racist. I’m not a born again—I’m all about debauchery.

I just never liked the place.

Last week I told my kid I’d get her a little something because her behavior has been so incredibly exemplary lately. Beyond belief, really. Somehow I’ve produced a smart, sweet, quiet kid that never seems to do anything wrong. Very spooky considering my own childhood.

Anyway, on Saturday we went to get her a little something. I still get excited when toy shopping because I still love toys. I was hoping to steer her towards a Lite Brite or something else I could play with.

The first thing you notice in a toy store these days is the complete and utter lack of toy guns. When I was a kid the toy gun aisle was the biggest in the store. I would hang out in that aisle for an hour before making my choice. These days there is no gun aisle and it breaks my heart. And just for the record, even though I played with toy guns throughout my youth, I have never shot anyone with a real gun. That wasn’t asking for it. But I kid. I’m a kidder.

She ended up with some popular little doll figures. I spent an hour trying to get her to change her mind. I stumbled into one aisle that all kinds of games I remembered from my own childhood.

“Look honey, it’s Don’t Spill the Beans!�

“What’s that?�

“It’s a game I used to play when I was your age.�

“I don’t want that. Can we go home now?�

I really wanted it. Don’t Break the Ice was there too and I really wanted them both. After a fruitless attempt at getting her to switch she finally dragged me away. Later that night I told my old lady the story.

“She wasn’t budging from the doll.� I said.

“Don’t Spill the Beans? No shit? You should have gotten it for us! Man, I could really go for a game of that right now.�

This morning she called me at the office about something.

“Are you going anywhere today?� I asked.

“I have to go to Target.�

“You have to get Don’t Spill the Beans!�

“Good idea!�

Hopefully by the time I get home she’ll have it ready to go. My life is so sad.

To my wife:

On Mother’s Day, you refused to give me a list, insisting that I come up with gift ideas on my own. You know what torture that is for me. Then this week you ask me for a gift list for Father’s Day. WTF?

Well, here it is, but you’re going to have to work for it. Decipher the clues to find out what I want. One or two of these is enough, some are expensive.

#1. Some stuff is just not available on iTunes. This album was released in November of 1971 by a band that I enjoy and you don’t. Additional clues: croquet, hogweed.

#2. Small bottle of that cologne that I like.

#3. Another CD (double), same band as above. Released in 1974, deals with a tired mammal in NYC. You really hate this one.

#4. Another CD, same band again. Four CD box set released in 1998 and deals with older material only. Careful, I don’t want the three CD box set.

In other news, Shank apparently went on a sugar and booze bender last night and posted like, fourteen times. And in yet other news, I’m still watching this every fifteen minutes or so and laughing myself into coughing fits.

Wiscounsin, huh?

I think the annoying bastard deserves it.

This news report from Alabama (go figure) focuses on a group of people who swear they have a leprechaun living in a neighborhood tree.

It’s got it all. An amateur drawing, crazy people…you really have to see it to believe it.

I literally couldn’t stop crying. Don’t miss the classic line, “I want to know where the gold at.�

This has got to be the funniest thing on the web.

***Update***
I can't stop watching this and shaking with laughter.

Ever notice a TV show character completely vanish from a popular show and they’re never heard from again? I had no idea it had a name, but it does. Chuck Cunningham Syndrome. You can scroll down and see a list of popular shows where this phenomenon took place and little bit about each one.

In more heinous news, there’s also Cousin Oliver Syndrome. Remember that little bastard? Scroll down and see a list of other shows that played this card to keep the show afloat long after it was clinically dead. I actually shuddered at some of these.

I should hat tip someone here but I honestly can’t remember where I saw it. Probably Dlisted.

This has been a pet peeve of mine for a long, long time.

There is no such thing as adding “II� to your name. Does everyone understand that?

You’re “Junior.� I’m sorry, but that is a fact. I know that you don’t want to be called junior. You don’t want “Junior� on legal documents. I can understand that. You’re a big strong man. You’re James Theodore Winthorpe II.

But you’re not. And you’re not fooling anyone. Not me, anyway, ‘cause I know how this works. If you have the same exact name as your father you are “Jr.� There’s no such thing as II. Some try to sneak by with 2nd. Pleases stop the bullshit. When the elder dies, you are promoted to “Sr.� Does that help? Because you’re making an ass of yourself trying to pull this off. People are laughing much harder at “II� than they are at “Jr.�

Get used to it, Junior.

Primarily in the U.S.A. (and never in the U.K.), boys who should be styled junior are sometimes incorrectly labeled with the suffix ‘II’, particularly if there is a third or fourth with the same name. Even if a legal title, this is socially incorrect; strictly speaking, ‘II’, pronounced the second, refers to a boy who is named after his grandfather, uncle, or cousin. The suffixes ‘II’, ‘III’, etc. are also correctly written 2nd, 3rd, etc.

More proof that you are an idiot here and here.

I see plenty of bloggers are excited about the World Cup.

If you’re a soccer fan, you probably don’t live in America. If you are a soccer fan living in America: I pity you. If you are a blogger who doesn’t even know how many men you need to field a team, let’s just be honest about it from the get-go. I suspect many bloggers will jump on this bandwagon because it’s the only one on the prairie.

I’m an unabashed soccer detractor. I fear things I don’t understand. If it were up to me, I would beat soccer to death with a stick—like a garter snake on the patio.

I’ve had a bottle of Dom in my fridge since New Year’s Eve. It was a leftover, of sorts, that has been waiting for a proper occasion. I’ve been tempted several times since than but I’ve held out.

And this morning I wake up to find that that goddamned, sub-human cockroach has been stamped out—sent to hell on the express train—courtesy of a couple of five hundred pound bombs. I haven’t been this happy since I discovered masturbation as a lad.

I’ve never been one to celebrate death but there are a few exceptions, such as this one and that Serbian asshole and a handful of others. Well, quite a few others, I will admit. So tonight I’ll pop the cork and celebrate the extermination of that fucking vampire. That maggot encrusted, shit-filled bag of diarrheatic pus.

Burn, baby, burn
Disco inferno
Burn, baby, burn
Burn that mutha down

….The Trammps, 1977

The other day I heard that the median I.Q is 100.

That scares the hell out of me. That means that one half of us have a double digit I.Q. No wonder everything is so jacked up.

They say that 100, plus or minus 10, indicates average intelligence. I’m not so sure about that. Seventy-five is the beginning of retardation so I’m not sure I’d count ninety as average intelligence.

Where do you think people in the 75-90 range work? If you’re thinking garbage men, or landscapers you’d be wrong. My suggestion is to stand up and peer around the other cubes. Take a walk down the hall and get some water.

I rest my case.

Talent is a funny thing. I know I’ve talked about this before but my fascination hasn’t subsided.

I don’t have a lot of ideas. I’m not what you would call “an idea man.� That doesn’t make me an idiot. I have a more than respectable job and a fancy title and a lot of responsibilities—far ranging responsibilities. I’ve come to the conclusion that the farther one moves up the corporate ladder the less specific their responsibilities become. And while I’m supposed to be running a lot of different things, what it really boils down to is that I am Winston Wolf.

"I'm Winston Wolf. I solve problems."

There’s nothing more fun than a couple of wiseasses pulling a Bill Nye.

Trust me on this one.

***Link Now Works***

I went to my kid’s dance recital on Saturday. Four hours in all, of which she was on the stage a total of three minutes. I was medicated, but not nearly enough. Some of you might remember last year’s affair, where stuck in those small cramped seats I had to endure the smell of shit for several hours. This time wasn’t much better.

You’re only allowed to leave the auditorium between dances and they had Gestapo posted at all the doors insuring the mandate was enforced. There were 45 individual songs/dances of which my kid participated in one, plus the finale. That guarantees the seats stay full to the end. My kid went on, like third, and then we had three more hours to kill before we could retrieve her. The trouble started early.

The idiots who were sitting next to us had set up camp and we had to get through them to get to the aisle. I sat in my seat with my camera and program on my lap. In contrast, the buttholes had four bouquets of flowers, a handful of programs and two backpacks all laid out on the floor at their feet. And I had to pee.

I held it until our kid was done and then we planned our exit to the bathroom. The problem was that between the dances they turned all the lights out completely. It was like being at the bottom of a well. You’d think that the red exit signs mandated by law would throw at least some light but you’d be wrong. Also, the time between dances was like one minute, so you had to act fast.

The lights went off and I bolted up, carrying my shit with one hand and grabbing the old lady with the other. It was hopelessly dark…I really couldn’t see anything. I said, “Excuse me!� at the top of my voice, but the assholes sitting there didn’t bother to move. Again, “I said, excuse me!� Still nothing. I was standing there in the dark like a jackass and I’d had enough.

I started stomping through. The first thing I felt under my right foot was a bouquet of flowers. There was no room to walk normally so I had to side-shuffle, and in doing so felt my left foot smash the remains. Then I hit a backpack, but felt it lifted from my path, with a great sigh. Like I was putting these people out or something. “Excuse me!� I shouted again because I was trying to be polite, but he was still unrepentant as after moving the backpack he was just sitting back in his chair. The rest of his brood was just as useless. I plowed over more flowers, ice skated on his programs and stepped all over his feet. I got by him, but not before he took a head shot from the camera. He actually yelped when I clocked him. I was still dragging my wife by the hand so whatever I didn’t completely smash she surely did.

I heard her saying excuse me as well but these people just didn’t get it. By the time we hit the aisle we had steamrolled over four people and their possessions. The doors were closed, the lights were up and we hadn’t gotten out. I was standing to the side now and looked over at the assholes. They were watching the performance like nothing had happened. Smiling.

I could have beaten the whole family to death at that point and not lost any sleep. With the lights up I could see the damage we’d done getting out. All the flower bouquets were completely destroyed. Flattened. The programs were torn up good and had giant, size twelve footprints on the remains. The best part was the giant bag of Cheetos that were completely and totally demolished, I’m assuming by my wife, because I never felt them. Have you seen a big, stepped on bag of Cheetos recently? It’s quite a sight.

We stayed outside for about an hour and we knew we could ever return to our seats down front. We stayed up in the nosebleed section for the remainder where we had some room and could chat without disturbing others. It was a wholly miserable experience, save the three minutes of my kid. I wouldn’t have missed that, and I though I pay a heavy price each year it’s worth it.

I had a moment of clarity over the weekend while I was watching a commercial for what appears to be another cheesy talent show on fox. During the commercial, a guy took a flying leap and landed on his face, which got my attention. The show is called, “So you think you can dance?�

It came to me in a flash. I’d like to develop a show called, “So you think you can swear?�

Just think about the auditions. Brooklyn plumbers, Princeton frat boys, all branches of the military would probably be represented, et. al. Granted it would have to be on cable, but I think I’m really on to something.

On a safer note, I’ll also be pitching, “So you think you can read?� because recent experience shows that few people actually can. I’m thinking the best part would be pitting small children against stupid adults.

Brilliant, huh?

Did you know that President Gerald R. Ford’s real name was Leslie Lynch King, Jr.? Because it was, and there was no way a guy named Leslie “Lynch King� was getting elected. That’s not why he changed it, but that’s beyond the scope of this shitty post.

On the other hand, a guy with a fairly normal name, Arnold Gerry Dorsey decided it was better to change it to Engelbert Humperdinck.

More here. You might need that someday.

Also, this just in.

I told you. I must have said it a hundred times.

I said, “Katharine McPhee has no charisma, and she looks like she’s in a daze.�

Well, my track record of spotting the insane at a glace has once again been proved accurate. Now it turns out that there may be a brainwashing cult behind the blank look.

Which of these things are not like the others?

Fireman
Policeman
EMT
Teacher
Star of “Ocean’s Thirteen�

Here’s a harder one:

Which of these things are not like the others?

Tinkerbell
Santa Clause
Global Warming
Tooth Fairy
Internal Revenue Service

Here’s an even harder one:

Who the fuck is Kevin Federline?

I first I thought this was really funny. Then I thought it was sad. Now I’m fully enraged.

Eva Longoria, whom I hoped to hump at some future, post lottery winning time, shows what a real life bitch she is.

