Lumbergh's gonna have me come in on Saturday

Pavlov's Middle Finger

2010-10-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a native of New Jersey. What this means is, we drive with one hand on the wheel and the middle finger of the other hand extended out the window. We will give the middle finger for anything and everything. Someone cuts us off, bam. Someone honks at us, bam. Someone doesn’t move quickly enough when the light turns green, honk and then bam.

This is not to say we are discourteous drivers. We do have roadway etiquette, but we also have a punishment system built-in when someone violates said etiquette.

So it was yesterday, on my way home. I entered an intersection just as the light turned yellow. Unfortunately, this was a busy section of highway that had another controlled intersection about a thousand feet ahead, and that light was red, thus we were stopped dead. I was at the tail end of the line of traffic. To make matters worse, those who were turning right (to go the same direction as I was going) from the street to my right couldn’t go anywhere even though they had the green…because of this same traffic backup. When I finally did get the green, and could move, I allowed the beer truck at the front of that line to cut in front of me (it turns out it was a Budweiser truck…..had I known this, I would’ve given him the middle finger and not let him in).

Because I had not only stopped (thus holding up traffic) and further delayed things by allowing a truck to cut in, the driver behind me honked her horn. Much like Pavlov ringing a bell, causing his dogs to look for food, I immediately extended my right arm and flipped off the person behind me. It was only after doing this that I bothered to check my rear-view mirror to see to whom I had given the digital “Fuck You.”

It was a 60-ish year old grandmother-type in a mini-van.

Awesome. I just gave the middle finger to an old woman. Somebody’s grandmother.

Of course, I was the one trying to extend courtesy to another driver, so while I certainly inconvenienced this woman and her race to go to water aerobics (or wherever it is women of her age go), there was certainly no call for her to be rude to me. By giving her the middle finger, I was performing a public service.

Kindergarten Wit

2010-10-20T05:51:00.000-07:00

Every Wednesday, I work from home. Thus, I take the opportunity to go to Thing 2’s school and have lunch with her. I figure in about 6-7 years, she will pretend to not know me when we’re out in public together, so I should take advantage now of the fact that it’s easy to spend time with her each week.

Lunch doesn’t actually consist of lunch for me. Thing 2’s Kindergarten class eats at 10:30AM each day, which is WAY too early for lunch. So, I instead go up and help out the teaching assistant (who has to cover 3 different classes during that same period, and is happy for the help), by opening up the kids’ milk or juice containers, opening up bananas, making sure the kids are sitting and eating, not fighting, etc. I only know about half the kids’ names, so I break the remaining group into two categories: Those that are wearing Silly Bandz, and those that aren’t. The ones that are wearing them, I simply call them “Silly Band.” Those that aren’t, I simply pretend I don’t know their names.

There’s one girl who, I swear, every week when I see her she’s eating a corn dog. And while corn dogs are gross about 110% of the time, school cafeteria corn dogs are even worse. The hot dog inside is grey, and they cornmeal covering the dog is some weird color of brown. She greets me by waving the corn dog at me. I think if the English had waved these corn dogs towards the Viking invaders, the Vikings would have sailed on to more pleasant-looking shores.

As I have to check in at the office, I am given a visitor’s sticker. It has a gigantic V on the beginning of visitor. I about fell out of my seat last week when one kid (his name is Silly Band) asked me, “how come everyone’s name begins with a V?” Of course, I found out later this brilliant 5 year old was really playing me, and he probably asked that same question 2-3 times per day.

Then there’s the sweet little Indian girl who must have Alzheimer’s. Every week, she reminds me that A, she’s Hindi, B, she’s eating Hindi food, and C, she’s a vegetarian (this same girl has been seen eating chicken nuggets in the cafeteria….I think America is starting to reach its claws around this girl’s family). Her lunch always looks gross, but I smile pleasantly and tell her it looks good. She rarely eats all of it, because it looks gross. I swear she was eating a grass sandwich last week.

And then there was the little girl I was helping out this week. I was applauding the boy next to her for eating all of his lunch, calling him a member of the Clean Plate Club. This girl turns to me and says, “I know what a club is.” I got quiet, and was immediately wondering what she meant by a club. A weapon? A delicious sandwich that consists of turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, etc? And while I was thinking, she leaned towards me and said, “a place where the pretty ladies dance.”

Needless to say, Thing 2 will not be having any play dates with this girl anytime soon.

Here's Your Sign.

2010-09-23T13:11:00.001-07:00

Seen on Hilton Head (at a chotchkie shop selling novelty shot glasses, fridge magnets, mugs, and t-shirts), photographed with my crappy Blackberry phone.

On one shelf, commemorative Hilton Head baby onesies.