I knew it was going to be good as soon as I read the headline:

Eva Longoria Victim of Non-Comped Bar Tab Fiasco

“…Eva grabbed her changed, snipped at the waitress that "Celebrities should be comped!" and stalked out without even leaving a tip.�

Perhaps the most bizarre part of the story is who she was hanging out with. I know I’ve said this before, but I have no respect for “celebrities� who think they’re beyond fucking reproach. When these people start curing cancer or rescuing people from burning buildings please let me know, so I can pay them the respect that they deserve.

This spoiled twat? Five years away from the Surreal Life and a Paula Abdul-like substance addiction. I am officially withdrawing my offer of a hump. There are much nicer people out there I could be stalking.

***UPDATE***
Link now works!

Remember Jim?

I do. Vaguely. An update might be nice, huh?

Meanwhile, the heat, my God, the heat.

Memorial Day was spent upgrading the property. Very little fun was had and stress levels were near record highs. The rest of this week will entail more work and cleanup after each twelve hour day at the office, which happens to be as hot as the fucking Sonoran desert today. I’m not big on sweating unless I’m actually working out or eating at Lindo Michoacan.

I’m a big fan of ethnic foods, even if the shits are involved the next day. I think it was Anthony Bourdain who said, “It tastes good right now. Of course tomorrow my bathroom will probably look like the one from Trainspotting.�

The only food I really find sketchy is Middle Eastern/Indian/Near East stuff. I’m not a big fan of curd or tea with butter and salt in it. Other than that, I’ll try almost anything.

A lot people talk about pairing wine with food, but a lot food really goes better with beer. Mexican, Chinese, lots of Asian food, burgers and obviously the German stuff. I’ll go out on a limb and say pizza as well, though purists will cringe. The problem with pizza is all the shit people put on there. No self-respecting Italian would ever put pepperoni on pizza. When that shit cooks, all the grease floats up all over the pie. It’s disgusting. And before someone says olive oil is greasy, it’s not the same thing. Pure olive oil—and I’m talking the first cold pressing, extracted without heat or chemicals, is the nectar of the Gods. Pepperoni seepage is fucking grease.

And while I’m at it, all that other shit people put on pizza is way out of line too. Ham? Pineapple? Meatballs? Is it really necessary to bombard your palette with cured salted pork products on a pizza? I think it stems from people not knowing any better. Most pizza places use cheap cheese, which melts funny and tastes like plastic. If you start with good ingredients a very simple pizza is incredibly good. The dough should be light and airy, not heavy. Tomato sauce shouldn’t be too spicy nor full of acid. The mozzarella should be of the best quality, preferably made that day. And on top, a very fine dusting of pecorino romano made from sheep’s milk. It’s that simple. If I add anything at all, it’s anchovies. Now that’s a pizza you can swill wine with. Garden variety, take out pizza? I can and do eat it, but I don’t think of it as pizza. I wolf it down in great quantities and swill plenty of beer (lager) to wash it down. I’m a practical man and it’s a phone call away.

With Chinese food I like beer, but here’s a tip for you. If you want to order wine with Chinese food you can’t go wrong with a Gewurztraminer. A lot of people think that’s dated wisdom but it works extremely well. I could pair dishes in a Chinese restaurant but with everybody ordering different stuff it’s a hopeless affair. This trick won’t work in China, but you’ll have other, bigger problems if it comes to that. Such as getting authentic Chinese food down without vomiting. Trust me, it’s not egg rolls and sweet and sour pork over there. We’re talking deep fried monkey lungs.

***Update***

So I’ll explain the beer with pancakes thing, which has turned up in the comments.

When I was in the 10th grade I snuck some St. Pauli Girl beer out of my house and brought it to school. Yes, it was a dumb idea, but we drank like four of them on the bus and looked very cool doing it.

I came home from school and my old man says, “Where the hell are my St. Pauli Girls?�

And I say, I drank them with breakfast.

He then says, “Okay. You drank German beer with pancakes?� Because I was allowed a beer or two in my house, or a glass of wine, so long as it was with a meal and generally in front of them. They were not party-ers at all, but they appreciated old world style. Then he says,� No problem. Show me the empty bottles.�

He knew exactly what I’d done and he knew I couldn’t produce the empty bottles. I don’t remember all the details but I was in a lot of trouble. However, I refused to come clean and admit defeat. So the next day, in front of him, I drank a St. Pauli Girl with my pancakes. It went on like this for some time, with he asking me if I was enjoying it, et. al.

In the end I was liking it.

A friend emailed me the following:

On an August morning in 1978, French filmmaker Claude Lelouch mounted a gyro-stabilized camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and had a friend, a professional Formula 1 racer, drive at breakneck speed through the heart of Paris. The film was limited for technical reasons to 10 minutes; the course was from Porte Dauphine, through the Louvre, to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur.

Upon showing the film in public for the first time, Lelouch was arrested. He has never revealed the identity of the driver, and the film went underground until a DVD release a few years ago.

Crank up the sound for this one.

It starts out on the open road but once he reaches the Place de la Concord, it gets really intense. The sound of that engine is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Note the person running for their life around the six minute mark.

This link is like, a year old or something, but it doesn’t matter. When celebrities are cheap bastards the world must know about it. The shitty tipper database.

I live for shit like this.

What the fuck is MySpace?

Would I care if I knew?

By now everyone’s seen or heard about Madonna doing the mock crucifixion bit on her tour. Personally, I think she should be hanging from a giant dollar sign. Does anyone really care anymore? After a while shock value wears off. This old broad is desperately trying stop the pending irrelevance.

I don’t like her fake English accent. I don’t like the fact that she does things just to be controversial. I don’t like the fact that back in the 80s I let chicks play “Lucky Star� on my car’s tape player just to pacify them long enough for me to get my hands up their dresses.

I remember the issue of Playboy where she was nude and all I could focus on was the thick patches of underarm hair. I don’t like the way she whored herself out for cash with that sex book (and I’m no prude).

Most of all I don’t like the fact that she’s a fucking human corporation.

That is all.

I watched American Idol last night and came to the conclusion that both contestants suck. The chick is lacking that… je ne sais quoi…star quality. She does not exude charisma. Taylor Hicks? My wife and I thought he was mildly retarded for the first few weeks, what with those full-body jerking motions and all, but then again, we think most people are to some degree mentally handicapped. We’ve changed our minds on that though. Now we’re convinced he’s insane. Take a look at his eyes. The eyes are the key, and when I look at that guy I see a deep bend in the sanity department.

As far as singing goes, the broad impressed at the very beginning of the season but then stopped maturing or improving. She over sings a lot, but mainly she’s just good. Adequate. And her body is shaped funny. From some angles she looks chunky and from other angles she looks thin. I prefer a woman that looks the same from every angle; at least I know what I’ve got.

Taylor can sing but has a very limited range. Almost every song this season was in a bad key for him. His best work was the Joe Cocker thing. But at least he looks like he’s enjoying himself. Crazy people usually do.

Last night’s show was a sleeper—two repeats and two very shitty new songs. The chick’s song was so obviously a reworking of Kelly Clarkson’s first single that I sang the chorus of it to my wife during McPhee’s performance right over of the new song. I didn’t know the words but I made my point. My wife was amazed and proclaimed me all-knowing.

Who will win? I don’t care, and that’s a shame because I’ve always had a horse in the race in past seasons. This season I wasn’t impressed by any of them, frankly, compared to some of the talent in years past.

I predict the crazy man will win handily.

I rarely remember dreams. Perhaps once a month I’ll remember a snippet or two but it’s rare. This morning I was dreaming that I was taking a pee. At some point my eyes shot open and I ran for the bathroom and peed.

My wife woke up to find me feeling the bed for wet spots.

“What the hell are you doing?� she asked.

“I think I peed the bed.�

“What?�

“I said, I think I peed the bed!�

Now both of us were up and searching for pee. Then she realized that I was standing there in my underwear.

“Are they dry?�

I felt them.

“Yeah. They are.�

She reached over and touched them.

“They’re dry. You didn’t pee the bed. Are you fucking going nuts are what?�

After a fifteen minute reality check I realized that I didn’t pee the bed. But the dream was so real. So vividly real. I dreamed I peed the bed. I thought I peed the bed.

In a parallel universe, I’m certain I peed the bed. Dreams suck.

I’m on a lot of conference calls. I’ve perfected the art of participating whilst doing other things simultaneously, like scratching my balls or writing a chapter of a novel.

But the one aspect of conference calls that I really enjoy is when we come to some impasse or another and decide to call in yet someone else; either for their worthless opinion or to blame them for everything that has gone wrong in the past quarter.

So these poor bastards, sitting at their desk playing solitaire or whatever is they do all day, get phones call they’re not expecting. A nice surprise. And for some reason they never suspect they’re on a conference call or that we’ve called from the conference room and that a party of ten is on the line. You’d think they’d learn, but they don’t.

And almost without exception they pick up the phone, hear a familiar voice and start talking shit. Or telling exceptionally filthy jokes. I get to hear one per week on average, where some dumbass picks up the line and starts telling a room full of people that he was out all night drinking or has the scabies or some shit. And no matter if the chairman himself is on the phone, no one says anything for at least a full minute because no one knows just how to tell the guy without making it a legal issue or whatever.

Yesterday we called a guy in and as soon as he heard the voice of the guy who was chairing the meeting, a friend of his, he starts busting the guy’s balls:

“Tony! You home jerking off today? I bet you are. I bet your jerking off to the yoga channel, huh? I love jerking off to the yoga channel!� Then he made a few exaggerated noises.

“Uh, Pete, I’m here in the conference room with the budget team…we have a question.�

Dead air.

After about five seconds the meeting guy composed himself and asked whatever pointless question we called about.

There were a few women on the call, two company officers and an old broad from purchasing with no sense of humor. I had to excuse myself from the room for a minute because I was crying. It was one of those times where you laugh hysterically but no sound comes out and tears run streaming down your face. It was uncontrollable and everyone knew it.

When I returned a few minutes later the call had ended and people were filing out trying not to make eye contact with each other for fear of explosive laughter. Let this be a lesson to you.

I don’t understand camping. I’m not putting it down; I’m just saying that I don’t understand it.

I went camping only once and it was enough. Myself and three other idiots decided camping would be a great idea for spring break back when we were in high school. Having no cash was a contributing factor, as was getting away from our parents and drinking for sixteen hours a day.

None of us had ever been camping before so we rented a giant tent and scavenged for supplies in our parent’s houses. We loaded up two cars full of shit and guitars and set out for points unknown. When we finally reached our destination, a National Forest, we pulled over to debate the best course of action.

“I say we don’t go to a campground. We just pitch our tents in the woods and live like Indians,� one guy said.

“We need a campground, dammit! With running water and bathrooms. Are you prepared to shit in a hole?�

I wasn’t. It was eventually decided that we would go to a campground just outside the National Forest. We set up the tent and then stood there looking at each other. I knew at that moment it would end badly. We were bored and we’d only been there for thirty minutes. None of us were old enough to buy beer so we set out immediately to start going from liquor store to liquor store trying our luck. It turned out to be unnecessary and the first place we came to looked like they hadn’t seen a customer since the Conestoga wagons went by. We loaded up with several cases of beer and a big bottle of Southern Comfort. At the tender age of seventeen we had no idea how bad of an idea that was, but that’s another story.

I won’t boor you with the details, but our four day trip was cut to down to three. As soon as we backed the car up to the tent, popped the trunk and cranked up the Hendrix we started drawing complaints. We had so many empty beer cans that all the garbage cans in the place were full of them. We burned the oars from the rowboat for a cooking fire. Our singing was obnoxious and profane. There were bugs. The day before we left we had a more serious problem.

Four seventeen year old kids go through a lot of weed and the supply was gone. That’s when it got interesting. Someone had the idea to drive back down the road some twenty miles where we passed what appeared to be some old slave shacks, now inhabited by poor white trash. You really had to see it to believe it. So we drove down there and sitting outside in a rusty lawn chair was this skinny guy who looked like an 1860s tenant farmer. He was about twenty-five, was tall and weighed about 80 pounds. A hay bender, if you will. So we pulled up and one of us gets out to inquire about buying a bag and before you know it the guy’s in the car with us and we start driving up and down while he tries knocking on doors asking his friends if they had any weed.

At first we found this hillbilly ingratiating and hospitable, but soon we realized we’d driven 60 miles and we were aimlessly stopping for this guy to knock on doors. Our patience with Cletus had expired. And as he got out to bang on yet another door I proposed the inevitable.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.�

There was silence for about two seconds and then we back out and drove away. Cletus looked like he’d shit his pants and broke into a run hollering, “Wait! Wait!� But there would be no waiting. We carted his unemployed ass around for over an hour touring the shittiest hovels I’d ever seen on an almost uninhabited county road. Did I mention he was barefoot?

In the morning we decided we’d had enough and so did the proprietors of the campground. We’d worn each other down. We decided that in order to complete the trip one more thing would be required, so as the boys packed up all our shit I wrote a note to Cletus. It was along the lines of, “You need to get a job and paint your shack and get yourself some shoes because you may not realize it but we have electricity and shit now, etc., etc. I remember it was a masterpiece of letter, quite long and touching on many subjects but no apologies about stranding him at some fucking sod house in no mans land.

The only thing missing with the note was a method of delivery. I ended up tying a guitar string around a potato and wrapping the note around it. As we pulled out of town and past the slave shacks, there he was on the porch sitting in his rusty lawn chair. We started to pull over and his eyes lit up as he recognized us. He ran towards waving and smiling. He wasn’t even pissed off, which pissed us off. As we drove by slowly we didn’t stop…I just launched the potato and it bounced off the door of his 1863 hovel with a thud. As we drove away he was inspecting the parcel post we’d so ceremoniously delivered.

And we got on the road and headed for home. My first and last camping trip.

I’ve changed a lot since then. I haven’t smoked any weed in twenty years and I’ve moved up to the Marriott as a bare minimum as far as comfort is concerned when traveling. I don’t commune with nature very well. I don’t like getting dirty and smelling like smoke. I need a full bar and restaurants. Maybe if I went with someone of the fairer sex it would be different?

Did you know that as late as 1977 the French were still sending people to the guillotine?

I was both shocked and pleased.

On another note, I’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of people are at least mildly retarded. I spent an inordinate amount of time at a home improvement warehouse this weekend and I’ve seen it all.

No matter how wide the aisles are some people have to pass their cart dangerously close to you. They expect you to move because they’re important people in their simple minds. Rude, nasty people. What they don’t expect, however, is for you to say, “Watch me run this asshole down,� to your wife really loud while you stare at them. Trust me, they will back down. Fast.

The parking lots of these places are even worse than being inside. It’s not really that complex. You simply park and get out of your car. When the coast is clear, you cross the main little drag and go into the store. There is no need to cruise the little drag at 2 MPH. There is no need to stop for 30-60 seconds on that little drag before continuing on at 2 MPH.

There is no reason to walk down the center of that little drag with your cart full of shit. Cross it or don’t. When you walk down the middle for long periods of time as if it were a side walk—I have no choice but to blow the horn when I’m two feet away from you. You could cross in six steps asshole, walking down the middle for the whole length of the parking lot shows your disregard for common decency and running you down would be a public service.

I watched the Movie King Kong on Saturday night and I still can’t believe it was released at that length. What was it, like four hours long or some shit? I could have easily edited an hour of Kong having tantrums. It was like they showed the same footage over and over again. My God that was tedious. It takes balls to release something like that fucking bad.

Yes, it’s Monday and I’m not handling it well. I’m not feeling any love.

Let’s take a look at something I’ve never mentioned before. The Da Vinci Code.

For some reason this thing really upsets people.

I read the book so long ago that I barely remember it. I bought it the week it came out, before there was any hoopla or reviews or controversy. I happened to like his previous book, Angels & Demons, so I bought this one hoping it would be as good. It wasn’t, but I liked it anyway. It was a very good idea and though Brown’s not exactly Tolstoy, the story moved along and it was interesting and I read it in close to one sitting and then promptly forgot about it. I was not enraged or offended. I don’t know what I was, because it didn’t leave any impression on me other than it was a fun book and that’s swell, but I had moved on to another.

Then some months later I started hearing about outrage and it blossomed from there into some kind of full-fledged Beatlemania of hate. It got to the point where I never wanted to hear the title of the book again. And now there’s a movie and all the hype is back.

You know what? Go see it. Or don’t go see it. Because in the grand scheme of anyone’s life this means very little. It’s a fucking book. It’s a fucking movie. People need to stop acting like they’re teaching the plot of this thing in public schools.

“It’s ridiculous!� I hear from grandstanders. You know what? So is fucking Shrek. I haven’t seen Mission Impossible VII, but I’m pretty sure that plot is ridiculous.

You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to see it. Or you could revel in it. The choice is yours; unlike it would be in, say, Iran.

A lot of people key in on one a central point when they discuss this topic. “It’s fiction,� they say. “Fiction!�

And that’s pretty hard to fucking argue. It’s not a book that anyone is going to look for in the “Theology� section of Barnes & Noble. If you personally believe this book is blasphemous to your personal beliefs, that’s too fucking bad. Plenty of shit offends me and I live with it. Free speech and all that. These people have a right to tell this tale if that’s what they wish to do. And I have the right to see it if I so choose.

I saw some actor from the film say in an interview that The Bible ought to be labeled fiction as well. Heh.

I’m not touching that because I don’t care what other people believe. They can believe or not believe anything they want. I don’t wish to join forces, cause people to switch sides or anything else. I’m personally not interested in what other people believe.

I AM interested in the Christians and especially the Catholics who are able to read the book or see the movie and say they liked it or they didn’t. No big hoopla or anything, just liked it or didn’t. To me these people seem very sane. They don’t want to boycott or burn villages.

I’m also interested in people who say, I don’t think I’ll see it, or who say they will go see it--without any foaming at the mouth or quotes from Leviticus. I’m a big fan of sanity. See it. Don’t see it. Is that too fucking over simplified?

For the record, I’ll see it, even though I hear there’s no T & A.

Because I like a good story.

I’m fascinated with shrunken heads. The Jivaro tribe from Ecuador and Peru did an outstanding job with these. And when I say shrunken heads, I mean shrinking down an actual human head so that it looks just like it did on someone’s shoulders, but is the size of an orange. And a little wrinkly.

Here’s a gallery of great photos.

One of these things would look great hanging from my rearview.

Ebay, here I come.

Why do people videotape themselves having sex?

I really want to know.

First of all, these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. It’s undeniable. Secondly, I don’t understand the appeal. I hate having my picture taken. I’m talking about still photos, fully clothed. When I see a picture of myself I cringe…and it’s been said I’m not too hard on the eyes.

I just can’t imagine watching a videotape of myself having sex.

I would have to sit there and critique my own performance. How could I not? How could anybody not? I find the concept incomprehensible.

Why am I making that face? I shouldn’t bend my neck like that. Look at my hair.

Yet some people make these things habitually. What am I missing? Is there something wrong with me?

Aside from drunken hookups with skanks and having to dance to poorly chosen music, the bouquet toss has always been a peril. I’ve seen chicks smash into the cake table trying to catch the bouquet on more than one occasion.

Now it appears they’ve got snipers waiting in the woods. This chick went for the bouquet and got shot.

On a related note, nothing gives me more pleasure than when a crass, drunken idiot catches the garter and a shy, demure lass in revealing clothing catches the bouquet. When the guy starts pushing that thing up the girl’s leg everybody in the place is uncomfortable. The drunks are shouting and the uptight relatives are holding their breath and the chick looks like she’d rather be tied to a red ant mound and than have Cletus come at her with the garter.

And as the video rolls she desperately tries to mentally transport herself away from the scene while Cletus, who’s been doing shots for several hours, threatens to cross the line. It’s always been my favorite part, save the times I had to do it. I found it almost as humiliating as the girl.

I like dogs. In fact, I like dogs more than I like people. But this idiotic bill will allow people to dine with their dogs at outdoor restaurants. I have a huge issue with this.

For starters, my idea of an obedient dog most likely differs from other people’s. For some reason a lot of people allow their dogs to bark incessantly, jump on people, dry hump people and assume you’re cool with it. I’m not.

Some people’s dogs bark at every other dog that comes near them. Not the dog’s fault mind you; most people can’t take car of themselves let alone a pet. When I think of a dog I think of a friendly lab or golden retriever sitting quietly at my feet happy and panting. Unfortunately, a lot of dog owners have nasty, yapping half feral rat dogs that bark continuously with impudence.

So now they have a brilliant plan to let people bring dogs to patio restaurants, where they can piss and shit where people eat. And before you call me an asshole, remember that I love dogs. While your dog may be gentle and obedient, the guy down the street may have a completely different idea about his dog’s behavior. I’ve said it many times—most people are assholes. And you know what? So are their dogs.

I can see it now, little kids and strange dogs put together in a dining environment. Pitt bulls and yappy rat dogs, owners constantly yelling at their pets and waiters having to work around it all. Sounds great, huh?

Some people advance ideas that are so stupid I cannot fathom how they get by in the world. It’s shaking my faith in Darwin.

Can you imagine how much people must have stunk in the middle ages?

Most people had one set of clothes. They slept in them, they worked in them and God knows what else. Their underwear must have been absolutely disgusting.

I suppose the rich and the nobility took a lot of baths, but the average serf must have stunk to the high heavens.

I really need to focus my thoughts in a more productive direction.

He resembles an overweight dugong. I have way too many questions.

The times they are a changin’. Steve writes an interesting piece about changes in the blogging world over the past few years. He points out that Instapundit has been overtaken by Maulkin, which to those of us who’ve been around long enough realize is a milestone of sorts.

Oddly, I don’t read any of the most popular blogs, right or left, because I think everyone is full of shit, but I’m a jaded bastard and my interests modulate weekly. He also points out something I noticed recently myself:

Looking at the ranks now, I'm amazed at how things are changing. People who used to count on 10,000 visits per day are sucking along at 4,000. Blogs I am sure I've never heard of are in the twenties and thirties. What a fickle public we have.

The dynamic has certainly changed. I’m sure much of it has to do with the fact that new blogs are springing up at the rate of one million per day or something. And of course most of them suck. A lot of people still think they’re famous, by whose standards I surely don’t know. A lot people still think they’re going to be discovered, like this whole thing is some kind of digital Shwabb’s Drug Store. And some people are still trying to make a buck without actually working, what I like to call Ralph Kramden Syndrome. And some people think they’re running a media conglomerate:

I see Wizbang has offshoot blogs now, and apparently they're pumping up their traffic count by putting the same Sitemeter code on every blog! Of course, it's possible that every one of their blogs was averaging 34,482 visits as of TLB's last snapshot. It could happen. Quantum mechanics tells us things like that happen. I wonder if I could get all my friends to put my Sitemeter code on their blogs. Then I could charge $900 for a BlogAd.

I live for stuff like that. I think most of us who’ve been around three years or more have pretty much stopped trying. I stopped trying a couple of years ago. It’s tiresome. Leaving comments and linking people who post complete shite—the whole thing stinks of prostitution.

Many have matured. Folks who used to link every day are now writing more and I have a lot more respect for that. I find it hard to believe that people still check the ecosystem. I guess that’s one thing that’ll never change; the enormous ego of the blogger.

One thing I’ve learned over the past few years is that being a link whore is futile. I also learned how to maintain a narrative, and through forced daily writing I’m able to write other things much easier. I’ve submitted writing to people and have had checks mailed to me, which is what I’d hoped for from the start. I’ve developed a lot of friendships as well.

Of course I’ve angered people, run off Jim’s readers and been called a lot of nasty names too. It’s a fickle thing, blogging. And I’m oddly at home in my obscurity.

I don’t do politics here. A few people do it well, and hundreds do it so poorly that the whole thing is a turn off. We like to consider this an oasis where you don’t have to deal with that, since so much bandwidth is already hogged by people who, for the most part, really don’t understand what they’re talking about.

However, every once in a while I find myself worked up about something and I need to get it off my chest. Today, it’s the world’s largest, stinkiest, gaping asshole: the president of Persia. I won’t type his name here because I find it personally offensive. This guy’s been running around waving his bare ass in everyone’s face for a long time.

When the leader of a country keeps telling the world that another country, in this case Israel, needs to be wiped off the map, I take issue with it. You’d think that everyone would take issue with it, but you’d be wrong. Plenty of other world leaders don’t really care, for a variety of reasons.

Regardless, it really gets under my skin that this walking, talking rectum gets immunity from the world while he constantly threatens civilization. Today one of his underlings stated:

"We have announced that wherever America does something evil, the first place that we target will be Israel," Revolutionary Guards Rear Admiral Mohammad-Ebrahim Dehqani was quoted as saying by Iran's student news agency ISNA.�

Well, I’m here to tell you that if Israel feels threatened enough, they’re going to take action. I don’t know if it will be a strike on the nuke lab or one shot to that asshole’s head, but it’s coming.