On the shelf just above, Zodiac-themed coffee mugs, but instead of pictures of the Zodiac signs, they have images of 12 couples doing 12 of what are probably my favorite sex positions.

So basically, the sex-themed mugs, and clothing for the byproduct of the sex.

I see no issue with the products, but putting them in the same aisle seems odd.

A Future In Chicago Politics

2010-09-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

Thing 2 is now in Kindergarten, and with that comes an inevitability......school fund raisers. In the past, the first two weeks of school meant the arrival of Sally Foster catalogs, which then involved Thing 1 calling every aunt, uncle, grandparent, close friend, etc, and begging them to buy wrapping paper, disgusting chocolates, kitschy notepads, etc (one friend of mine once bought 20 notepads from Thing 1 at $5 apiece....6 years later he still has several left).

Now that Thing 2 is in school, however, the school has abandoned Sally Foster as their main fundraiser (I guess everyone around here has more wrapping paper than they know what to do with) and switched to magazine subscriptions. They send home a booklet with 10 address cards. You fill out the name and address of close friends, relatives, etc and this company mails them out, playing on sympathy, telling your friends/relatives/etc that if they subscribe to these magazines, a certain amount of that money will go to Thing 2's school. We did not put down friends who live near us because they have the same fundraiser, and we omitted one of my brothers because he has 2 kids, and that will just incite him to include us on his kids' fundraisers, so we were ultimately left with a 6 of the 10 cards in the booklet filled out.

The next day, Thing 2 came home with the booklet and explained that the teacher wanted her to fill out all 10, and she couldn't turn it in until they were all done. See, Thing 2 doesn't realize there's no punishment for not turning it in, in Kindergarten being told they could not turn something in was akin to a failing grade. So, we were left to fill out the remaining cards with some creativity (it was then we realized there were 11 in our booklet....did they add one as punishment?). So we included a friend of mine, and his wife....who lives at the same address. My wife's uncle lives in the same house as her grandparents, who are already getting one, but what the hell, he needs mail too, right? And so on.

While coming up with names, Thing 2 looked up at us, and very seriously asked, "Can't we also put down the names and addresses of people we know that died?"

This of course brought images to mind of Mayor Richard J. Daley's campaign slogans such as "Vote early, vote often," and voters in his ward having a home address that happened to be the same address as a cemetery.

On the one hand, I admire her clever problem-solving ability. On the other hand, I'm more than a little frightened of her potential as an evil genius. I guess it remains to be seen which way she goes. We'll know for sure if, during a soccer game, I hear her tell her teammates, "he pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. THAT'S the Chicago way."

Overheard at a Soccer Tournament

2010-09-03T22:25:00.000-07:00

2 weeks ago, I took the U12 girls team which I coach to a tournament. The temperatures were in the mid-high 90's, my girls played ferociously (most of them hadn't practiced together until that very week), and we finished with a 1-1-1 record. Unfortunately, in our 4-team bracket, we were 3rd place. The 2nd place team (who walked away with 2nd place trophies) was also 1-1-1 (we tied them), but their win was by a higher score.

But what will make that weekend memorable for me were some of the things which I heard (or overheard) throughout the weekend:

1. "Dad, we were at the playground and we saw a guy carrying a gun," my daughter said to me. "What? Are you sure it was a gun? Any chance it was a cop?" I asked her. "No, he was dressed normal," she replied. At that point, one of my player's dad, who was standing nearby, said (in all seriousness), "Oh, you don't have to be a copy to carry, you can get a carry permit. I have one." Thus my biggest concern was not that my daughter thought she saw a guy carrying on a playground at a sports complex, but the dad of one of my players was defending it.

2. "Can you score on a corner kick?" Player 1 (on one team) asked Player 2 (who was on the other team). "Sure, haven't you ever seen Bend it like Beckham?" replied Player 2. What made this conversation amusing was that it was held between two opposing players (who were both Select players, not Rec) while on the field. It turned into a movie discussion group. And considering this was a Select game, you'd think the one girl would know that it was possible to score on a corner. Also, it's been a couple years since I've seen the movie, but the famous scenes in it involved penalty kicks, not corners, I thought.

3. "Dad, ball me!" This was said by a kid to his dad. The kid needed a ball with which to warm up. Dad had all the balls. So the boy asked his dad to perform a vital task at that moment: to ball him. Of course, channeling Beavis and Butthead the way I do, I had to hold in a laugh until I was ten feet away. And this reminds me, I need to teach my girls the meaning of the phrase "Dad, little help," as the always appropriate way to ask someone to kick a ball back to you.

Strange Things Are Afoot at the Circle K

2010-08-26T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have a Circle K near me. Or did…they were bought by some other fuel chain and renamed, but it’ll always be the Circle K (I feel sorry for anyone trying to find my house that is told to “turn left at the Circle K”).