Sorry. Back to regularly scheduled idiocy.

I’m pretty sure I figured out why most blog names are embarrassingly bad. I mean aside from the fact that most people aren’t very creative and/or clever.

Most bloggers never created any serious plan or anything. They just started blogging, and in many cases they started on blogspot or something and I think they chose a name in thirty seconds or less. And that’s always a bad move. Long term decisions shouldn’t be made in fifteen seconds while you’re trying to register on blogspot and watching for your boss’s office door to open at the same time.

The ones I find to be horrifically bad are the long tongue twisters like “Ramblings of Inter-terrestrial Musings of Thoughts of an Introspective Geek.� You get the picture. In fact, don't use any of those words if you're starting a blog.

I’m not too thrilled with the puns on political parties either. The whole right and left act is stale an unimaginative. Unlike Shank, I don’t have a problem with eponymous blog names. It’s honest and straight forward.

Blog names are important. I simply will not visit a blog if the blog name is shitty, boring or cliché. I think a lot of people know they fucked it up but it’s hard to change once it’s out there.

My advice for anyone starting a blog these days is stay away from the words:

Rantings, ramblings, thoughts, right, left and “the.� It’s been done. And re-done.

In addition, don’t look through the dictionary or thesaurus for long words with too many syllables. Certainly don’t look in the thesaurus for new versions of rambling, raving and thoughts. In fact, stay the fuck away from all words beginning with the letter “R.�

There. Now off you go.

A lot of blog names turn me off. I could give some examples but I don’t have the heart.

On a related note, have you ever watched a really bad TV commercial from a major company and think to yourself, “Who the fuck signed off on that?�

I’m not talking about low budget local ads; I’m talking about Fortune 500 companies. It makes me wonder how people can put out complete shit and still keep their jobs. And you know the thing’s been screened by the biggest of wigs in many cases because the placement contracts are for a gazillion dollars. There are enough of these things out there in rotation where you must know what I’m talking about. Confusing ads where you don’t even know what product they’re selling, bad jingles…the whole nine yards.

I know that many things are subjective, but Christ, almost everybody has a benchmark for just plainbad. You know it when you see it. And I can picture a bunch of jackholes sitting around a conference table at the agency, slapping each other on the back and taking notes as they murder someone’s budget. And back at the ranch when they preview the 30 second spot, the head jackhole, the overpaid, under qualified friend of a nepotistic friend nodding approvingly, because it was, after all, his responsibility to relay the expectations and message to the ad agency.

I play these scenarios out in my head a lot. Sometimes I’ll be sitting in front of the TV completely spaced out for five or ten minutes and then realize I’ve been writing the back story for a bad commercial. I can see the faces of these people sitting around the conference room brainstorming, making critical errors, scratching their noses. It’s very real. Times like that make me realize how much I could benefit from a good prescription.

Take twice a day or as needed for unexplainable insanity.

Here’s an interesting link. And by interesting I mean frightening.

It’s the International Federation of Competitive Eating. I reckon that competitive eating must have needed an international federation. Anyway…

One guy ate over 32 grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes. And while part of me wants to congratulate him on an outstanding achievement, part of me can’t help but wonder how many days it took for him to have a normal bowel movement.

Another guy ate six pounds of Spam right out of the can in twelve minutes. SIX POUNDS in twelve minutes. Can you imagine the digestive tract after that? Do you go right from the contest to the hospital or what?

Take a look at the “Eater Profiles� because it’s priceless.

A couple of discoveries made last week have me wondering how I’ve wandered the earth this long without falling into sink holes.

My wife declared that the pots and pans we’ve been cooking with since Christ was a carpenter have been slowly poisoning us over the years. During the first years of our marriage we weren’t serious cooks. Before the kid came along we mostly dined out and neither of us had a clue. We had this really cheap set of non-stick cookware that was really old and it looked like we’d used them for moving gravel from the front yard to the back.

My wife noted that all the scratches in the Teflon was probably eating my brain and that cooking in aluminum, if that’s even what it was, was as bad as eating lead paint chips. Since I need what little brains I have we went out and bought a decent set of Calphalon pots and pans that won’t slowly kill us.

I was shocked by two things. Price and performance. These things cost an arm and a leg, but you really see the difference when you use them. Since those early years my old lady really learned to cook like a pro. I dabble. And when I say dabble, I mean I buy really expensive ingredients and then ruin them and call for take out with a huge mess in the sink. Anyway, even I can cook with these because they heat evenly and my big problem was always controlling the heat.

And then we have James Michener. I thought I’d read every book ever published on this planet but alas, I’ve never read this guy until this week. I had no idea who he was or what he’d written until my wife came home with Caribbean, Journey and Chesapeake. I love historical novels and had no idea what I was missing. I think he got a Pulitzer for Tales of the South Pacific. Luckily he’s written a wheelbarrow full of books so I’ve got something to go on for a while.

So, Michener and Calphalon. Not a bad weekend for the boy.

I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about the people all of us encounter in the workplace. Newcomers who believe they’ll change everything and be promoted to Chairman within six months. Straw bosses, recently promoted from gopher to assistant to the assistant of the assistant manager. I’m talking, essentially, about the people we work with that believe themselves to be the second coming, when in fact they have nothing to contribute except talk.

Talk, talk, talk.

I have a nose for incompetence. More importantly, I have the uncanny ability to see through bullshitters. Being a Class A bullshitter in my own right, most common, run-of-the-mill bullshitters don’t stand a chance with me. Yet, down at the office they seem to have an open door policy with these people. And without fail they march in like Garibaldi, waving their arms quoting J.P. Morgan and destroy departments en masse until they’ve done so much damage financially and personnel wise that by the time they’ve been shown the door there’s nothing left but rubble and smoking embers.

This takes place at all levels, from VPs down to lower level management, which is probably the worst. Some people just aren’t leaders. They have no idea how gain respect from colleagues and underlings. They believe it to be either divine right or they fire bullets into the ceiling like Hitler on his beer hall putsch. These people often have no leadership skills, either taught or inbred, yet they believe that they are correct in all things.

I don’t tolerate them. At the first instance of grandstanding I’ll usually let them have it. Yesterday afternoon I was forced to tell someone, in a boardroom in front of many, many important people that, “What Alfred is suggesting will void most of our profitable contacts overseas, run production costs up 36% and leave us vulnerable in the US. In addition, the figures he’s got up on the screen are last year’s numbers, and what’s more, they’re incorrect by over six million dollars. I have here the actual numbers if anyone is interested in seeing them.�

There was a great empty silence while everyone stared at Alfred and then he started stuttering and stammering, but by then everyone was already looking at the numbers I’d provided and good old Alfred was sweating through his poorly cut suit. I suspect that Alfred won’t last another month. The damage is irreparable.

Alfred has nothing to do with me or my department. I’m above Alfred and I have almost nothing to do with him or his group. He’s been here all of a month. However, he came to me last week with this master plan, a crossover type thing which had no merit. I told him why it wasn’t a good idea, that he needed to do more research and explained very carefully the mistakes he made in preparation. I really tried to help.

Do you know what Alfred told me? He said, “I’m a big dog with big ideas. You have no idea what’s coming, man.�

I’m not even sure he knew exactly who I was or not, but either way, I dislike his ilk. I didn’t throw him out of my office or lose my temper. I smiled and told him to recheck his numbers. And this morning when he walked by my office I gave him a big, “Morning, Alfred!�

He didn’t reply.

Yes, I do watch American Idol. So sue me.

The thing I really love about it is Paula Abdul, who’s obviously high as a kite all the time. Last night she was really wrecked—crying and wailing and the whole nine yards.

Most people don’t want to believe this, but now pictures of her passed out, face down in a club are surfacing. For the most part the talent is mediocre, but there’s a certain entertainment factor involved here that I can’t deny, albeit it’s not intended by the producers.

As an added treat, one broad popped a button and we got a panty shot.

It turns out that Kevin Costner, of wooden actor fame, was the one who was masturbating at St. Andrews.

Allegedly, Costner was on his honeymoon with his new wife when he went for a massage, decided to take the towel off, and manually released himself in front of the masseuse. Since this was a high end place and not a Bangkok brothel, the masseuse was mortified. She complained to her superiors and was sacked.

I continue to be amazed at what famous people think they can get away with. Shit, most of the time they DO get away with anything they want.

Some of you may remember Costner from the film Waterworld. I remember him as that terribly wooden actor who speaks in a monotone voice with absolutely no dynamics or apparent acting talent. Possibly the most boring actor in American history.

Well, let’s go ahead and add him to the list of public wankers. You know it wasn’t the first time he’s done it. He’s probably masturbated up and down Sunset Boulevard. Restaurants, night clubs, boutiques—the whole shebang.

I have to add that when I was on my honeymoon, the last thing on my mind was masturbating in front of a strange woman. I preferred to do it in the hotel pool in full view of everyone. But I kid. I’m a kidder.

I give the marriage another month.

After reading this, in which Oorgo gets spayed like an English Sheep dog, my testicles hurt. I know is all in my head, but my balls hurt none-the-less. How could they not?

I can’t imagine experiencing this:

“Don't believe them when they say it doesn't hurt… It felt like somebody plugged a 9 volt battery onto one of my boys: electric shooting pain.�

I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m ever doing that. Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime, it gets worse:

“Follow the instruction for pre-op. If they say shave the area, shave the friggin area. You really don't want some grumpy bitch in scrubs taking a hoe to your private parts, the one who did mine apparently thought she was working in the friggin garden or scraping of her windshield.�

I can’t imagine having my groin shaved by a stranger. At least it was a woman. Imagine if a 300 pound man in an Italian sweater came in and started lathering you up? How many years of therapy are we talking about?

My rule is simple. NO ELECTIVE SURGERY.

As a guy who spends a lot of time on planes I find this especially troubling.

The airlines have come up with a new answer to an old question: How many passengers can be squeezed into economy class?

Airbus has been quietly pitching the standing-room-only option to Asian carriers, though none have agreed to it yet. Passengers in the standing section would be propped against a padded backboard, held in place with a harness, according to experts who have seen a proposal.

Air travel is already heinous. The seats are packed together so tightly that I have to bring a bag to put my feet in if I’m not in business class. People are so close together that the air is fucking toxic.

No one obeys the rules, i.e., even with the seatbelt light on, the aisles are crammed with people walking up and down beating the shit out of your elbows if you’re on the aisle, and now this.

Can you imagine standing room only? I don’t know what people are thinking anymore. I dare them. I double dare them.

If you’re going to ride a bicycle, just for putting around town, is it mandatory to wear the full-on spandex uniform?

Because the old bastard that was riding in the middle of the fucking road during lunch hour looked like he was in the goddamned Tour-de-France, except that he was traveling at 2 mph and he was 106 years old. Did I mention that the bike was a beach cruiser?

I wish that I could accurately describe what this idiot was wearing…he looked like he was prepared for some kind of swim meet in the Arctic Circle. I missed two lights thanks to that old bastard.

Is everyone who rides a bike required to don the full regalia?

I was reading this article, which mentions that cockfighting is still legal in New Mexico and I was completely blown away.

“The governor added the arguments for and against cock fighting have been strong on both sides.�

Man, I’d love to hear the “for� argument.

I’m instituting a new feature here at SBD. Since I’m a cultural kind of guy I’ve decided to share my vast expertise on all things cultural every Friday. Or until I get bored.

Today’s topic: Art Appreciation

The first thing we need to address is the fact that art is subjective. One man’s masterpiece is another mans complete and total piece of shit. With that said, let me tell you how I feel about modern art—I think it blows. If it looks like my kid painted it, I really don’t have much respect for it. Critics say that “Modern Art� embodies anything done since about 1800, but my definition is anything that looks like a second grader painted it.

I particularly enjoy paintings from the Renaissance period, like Raphael’s Woman With A Veil. Note how you can tell what the fuck it is, unlike, say, modern art. What appeals most to me about this piece is how the woman is looking directly at you whilst gently fondling her breast.

The Baroque period offers some of history’s finest works. Let’s take a look at Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson. Check out the look on the face of the guy holding the book. That’s art.

It’s important at this point to make to make a distinction. Rembrandt, Raphael, El Greco is art. Throwing one’s own feces at a canvas or anything having to with soup cans is shite. This is an important distinction and you may want to write that down.

But back to the baroque period. You’ll notice a lot of semi-naked fat chicks, so if that’s your thing, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

I generally skip right over the Neoclassical period. I don’t know…it lacks…chicks fondling their own breasts.

As far as modern art (by critic’s definition) the realists and the impressionists have done some great work. Renoir’s On the Terrace is a great example of masterful use of colors, yet you still know exactly what you’re looking at.

Post Impressionism, Cubism, Abstract and other styles of modern art generally blow, but then again, it’s all subjective.

Oddly, I can appreciate Surrealism and in particular Salvadore Dali. His Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bumblebee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening is very intense as is his Self Portrait.

Next Friday we’ll look at cinema, which is a much more cultural way of saying movies.

I don’t want to hear one more fucking word about Tom Cruise, his fucking robot wife or his spawn of Xenu.

Somebody needs to tell me why this constitutes front page news every day. He’s fucking certifiable and unraveling more every second. His publicists have gone the Michael Jackson rout and pushed him even farther over the top trying to prove he’s normal…and have failed miserably.

At this point I think it’s a pretty close race between him and Michael Jackson for the heavyweight title of CRAZIEST MOFO ON EARTH.

I’ve had it. I’ve really, really had it. And my pick is definitely Maverick. Jackson is nuts, and really disgusting, and probably a criminal, but Maverick is stone cold crazy.

And I still have nothing.

Apropos of nothing, when I was in the sixth grade I was walking home from school and this kid started pushing me. His name was Eddie something and he was very peculiar looking. I don’t remember what his problem was but he pushed me and pushed me and very quickly a bunch of other kids gathered around in a big circle.

I stood there, somewhat dumbfounded and tried to think of why this kid wanted to fight. This really peculiar looking kid. Anyway, he said he was going to kick my ass and tried to push me a third time so I punched him in the mouth. I wasn’t a tough guy, it was fight or flight. Regardless, I smacked him good on the jaw and for some reason he went berserker.

“You punched me in the mouth! You punched me in the mouth!�

He was holding his jaw and he was really outraged.

“Now I’m going to kick your ass!� he said.

He took a step forward and I punched him the mouth again. This time he was spitting blood and even more outraged than he was the first time.

“You made my lip bleed!�

Up until this time I had said nothing. I was just standing there; I never even raised my hands. This time I turned around and continued walking home. I’d gotten a few steps when I heard him approaching at a trot. I turned as he was poised to hit, and now, infuriated, I punched him three times squarely in the face and he lay there crying.

I walked home without further incident. And sometimes even now, some thirty years later, I wonder just what the hell his problem was.

Man, he was really peculiar looking.

Last night I cranked up the amp to eleven and played for the first time in some weeks. And as I ran through Clapton’s version of Crossroads I realized, not for the first time, that it was the epitome of blues rock, absolutely second to none.

Eddie Van Halen once said that that was arguably the best guitar solo ever recorded, and that statement certainly has some merit. It also lead me to outlining in my head the defining moments of rock history. It’s funny, but sometimes when I play I think of other things and have moments of profound clarity whilst in the middle of a face melting solo.

Anyway, these are what I believe to be the defining moments in rock history.

Elvis’s recordings at Sun Studios: Groundbreaking recordings of a white guy singing what was essentially black music. Also the beginning of what would become the greatest culture theft in modern times.

The Beatles on Ed Sullivan: The mass hysteria at the airport, the creaming of young girls panties and the beginning of the British Invasion. We will never see a band generate so much intensity again.

Chuck Berry literally invents the rock guitar riff: The intro to songs like Johnny B. Good and Maybelene become the stepping stones of almost every guitar riff in the rock guitar handbook.

Dylan turns the Beatles on to smoking pot: Ever wonder how the Beatles went from I Want to Hold Your Hand to Glass Onion? You bet your life that’s what did it. Dylan going electric gets an honorable mention as well.

The Beach Boys release Pet Sounds: The masterpiece that turned rock on it’s head and inspired the next bombshell…

The Beatles record Sgt. Pepper on 4 track: George Martin should get a lot of credit for this as well. This album changed everything forever. Rock would never be the same again as other influences are mixed in and limitations are erased. The day after the album was released, Jimi Hendrix opened a live show with a cover version of the title track. Aside from the masterpiece of music that it was, it was also the first time (I think) that lyrics are printed on the album sleeve. And the whole album cover design ushered in a new era.

The Stone’s Altamont Fiasco: The Stone’s play a free show in San Francisco using the Hell’s Angels as security. A murder was caught on film and the “Summer of Love� officially ended.

Stairway: Led Zeppelin conquers the known world.

Dark Side of the Moon: What can anyone say? Enter prog rock.

Ziggy Stardust: Enter glam rock.

God Save the Queen: The Sex Pistols sell the swindle. Enter punk rock and with it people who have no idea how to play instruments. Counter culture or ringing cash register…you make the call.

The 80s kill rock music as we know it: A long, long time ago…I can still remember when…those good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye…

MTV plays black artists: After being under the fire for years MTV begins playing black artists, and in the process popularizes rap.

Seattle: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, et. al.

Music sharing: Copyright? What the fuck are you talking about?

The great wasteland: A shitload of bands that all sound like Creed (who sounds like Pearl Jam) clog up the airwaves with brooding bullshit of no substance or creativity whatsoever.

The iPod : People now carry around their entire music collection in a device smaller than a cell phone.

And there we have it.

I’m not addicted to computer games but I like them. Strategy games mostly. Well, exclusively. Anyway, having run Rome: Total War and the expansion pack into the ground I needed a new game to help dull my senses from reality.

In what was possibly the stupidest decision I have ever made I purchased The Sims 2. As I mentioned before, I mainly play strategy games and for the most part they involve military planning, so how did I end up with this ridiculous title? I researched the best strategy games and found out this was, like, the most popular game in history or some shit.

So anyway, I’ve had the thing for a week or so and I’ve never hated a game so much in my life. The fucking tedium involved is unbelievable. Tell your sim to go to the bathroom? Tell your sim to go to work? Tell your sim to eat? It’s the worst torture I’ve ever endured. It’s like living my life all over again in a microcosm of mouse clicks.

Can someone please tell me what is fun about this? Day after day in the life of this thing it’s the same shit. Go pee. Now eat cereal. Now got to bed. Jesus Christ, I feel violated by this thing. I feel like I paid $39.99 to be tortured to death by the banality of a fake life even worse than my own. Last night I sat there like an idiot, micromanaging this things bladder, the whole time perplexed by the fact that anyone could finding this fucking horror show enjoyable. Life is horrible. That’s why I’m playing a fucking game! To escape the horrors of peeing and eating and interacting with others. I’ve never been so goddamned depressed in my life, except for the realization that other people actually enjoy doing this. That’s the real kicker. There are millions of people out there who actually embrace this fucking tedium. Jesus Christ, where’s the Tylenol?

Long time, no blog.

Someone cared enough to call and see if I was dead or not, which I appreciated greatly. Very sexy phone voice—probably a hottie. I suspect she may have a 900 number. And for the record, she sounded warm, sincere and had a nice laugh.

But the first time I did it I was led, literally by the hand, to where the new houses were being built. They were almost finished and were carpeted and everything.

“What if it’s locked?� I said.

“We’re going to find out.�

I was really apprehensive about the whole thing. I didn’t even like the chick and she wasn’t particularly good looking. But she was determined. I was pretty much in a cold sweat as we walked up the driveway. It was late and I should have been home hours earlier and now I was being dragged into an empty house by this girl who was not about to take no for an answer.

I will admit I was terrified. I didn’t picture it like this and I was trying my best to weasel out of it. It’s funny, but I was one of those clueless guys when I first entered high school. I never really got the hint that chicks liked me; someone else always had to point it out.

“Are you sure?�

“Dude, she had her hand down your pants in public.�

“Yeah, but still…�

Or the girl would just give up and have at my private parts after getting tired of waiting for me to make a move. That all changed when I turned eighteen and had developed some confidence and experience, but at the time? I was pretty much walking around innocently while a string of girlfriends kept trying to get me to do stuff. Eventually they’d just come out with it verbally, completely frustrated. Often pissed off.

“Oh! Okay!� I was such a dimwit.

So anyway this girl leads me up the drive way and it’s my first time and all, so I’m scared shitless and she tries the doorknob and it opens. The place was nearly finished and she led me into one of the rooms and starts unbuttoning her jeans while I stood there dumbfounded. And when she finally got down to nothing she pulled me down on the carpet and we had at it. I’d say it lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thrusts. Having finished, and not knowing what else to do, I simply continued. Back then I didn’t know guys lost their erection after they finished, because I didn’t. At the time I had no idea it was unique to like 20% of the population. I found out later that there’s a technical name for it, but it’s not important, because I found out later it gave me a huge edge over people with normal metabolisms. So anyway I keep going and then I said to myself, “Christ, I’m having sex! I need to try it with her on top!�

And I’ll leave out all the details but I attempted several positions from various magazines and movies, some of which worked and some of which didn’t, but on the whole it was a really great time. And I’ll tell you yet again how naive I was. When I put my underwear back on my thing was absolutely covered in liquid and it soaked my underwear through. I found out much later that she was an ejaculator. A woman, that you know, squirts when she finishes. So me being an idiot and all thought that all women did that and as I say, much later I found out that that was not the case at all.

So I guess that ends my tale, which was probably way too much information, but I had nothing again and it’s the only true story I could think of that I’ve never told anyone before. Until now. I predict regretting this in 5…4…3…2…

Not that it matters. I’m under the impression that there over 3,000,000,000 blogs on the web and one million more spring up each day. Of those, probably one thousand of them are worth reading, to me, and I will probably never find them. I made the numbers up, but you get the point.

And here I sit. I could have been a contender, but that would have involved me caring about the hits and the numbers and doing the side show act to draw attention and somehow that all reeks of work and ambition. And in the end I would have been “Whack –a-mole’d� anyway, because I’ll never be part of the mainstream anything. When I get too close to the herd I panic and flee, fearing I’ll be swallowed up by the general mediocrity.

If you’ve read this far you will have realized I have nothing to say of any relevance. Again. That makes 2,999,999,999 of us. Yet I keep typing, like one of those assholes at party that corners you and keeps talking and talking about his fucking angina or whatever. And that’s another thing. I have come to dislike parties. In the old days when I was single I had a reason to be at a party. I was there to work the room. Nowadays, I know who I’m going home with so I’m stuck with the shitty part of the party. The small talk.

It wouldn’t be so bad if people were more interesting and told tales of adventure, but I just don’t give a shit about the Atkins diet or Everwood, or whatever else is sapping the life blood from most people. I don’t want to hear people talking unless they have something interesting to say. Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something. People don’t have to be secret agents to be interesting, but most people live in a soft, wet bubble of banality. Lot’s of interesting things happen inside the bubble but they refuse to notice. They don’t have the eye or the imagination to polish up a mundane episode or anecdote and relate it with any gusto.

I’d love to be at a party one day and have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just wrote a book on the migration of American Indians in the 15th century.� That would interest me and I would engage Phil in conversation, but that’s not likely to happen in the circles in which I travel. I would be just as happy to have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just stocked my above ground pool with rainbow trout.� That works for me.

Unfortunately, what I usually get is, “I’m Phil, and I’m getting over a nasty cold.� Or, “I’m Phil…did you see the cover of the new TV Guide?�

And if given the chance, Phil will bring you down with him. His banality will eat away at you until you can get away from him, only to be cornered by another robot with tales of his high school track and field accomplishments back in 1980. It’s a slow, painful death.

Now is the point in a post where I count up the words, 517 to this point, and think about slashing 250 of them. I’ll look it over to see if it rambles (yes), look at the pacing (which is dreadful in this case) and look to see if I’ve jumped from topic to topic with no theme and no direction. This is where I would start the re-write or trash the entire post. I might pick one small phrase, for instance, “Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something,� and write a new post around that one line and send this one to hell. But not today.

Today I’m going to post this just as it came out, with no re-write, no pacing and no theme. If you’ve read this far I commend you and I apologize in advance, because I’m dedicating this to Phil, the guy who cornered me last Saturday night to talk about his fucking plan to landscape his yard this year. When I walked, he walked. There was no getting away from Phil. He waited OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM DOOR while I peed so he could continue to tell me about his future koi pond.

He’ll never know how close he was to a full on, Sonny Corleone beating.

Last night I sent Shank and his future bride a wedding gift. I was telling my wife what we got them and my wife said that’s all fine and dandy but asked what I wrote on the card.

I’ll admit that I’m walking on thin ice with things like this. I have enough class to know what’s appropriate and what’s not, but I still freeze up.

She was reading my mind, obviously, because just moments before, I was upstairs staring at the blank field where I was suppose to write something wondering what the hell to do. My natural instinct is to write something funny. Or obscene.

I’m not a touchy feely kind of guy. I’m not one of those guys that hugs other guys all the time. I’m not afraid of turning gay or anything, it’s just that I grew up in the firm handshake school. When I grew up there wasn’t a lot of hugging in the family, even with women. I think a lot of it had to do with putting on airs. I’m pretty sure my family was preparing me for a Princeton education where proper fellows didn’t show emotion.

Once when we were in Los Angeles we went to see a band at a well known club. My wife was talking to some friends and when she turned around there was a guy hugging me. He was the lead singer of the band, and as such, he was wearing arm length opera gloves with the fingers cut out. So she turns around and there this guy with opera gloves hugging me and she has no idea who the guy is but thinks it’s hysterical. I was nonplussed, but I had officially been hugged by a friend. I would have rather been hugged by the guy’s girlfriend who was a hotty. There’s always the chance she’ll squeeze your ass and then wink at you when she breaks the embrace, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen. Neither did the Princeton education, but that’s another story.

All that was some years ago. Friend hugging has now encroached upon my life in a huge way. There’s way too much hugging in the world. I don’t like hugging my friend’s wives. I don’t like kissing women on the cheek. I don’t like human contact at all unless it’s with my wife or my kid. Or a hooker. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, my old lady still wants to know what I wrote on the gift card.

“I think I wrote ‘best wishes’.�

“That’s totally wrong! You’re supposed to say or write ‘Good luck’ to the groom and ‘Best wishes’ to the bride. You should have written both. Don’t you know anything?�

Apparently not. So, Shank and Mrs. Shank, Good luck and best wishes on this joyous occasion.

***Update***

I’ve just been chastised for getting it wrong again in this post. Apparently, it’s:

To the bride, best wishes, and to the groom congratulations.

###

I’m at a loss. Nothing has enraged me to the point of posting in several days. In lieu of anything of substance I offer you my thoughts on booze.

I’m partial to Macallan 18 year old scotch. No ice, no water. It’s pretty close to perfect. If I can’t get that I’ll go with Lagavulin. If neither is available I’ll move on to one of the Glens or even a Johnny Walker.

If I can’t get scotch I’ll go with Maker’s Mark bourbon. Moving down from there, in no particular order:

Grey Goose Vodka, Harp Lager, Vanilla extract, Nyquil, Hobo-tastic red-flavored wine, Tanqueray gin or one of the fine products reviewed here (a most excellent site).

As you can see, I have a refined palette.

I get the feeling no one’s reading this stuff. Have I driven away all the decent folks with my low-brow drivel? There was a time you know, when I pulled big numbers. No matter, I will not be dissuaded.

I was just thinking that if you know who HR Puffinstuff is, it’s probably time for some sort of middle-aged rectal exam. I vaguely remember the theme song and I’m pretty sure HR was a guy in shabby, B-class baggy animal suit of some kind. Maybe I should schedule a physical.

I think about my childhood a lot. I was a happy kid. I recently came into possession of my baby book. An entry on page six, when I was two or three years old sums it up:

Paul is a happy baby and can sing many songs.

God knows what went wrong. I read that entry to a friend of mine and he just started belly laughing. “Well,� he said, “You’re a sour son-of-a-bitch now!�

Who knows what went awry. Things seemed pretty good up until my twenties. I guess that’s when responsibility beats the shit out of you and leaves you for dead. Responsibility has sucked the very marrow from my bones.

Now I find myself reliving my childhood in mini dream sequences throughout the day. Who knows, maybe I’m not the only one.

Phillip:

You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. More importantly, what the hell have you done in the last twelve months? I think a list of your accomplishments could be written on the back of business card. With a Sharpie. In addition to lackluster performance, you have an extremely limp handshake that creeps people out.

Janet:

You are, without a doubt, the most talked about person in the whole company. Dumb as a stump with a great body. Very attractive. A solid nine. There is no finer sight than that of you bending over in the copy room picking up paperclips. I love you Janet. I love you with all my heart.

Toby:

Please get out of panic mode. Nobody can be that panicked all day long, every day. Considering what you actually do here, it’s uncalled for. Just pick up the phone and say the name of the company. It’s not like you have stock options at risk.

Arthur:

No one believes you. Every Monday morning we have to hear about your conquests and skills with women, skis, cards, darts, et. al. ad nauseum. You walk from cube to cube with that fucking mug of coffee like you’re the second coming. And you just don’t get it. I’ve told you before to keep your voice down. I’ve told your manager I was going to take it out of his ass if I found you walking the floors again. I have kicked my office door closed in your face and you still don’t get it. You are universally despised.

Martha:

Stop. Fucking. Cooking. This is a workplace, not the goddamned Waffle House. You’re stinking up the whole floor with that shit. You know what? I’m the guy that had microwave popcorn banned here. Me. And I’m proud of it. Little did I know it would be replaced by you cooking full fucking meals. You put fish in that microwave one more time and I swear I’ll pee in that thing. You go ahead and try me.

Albert:

You are one seriously confused mofo. Let’s forget for a moment the magnitude of your stupidity and talk about what’s socially acceptable. Asking if you could borrow someone’s newspaper and then proudly walking into the shitter is just…just…I fucking don’t know what it is. It horrifies me.

To be continued…

I dislike all of you. Immensely. The lot of you are boorish and mundane, without an original thought amongst you.

Specifics

Theodore:

What the fuck do you do in the bathroom all day? There’s a fucking pool going now on how many minutes per day you spend in there.

Deb:

You’re a serious skank. You’re stinking up the whole floor with the smell of Benson & Hedges and cheap-ass perfume. You must swim laps in that shit. I suspect you’ve had group sex in a moving car whilst smoking a cigarette. Please refrain from speaking to me.

Leo:

If you say, “Think outside the box,� just one more time, I will personally throw you down the stairs. I’ve warned you numerous times.

Carol:

You are way too heavy to be wearing clothes that tight. You’re not fat, you’re not unattractive, but you’re going to bust the seams on that shit. Please comply, as you seem to be very nice.

Anthony:

You’re a real asshole and the guy I’m most likely to attack physically. You need to lower your goddamned voice. There’s nothing I dislike more than a loudmouth braggart. And you really need new shoes. I would be totally embarrassed to wear those old ratty dogs to work.

James:

You’re a special case. You love meetings, and I know why. While the rest of us are trying to escape and do actual work, you love to sit there and think in the abstract. I see the way you light up when the brainstorming starts. You know what? There are bad ideas. Lot’s of them. And the next time you defend or advance some retarded idea in that conference room I will personally stand up and give an oral history of your fuckups like a griot reciting the 1,000 year history of a village. You will be able to walk under a closed door by the time I get through.

Sam:

I don’t know how many shirts you own, but I’m guessing three. I see you every day and I only count three shirts. That’s either very heavy rotation or you need some kind of help.

To be continued…

I have to admit I’m not big on answering the phone. In our house, 95% of all phone calls are for my wife. She’s on the phone so much the fucking thing gets hot.

Anyway, last night we had an aunt and uncle from out of town come over for dinner. Very conservative and a lot older than us. So we’re sitting there dipping bread into the artichoke pesto when the phone rings. I looked over at my wife and told her to let it ring.

“You know it’s not important,� I said, “You can call them back later.�

She nods in agreement and we go back to chatting in a reserved manner. Just then the answering machine clicks on and a loud voice booms through the kitchen. And at that moment I realized my error.

“Hey asshole!�

It was an old friend of mine. He was hammered. I instantly knew that this would end badly.

“Dude, get your hand off your cock and answer the fucking phone!�

I looked at our guests. They were stunned. Ashen.

“C’mon fuckface, I know you’re there!�

At that point I didn’t know what to do. I realized I was holding my breath. My old lady was looking at me, her eyes pleading. But there was no solution. We were already mortified.

I didn’t know if I should run over and pick up the phone or what. I was about to declare it a wrong number when he addressed me by name, cementing forever the already tarnished reputation I hold in the family.

“That’s Paul’s old college roommate,� my wife offered, “You know how it is…�

But they didn’t know how it is. Or how it was. And we went back to the pesto and I poured more wine and thought about my buddy. And how he’d screwed me royally, and the joy it would bring him when I eventually called back. Somehow, it made me feel better.

Phone numbers always used to have the area code in parentheses, like this:

(555) 123-1234

Now, however, I have noticed a trend where all the numbers are separated by the dash and the parentheses have gone the way of the dodo, i.e.:

555-123-1234

There you have it. I am so worth the click.

Out of three authors on this blog, nobody’s had the decency to post anything in a week or so. I was on vacation so I’m exempt from criticism. Is this any way to run a railroad?

Meanwhile, I’ve got nothing of substance. Again.

I am completely barren of ideas, thoughts or observation of any kind.

I set aside some time today to post something of substance; unfortunately, I’ve got nothing and it can’t be forced. So in lieu of that, here’s what’s going through my head today.

Mark Twain was an overrated, mean-spirited shitbag. He was a newspaper hack who never really understood the novel, though he talked like he invented the damned thing. Yes, they say he had charisma, but so do many arsonists, motivational speakers and con men, all of which I hold in the same regard.

I never forgave Twain for his idiotic and exaggerated criticism of JF Cooper. He came off looking like the nasty bastard he probably was. Aside from my unexplainable contempt for Twain today, my thoughts have been relatively shallow.

I don’t like Poptarts; they just don’t appeal to me.

I never had a proper lunch today and now I’ve got the urge to stuff big fistfuls of dry cornflakes into my mouth. I do that sometimes, late at night, when I’m lying on the couch alone. I lie there like a bum with the TV volume low, so as not to wake anyone, and stuff big fistfuls of cornflakes into my mouth. I’m careful not let the crumbs get on the couch or fall in between the cushions, because that’s tantamount to killing kittens in my wife’s view. That and I’m not a pig. I don’t wish to wallow in filth myself.

And I lie there in my underwear and a wife-beater, flipping through the channels, looking for salvation.

Some days you have it, some days not so much.

I don’t know what to say.

I was standing at the counter with bottle of Coke. I reached into my pocket and out came some crumbled up bills and a handful of coins. I look down at the coins and I’ve never fucking seen them before. I thought they were Canadian or some other worthless currency and then realized they were nickels. All different kinds.

I had a regular nickel, a new version of a buffalo nickel and yet another one with half of Jefferson’s head on it. I was dumbfounded.

What’s up with all the new nickels? It’s bad enough they’re minting new quarters with Newark and Detroit on them once a month, now the US mint is changing the nickels every week. I just don’t get it. I don’t know what the national debt is, but how the hell can we be spending our resources changing the goddamed coins every week? It’s got to cost money drawing the designs, stamping the plates and all of that crap. Does this make sense? We should be getting rid of the fucking dead wood in these agencies and they’re hiring by the busload down at the nickel division.

How many nickels do we need? Are they even worth five cents anymore? Are we going to have nickels from every state? What’s next, fifty new dimes? This is fucking criminal! I haven’t been this enraged since they canceled The Rockford Files.

I’ve never eaten bear meat, though for some strange reason, I yearn to try it. I’ve no desire to kill a bear personally, but I would really like to try a bear steak.

Perhaps it’s because I get bored eating the same crap all the time. How many days of your life can you eat beef, pork, chicken, et. al.? Granted some people are vegetarians, but I won’t get started on that unnatural and misguided practice. Human teeth were meant for eating meat.

I’ve eaten a good share of rabbit in my day, which is a favorite of mine. I like ostrich. Quail, pheasant and squab—all fine alternatives to the mundane chicken, as are goose and duck. I’ve had alligator and rattlesnake, when the opportunity has come up, and I’m a big fan of venison as well.

I’m not sure that I’ve eaten a wild boar or not, but it’s certainly on my list. I’ve had buffalo burgers and enjoyed them. I’d like to try me some goat as well. I’ve hankered for moose on occasion, mainly out of curiosity. But for the most part I yearn for a nice thick bear chop.

“I bought you a new pair of jeans,� she said.

I had just walked in the door from work. When I come through the door after work I generally don’t like to bothered, after a perfunctory hello, for my fifteen minute adjustment period.

“Really? Why did you do that?�

I kept right on walking into the bedroom, knowing she’d follow, talking all the while. She was too excited not to, and that type of enthusiasm scares me.

“Don’t you want to see them?�

I was still standing at the dresser, emptying my pockets and trying to get out of my clothes.

“Of course.�

I knew at that point that I would not like the jeans. She was terribly excited about them and that could only mean one thing. They were something extraordinary, at least in comparison to my stand by Levi’s.

She opened a Nordstrom’s bag, a tell in itself, and unveiled the jeans. They were dark with pre-made wear spots on the fronts. They were cut funny, I could see that by the way she was holding them up. I’d seen these kinds of jeans before. Very contemporary. Worn by people much younger than myself. People I instinctively disliked.

“Well, try them on!�

She was waving them at me. Somehow, I was afraid of these jeans. Reluctantly I took them from her and looked at the brand. Lucky. I was pretty sure they only made jeans for chicks. Even if they did make jeans for men, I’m not the kind of guy to wear them. But I was standing there in my underwear holding them and she was giggling like a schoolgirl so I put them on.

I immediately felt ridiculous. They fit strangely around the waist. They fit strangely everywhere. I have a very large chip on my shoulder with anything connected to hip-hop and I had a feeling these things may be baggy enough to qualify. Regardless, they clearly didn’t fit.

“You look great! Wait—turn around…�

I turned. I felt her hands on my ass. She was squeezing.

“These are perfect!�

“They’re not perfect. They don’t fit and I don’t like them.�

“You just think they don’t fit. You should see your ass in these!�

“I like my Levis.�

“You have no shape in your Levis. You’re hiding that ass in the Levis. These jeans cup your ass! She kept grabbing my ass and squeezing, chasing me around the room.�

I took the jeans off.

“Listen, I really don’t think I can wear those. I’m not nineteen anymore. I feel like a dick wearing those things.�

She reluctantly put them back in the bag. I apologized for not being more receptive.

Three days later we’re driving somewhere and out of nowhere she said, “That shirt looks nice on you.�

“But you hate the jeans, right?�

I was wearing my beloved Levis.

“Is that all you got out of that entire episode? That I don’t like Levis?�

“Pretty much.�

“So all you took away from that was the negative? That I don’t like your Levis?�

“Well…�

“I buy you one pair of meterosexual jeans and you freak out. Totally missing the point. You're incredibly thick.�

###

This morning I looked on the Internet. Lucky does indeed make men’s jeans. And the prices are fucking obscene.

Okay, I finally found my superpower.

I’ve had it all my life but I took it for granted because I thought everybody had it.

I can take a look at someone or just spend a few seconds near someone and immediately know that they’re crazy.

My wife confirmed this superpower last night when she mentioned I was right; a recent acquaintance of ours is a little fucked up. She didn’t believe me at first, but it finally panned out, and in just the manner I suspected.

When I was young I could always tell when chicks were nuts. I’m not prejudiced against nutty chicks or crazy people in general. In fact, the best sex in the world is sex with a crazy chick. But I have a built in detector.

It’s the same with people who are a little slow. A couple of weeks ago I pointed out to a coworker that one of the new employees was an idiot.

“You say that about everybody.�

“But this time I’m not kidding. That dude walks around with his mouth open all day. He’s literally an idiot. I’m sure of it.�

My warning was ignored, and I didn’t care because I didn’t hire him. Several days later the coworker parked his ass on a corner of my desk.

“I think you’re right about Harris. Have you seen him answer the phone? Between the time he puts it to his ear and the time he says, “Hello,� there’s an abnormally long pause. Like five seconds or something. Every time.�

“Told you.�

He demonstrated by using his cell while I walked down to the guys cube and feigned interest in his project. The phone rang, he picked it up, put it to his ear and I started counting. It was, like, four-Mississippi before he fucking said hello. I should have starting counting again because when he got no response it was at least another four seconds before he said, �Hello,� a second time. And by then I was laughing too hard to hang around.

And I’m not making fun of the mentally challenged. This guy was hired at a fairly high level. I’m always shocked about that. For the most part, anyone with tuition money can manage a four year degree, no matter how fucking stupid they are. Then, as if by magic, they show up at some company and somehow interview their way into a decent job.

I guess they’ve never come up against Jim.

Anyhow, if you’ve got a suspected nut or a halfwit in the workplace, I can pick them out for you.

Please view this important communique asap.

I’ve been indisposed. When I don’t blog I’m not a happy man. This is my therapy, and when I don’t get my therapy I get anxiety in one form or another.

I went to an actual shrink for about four months once. It was many, many years ago and my stress level was through the roof and all I really wanted was a prescription to take the edge off on especially bad days. The price to pay was I had to sit there and go through the process of being analyzed.

If I knew then what I know now, that basically, any time you walk in to see your family practitioner for anything from carpal tunnel to bleeding ears the first thing they say is that it’s probably stress related and hand you a script.

Anyway, for a few months I went the Tony Soprano route with a real live shrink. It was awkward. I’m not the greatest communicator when it comes to meaningful discourse. I kept asking if I could mail it in, but she was having none of that. So I sat there and endured for a while, acting pretty much like Tony Soprano does with Dr. Melfi, minus the mob shit and the insults.

I always felt like she was trying very hard to outwit me. A lot of leading the witness type stuff. And all I really wanted was my script. It’s not like I was an addict; at the time I had a very stressful job and once or perhaps twice a week I needed a respite. A respite that didn’t come with a hangover.

So like an asshole I sat across from this woman, who was particularly unattractive, and tried not to do wacky shit, like keep cracking my knuckles or jiggling my leg constantly. On one level I was terrified of this woman. She sat there writing her notes, writing her notes, writing her notes. And I half expected her to suggest shock treatments or tell me I had some kind of fucked up personality disorder. I was always just a little bit afraid that maybe I was nuts. I was always expecting to hear, “I think you’ll be better off living in this facility out in Burbank.�

And let me tell you, struggling for forty-five minutes in front of shrink, desperately trying not to be yourself is more fucking stressful than any job.

“Tell me, what do you think is the basis of your anxiety?�

I suppose I could have just said that I was responsible for a lot of people and a lot of money and that my boss was insane, but it just seemed too mundane. I always went with the drama.

“Life is stressful. Buying a loaf of bread is stressful. Getting a haircut is stressful. Finding a parking spot in your fucking parking lot is stressful.�

“So, you feel that finding a parking spot can be stressful? Or buying a loaf of bread?�

“Fuckin’ A.�

“But there must be an underlying cause. Don’t you suspect there’s an underlying cause to your anxiety?�

And as this went on I kept thinking to myself, Don’t crack your knuckles! Don’t jiggle your leg! Don’t act crazy and you’ll be out of here soon!

I would always begin a reply with, “Logic dictates…�

It would drive her nuts. She would repeatedly try to drill into my thick skull that logic had no place in any of this. That phobias were exempt from logic. “Totally exempt!� she would cry. She was right about that of course, even a dullard like myself could get past the obvious.

In the end it was a pointless exercise. It was much more stressful dealing with this horrible woman than it was to just care less about upward mobility. I’ll never forget that woman’s haircut and her frump-wear. And waiting in the outer office, pretending to look at old magazines while I was really sizing up the real crazies, trying to catch a good look without getting caught.

One day I just never went back. There was no further correspondence, so I suppose I was never “turned in to the authorities� as some kind of nut. In fact, I suspect she was rather glad to be rid of me.

Everyone I know has some type of natural talent except for me.

My sister is a damned fine artist and has been since she was a kid. I, on the other hand, can’t draw a proper stick figure. I’m outdone by Neanderthal cave painters.

Some people can sing. Some people have a natural talent for math. I know people who can fix things—literally anything—because they’re mechanically inclined.

I know people who have the gift of spatial reasoning, and are so naturally good at chess that my years of study mean absolutely nothing. They thrash me at will.

Sculptors, painters, dancers, natural athletes…the list is endless.

And I’m still looking for my talent at what some of you might refer to as ‘an advanced age.’

It’s annoying and mysterious. It’s also the catalyst for plenty of fights at my house. I address this issue with my wife from time to time because it really does bug me.

“You’re just fishing for compliments.�

“No. No, I’m not. I have no natural talents. Everybody is supposed to have some natural talent.�

“You’re an incredible musician! You can play anything you want, so stop the bullshit.�

“That doesn’t count. I have to work for that. That’s not some gift from God, I busted my balls for hours every day of my childhood. I played until my fucking fingers bled, so don’t bring it up again.�

“Counts.�

“Does not.�

And the fight continues. I’m not talking about practicing something and getting good at it. I’m talking about natural gifts. Do they exist? Obviously. Does everyone have one? I’m not so sure.

Do you have one?

Over at this fine establishment they’re voting on which blogger is the king of poop stories. Hell, I cut my teeth on poop blogging. So for old time’s sake, here’s one of the all time great poop stories.

And just for the record, when you shit yourself in a foreign country, it’s much more intense. It’s a long post—hang in there, it’s worth it.

Every year the Oscar nominations come out, and without fail, I haven’t seen any of the films. I rarely leave my compound for any reason, but going to the movies is actually painful. I dislike other people and movie theaters put me in too close a contact with the masses. The fucking Herefords, grazing and plodding along with no self-awareness, eating giant buckets of popcorn coated with who knows what, talking on cell phones and cluttering up the general landscape of my life.

In addition, most people have no manners and my aggravation level skyrockets when I’m forced into close quarters with Neanderthals. When I watch a movie I concentrate. I like to become absorbed in the film. The cinematography, the music, the editing—if done well create a separate world for me that I enjoy very much. I hang on every word or dialog. I relax and forget my troubles.

And I can’t do that when some jerkoff is pressing his feet into the back of my chair. Or while some halfwit is talking because he’s too much of a dullard to follow a basic plot line. Without fail some people are late and then you have to watch them walking around in front of you trying to find a seat. How can I concentrate or relax with all that shit going on?

Even the new places where I can sit on a couch and drink green bottles are a hassle when people start talking near you. I just can’t do it.

Am I missing something? I imagine I am. A big screen is certainly better than a small one and I realize the dramatic enhancement. Many people seem to enjoy seeing a movie in a room full of other people. I don’t know, I read somewhere recently that people feel they’re sharing the movie as a group and that some sort of feeling of togetherness comes from it, or makes the event more special for them. Personally, I can’t imagine being that needy.

If a movie isn’t available on DVD I haven’t seen it.

Today is Mozart’s 250th birthday. I’m a fan. I even went to the Salzburg Festival once.

And even though a talent like that is extremely rare, I offer you another, of equal greatness. He never became as famous as Mozart, but I consider him to be his equal.

Ladies and gentleman, I give you, Le Pétomane.

For some reason, this line made me laugh out loud…it just seems so out of place.

“Later he opened a biscuit factory in Toulon.�

Rob tagged us with the Gang of Four thing.

Four jobs I’ve had in my life
• Marketing Director
• Sales & Marketing Director
• Pizza Delivery Twerp
• Dishwasher

Four movies I can watch over and over
• Blue Velvet
• Reservoir Dogs
• Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure
• The Godfather 1 & 2

Four places I have lived
• The OC
• NYC
• Miami
• Philadelphia

Four TV shows I love to watch
• Seinfeld
• Ali G
• The Sopranos
• Entourage

Four places I have been on vacation
• Oberammergau, Germany
• Tokyo, Japan
• Napa Valley, California
• San Sebastian, Spain

Four of my favorite dishes
• Sicilian Pizza
• Bouillabaisse
• Fois Gras (no searing, please)
• Subs (on really good bread)

Four websites I visit daily
• Imagine life without Google?
• SBD
• I really hate to admit it…Drudge
• Pretty much everybody on the blogroll

Four places I would rather be right now
• Ireland
• Lake Tahoe
• Bordeaux
• Las Vegas

Four bloggers I am tagging

None. Bloggers get all the glory. I’m tagging regular people without blogs…do it in the comments. Go ahead, let’s have some fun.
Tiffani, we’re waiting.

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Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Via Bane

Why is it so hard to get a doctor’s appointment? When you’re sick, you’re sick. You need to see a doctor right away, not in two fucking weeks. Christ, by then whatever you’ve got is either gone or has killed you. Most of them now have about six offices they run between when they’re not out cashing checks and playing golf.

Dramatization

“Good morning, Dr. Robert’s office.�

“I need to make an appointment with Dr. Roberts.�

“Have you been here before?�

“Yes.�

“When would you like to come in?�

“As soon as possible.�

“How about the 12th?�

“Of February?�

“Yes, we have a morning and an afternoon.�

“I was hoping to see him today…can’t you squeeze me in?�

“No, sir. February is the earliest appointment we have.�

“You don’t understand. I’m in horrible pain! I have shooting pains in my side and I can’t eat anything because of the vomiting.�

“I can call you if we have a cancellation before then…�

“But my pee is black!�

“I’m sorry to hear that, but—“

“Lady, I’ve got the goddamned plague! Don’t you understand…I feel like I’ve been fucking SHOT in the side. My pee is black! I’ve been coughing up shit that looks like tripe!�

“Would you like to take the appointment on the 12th or not, sir?�

It seems like a very long time ago.

I’ve gone my entire life without ever seeing the word Sudoku in print or heard it spoken, and in the last week it’s everywhere I look. I have no idea what it is, nor do I want to know.

In other news, can too much cranberry juice turn your poop yellow? A friend wants to know.

They’re playing every episode of The Sopranos in order on HBO, one episode per night. It’s pretty much the only thing I’ve got going for me right now. Big Pussy has it coming to him any day now.

Here’s an interesting fact. I have never seen any of the Lord of the Rings movies. For some reason the whole thing never really appealed to me. Now it seems daunting to try and catch up. I feel like if I don’t have all the DVDs in my possession along with three days off work it will be a disjointed hassle. I probably have some serious mental health issues.

Today’s lucky number is 29.

An old man sits at a large oak desk. A roaring fire blazes away, drying his greatcoat which hangs nearby. His mind is focused on a portrait hanging over the fireplace. He glances around the room, his eyes falling on other portraits that hang against the dark wood paneling. He takes a sip of brandy and his thoughts return to his letter.

Working by candle light he dips his quill and in magnificent script signs his name on the bottom of the thick heavy parchment. After blotting his work, he folds the letter, places it in a large envelope and drips the aromatic wax across the fold. Finding his large seal, he firmly stamps his crest into the wax. Knowing that the letter may take months to arrive at its destination, he sighs and rings for his valet to hasten it to post.

###

And here I sit with a little plastic machine, almost instantly receiving hate mail from cowardly little pricks who can’t spell.

The contrast is depressing.

###

The above post was written a few years ago on my first blog. In fact, it was one of the first things I’d ever posted. It was then and continues to be a pretty accurate portrayal of my feelings. I found this yesterday whilst going over some of my stuff and decided to write a short story around it. I’m giving myself until Friday, so long as things don’t get too crazy.

I rarely link.

I wanted to write a post about how much I hate sports bars but I just can’t do it justice. The passion’s not strong enough, and I think it’s because these things are so damned innocuous that people no longer realize they’re in a sports bar.

As far as I’m concerned they’re cookie-cutter, stereotype shitholes with lousy menus and too many televisions. For some reason most of them have green décor—why I don’t know. Do sports fans only eat chicken wings? Do sports fans have to completely lower their standards of cuisine?

Most sports bars are basically open from lunch to sometime after midnight. There are not enough sports on during that time to fill the slots. That’s why half the time their showing goddamned curling.

Hell, I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. I like the NFL. Sixteen games and you’re done with it. But Jesus Christ flipping flapjacks, some people watch the NBA, NCAA basketball, baseball (the all-time most boring spectator sport the world has ever known), hockey, golf, tennis and who knows what else.

Whose life is that empty that they need to completely fill it up with the accomplishments, drama and competition of other people? Because I’m here to tell you, keeping up with all that shit is a full time job. And that’s not even counting the shit they call sports that’s not really sports. The stuff that takes no athletic ability like poker and darts. Sports? You must be shittin’ me.

My God, I hate sports bars.

Just once I’d love to hear the chairman say, “And tonight’s secret ingredient is…salt!�

It’s been more than a week now and I have not smoked. One thing nobody told me is that when you stop smoking, you lose the ability to poop. Well, I’m here to tell you, if you stop smoking you will stop pooping.

My other addiction is still raging out of control. iTunes. I can’t stop downloading songs. It always starts off innocently enough. I just listen to the 30 second sample. But, shit, to me, that’s like snorting heroin. It’s not enough to keep the buzz going. I need the full-on injection.

I find myself reliving my youth through iTunes. I seek out various obscure songs from my youth that invoke memories. Album sides that I used to make out to. Songs I was embarrassed to listen to even way back then.

I’ve been downloading songs from iTunes for a long time. Hell, I didn’t even have an iPod when I started downloading. I remember the day someone first told me about it.

“You can kill hours there, man, just listening to 30 second clips of songs you haven’t heard in years.�

And it was true. By day three I was downloading songs and burning CDs the old fashioned way. It wasn’t long before I just gave up and bought the iPod. And now there’s no stopping it. I “need� the songs. I’m a musician and a music snob so I really go the extra mile to seek out remastered stuff—from classical and Jazz to The Pixies.

There ought to be some kind of twelve step program for this shit.

I guess we're all addicted to something.

The day after Thanksgiving I was talking to my wife about the marathon day we put in at her parents house. We brought some good friends with us.

“Do you think Phil and Diane had a good time?� my wife asked.

“In general.�

“What do you mean, ‘In general.’�

“There was a small incident. Nothing big.�

“What incident?� she asked.

“Well, your old man was spitting all over Phil.�

“Spitting? What the fuck are you talking about?�

“He had Phil cornered, up against the kitchen counter. Your old man had a mouthful of food and he was talking with his mouth full. Actually, he was screaming with his mouth full. I literally saw pieces of food flying from his mouth.�

“Are you kidding me?� She was horrified.

“No, I’m not kidding. I saw food flying from his mouth and landing on Phil’s shirt. And it was no brief encounter. He was all excited about something and it seemed to be going on for a long time. You know how he gets excited.�

“I can’t believe this—“

“I’m not done. So Phil’s backed up to the counter and he’s got no place to turn and the old man’s getting closer and closer…it was hard to watch, and Phil was kind of cringing and turning his head trying to avoid the barrage—�

“What did you do?� She was pissed.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. What was I supposed to do?�

“You should have told him not to talk with his mouthful! You could have told him to give the guy some air. You could have gotten in the middle or walked Phil away! How the hell could you let this happen? NOW I’M FUCKING MORTIFIED! HOW COULD YOU STAND THERE AND JUST DO NOTHING?

“He’s your old man! I have to show some respect…�

“You know what? You’re like one of those Nazis who said they were only following orders.�

“I don’t think that particular analogy fits—“

“Oh, be quiet. I have to call and apologize before these people think we’re savages!�

###

Truthfully, would any of you have tried to intervene?

I never, ever do this shit so don't give me any crap. And you know you want to do this one.

You scored as James Bond, Agent 007. James Bond is MI6's best agent, a suave, sophisticated super spy with charm, cunning, and a license's to kill. He doesn't care about rules or regulations and somewhat amoral. He does care about saving humanity though, as well as the beautiful women who fill his world. Bond has expensive tastes, a wide knowledge of many subjects, and his usually armed with a clever gadget and an appropriate one-liner. James Bond, Agent 007 100% William Wallace 79% Neo, the "One" 79% Maximus 75% El Zorro 75% Captain Jack Sparrow 67% Lara Croft 63% Indiana Jones 58% Batman, the Dark Knight 54% The Terminator 50% The Amazing Spider-Man 46% Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com

h/t to Ted.

If I think I can fart in a car or meeting and get away with it, I will. And I will deny culpability with extreme vehemence.

I wish nothing but the worst on the Optimist’s Club and all it’s members.

I daydream a lot.

For a slim guy, I can eat more than anyone I know.

I’m overly critical of everything.

If I shake someone’s hand I can’t relax until I can wash my hands again.

I hate recycling because I don’t like washing my garbage before I store it for days.

I will fight for the armrest on an airplane or in a movie theater.

I often find myself in contempt of others…for no good reason.

I do not like people who play golf. And talk about it.

My sense of humor will eventually be my downfall at work.

I wish I had a ten pound ball of Silly Putty.

I partook of a small vacation recently. I have nothing to report.

Of note, perhaps, is the fact that I have read over 2,000,000 words in the past thirty days in the form of books; my only solace in times of boredom.

In my absence I noticed that my cohort, a self-proclaimed cracker, has posted a picture of himself. I’m always torn by these issues. On one hand, I’d love to get a look at some of you folks. On the other hand, my imagination is likely more generous than reality and I fear let down. I can’t post a picture of myself for security reasons, though I often wish I could. I have little going for me aside from not being repulsive.

I pictured Shank pretty much as he is in reality, though I thought the hair would be a little darker.

If you have posted a photo of yourself please let me know where to view it. My curiosity is now killing me. The person I’d really like to see a picture of is Bane. I can’t quite pigeon-hole that guy.

So. Can somebody put some coffee on?

In the real world, that is, outside of blogging, I get asked for advice quite a bit. That’s probably because I give the appearance of a stable, well adjusted person. Not that I am, but I do give the appearance. Since I fear everything I’m always on red alert and that keeps me from making unwise investments, getting involved in ridiculous situations and in general, avoiding the wave of idiocy that many people can’t seem to steer clear of.

Back the point. I often get asked for advice and I rarely dispense it. This makes people crazy. They think I don’t want them to succeed, but that’s not the case at all. I don’t give advice for two reasons.

1. It’s rarely, if ever, heeded
2. Most people don’t want advice, they want someone to blame when things don’t pan out

However, I’m in a charitable mood today, and I’ve got nothing else. Therefore, I offer the following pearls of wisdom:

1. Always sit with your back to the wall.

2. Avoid the herd mentality. If large groups of people are doing something, buying something or behaving a certain way, do the exact opposite.

3. Don’t drink rum or any mixed cocktail with high sugar content for extended periods.

4. Have a sense of honor. Your word should be your bond.

5. Nobody likes a mooch.

6. Shut the fuck up. Sometimes it’s best to listen.

7. If you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you definitely can’t afford it at 14% on your credit card.

8. Learn from the experience of others. Learning the hard way is not mandatory.

9. People will fuck you over if you let them.

10. Abusive relationships should be terminated with extreme prejudice.

11. Marriage vows should mean something. Or why bother.

12. If you don’t have the correct tool, don’t start the job.

13. Life is short, have some fun and don’t fuck it up.

14. When driving, don’t lurk in someone’s blind spot.

15. If you want something done right, be prepared to pay through the nose.

16. If you’ve been getting your hair cut the same way for more than ten years, you probably look like a jackass.

17. Good friends are hard to replace. Preserve those you have.

18. Shitty friends will drag you down with them.

19. Nothing is out of your reach. Don’t be afraid of success.

20. Don’t tailgate others.

21. If in the course of life you make enemies, it is best to keep them near you.

22. If you are severely wronged by someone, the proper payback is at least three times the initial value in cash, pain or inconvenience.

23. Enjoy the arts. Music is good for the soul.

23. Be excellent to each other.

24. Party on dudes!

Here’s an amusing article about the search for the best vodka. It’s pretty entertaining.

Are you a fan of Absolut? Here’s what the panel had to say:

“… Panel members noted its "piercing, antiseptic quality," "too-dry taste," "medium burn," and "unremarkable finish" and agreed that midshelf vodkas (again, we only tested premium brands) represented a much better value.�

Go figure. I was never a big fan.

I really enjoyed the critique of this vodka, one I’ve never heard of:

“… The vodka's industrial-strength bouquet reminded one drinker of "burning tires." As for its taste, the panelists declared it "sticky-sweet," "thick," and "gluelike." "I wouldn't use it to fuel my lawn mower," one taster said, bringing the discussion to an end.�

I’ve always wanted to do taste test like this but my friends, as rule, are hard to control when surrounded by a large number of full liquor bottles. It’s not that they’re wild Indians or anything, but maintaining order during a structured event that involves shots seems highly unlikely.