One of the regular employees is a very nice, but very weird man with probable mental issues. He had brain surgery. I know this because every time I see him (about every month when I gas up there, or buy ice or propane), he manages to work into the conversation that he had brain surgery. Thus it was on Saturday morning when I went there to buy 2 bags of ice (for a soccer tournament in which I was coaching).

Me: Hi, I’d like 2 bags of ice.

Guy: Hummuna mumbla somethinga mumbla hummuna.

Me: Excuse me?

Guy: Hummuna mumbla somethinga mumbla hummuna.

Me: Umm…come again?

Guy: Hummuna mumbla somethinga mumbla hummuna.

Me: *Blank stare*

Guy: Oh, sorry! I was speaking Spanish and didn’t realize it. I do that every now and then, go back and forth between English and Spanish, on account of my brain surgery. I had brain surgery and I do things like that every now and then.

Me: *Uncomfortable smile*

Guy: So are you doing alright today?

Me: Uh…huhhh.

Guy: Good. That’ll be $5.08.

Me: *Hands crazy guy $20*

Guy: Alright, out of $20…hey, do you know what year Columbus sailed the Ocean Blue?

Me: What?

Guy: What year did Columbus sail the Ocean Blue?

Me: Uhhh…..Fourteen….Ninety…Two.

Guy: Very good! $14.92 is your change, here you go and have a great day!

Me: Thanks! *got the hell out of there quickly*

Here’s the really crazy part….when he was mumbling to me, I was absolutely positive he was NOT speaking Spanish. I know enough Spanish that I know when it’s being spoken around me, and he was not speaking Spanish. He was speaking some crazy language, like speaking in tongues. He almost sounded like Robert De Niro at the end of “Cape Fear,” when he was going under water and speaking in tongues.

The Australian Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holder

2010-08-19T20:33:00.000-07:00

As anyone who's ever read more than 2 or 3 entries here knows, I can sometimes be a tad obsessed with vanity plates. This is primarily because I am an avid people watcher, and while seeing a person in the mall can often reveal nothing about their character, seeing their vanity plate reveals so much more. You might find that the driver has a keen sense of humor, or the driver lacks any creativity or originality, while others reveal the driver to be a flaming douchenozzle. And still others make you think, "I want to meet this driver just so I can find out why they chose this particular plate."

Such was the case on my way home from work on Wednesday night, and I was following this vehicle:

The question is not, "what kind of person is this," but rather, "WTF is an Oz Bra?" Is it a brassiere worn by an Australian woman? Is it a response to a question in Hawaii? "Where you want to surf next, bra?" "Oz, bra!"

Or perhaps it is a brassiere specially designed for Australia and all of its deadly flora and fauna. Imagine a bra that can repel green ants and redback spiders. Or a bra that creates a forcefield around the wearer that makes one impervious to the bites from taipans or death adders. Or a bra that drives box jellyfish from the shore, or can't be punctured by the teeth of a crocodile.

Maybe it's a specialty line of bras from Elle "The Body" MacPherson that hides aging lines. Or maybe something Phil Mickelson wears when he plays in the Australian golf open. Maybe an Oz Bra is what helped Nicole Kidman pretend to love Tom Cruise for several years.

As you can see, many a question has been generated by something so simple as a 5 letter vanity plate. He undoubtedly has people scratching their heads all the time. I personally would get a vanity plate, but I would crack under the pressure of trying to find something that would not make someone think I was an incredible feminine hygiene product.

Time To Get Some Protection

2010-08-09T21:02:00.000-07:00

My older daughter, Thing 1, by starting 6th Grade, is now in Middle School, and is about to embark on a right of passage that kids her age all over the country have been doing for generations. It's something I myself did when I was her age, and her reaching this point in life fills me with nostalgia.

Covering text books.

Now that she's in Middle School, and has assigned text books, she is of course responsible for their long-term care over the next 9 months, and every school system across the country has kids at this same age take their books home and cover them. This ensures the cover of the book has that nice bright sheen to it for years, which is important when you're researching the capitals of Czechoslovakia and the USSR.

When I was this age, the standard was to use cut-up brown paper grocery bags, measured to fit, held together with tape, and would often last until the second to last month of school. In the interim, the book cover would get covered with doodles of all sorts. Favorite book quotes, favorite rock lyrics (I think anyone who looked at my books would have seen a strong belief in the ideal of not getting fooled again), names of girls, and of course the subject of the book (History for the boys, and History with a little bubble heart over the i for the girls). The extremely hopeless would buy store-bought book covers (usually covered in pictures of Strawberry Shortcake and other girly images). Well, the hopeless and those who had no older siblings to teach them how to cover a textbook (I had 2 older brothers, so I became an expert quickly). Basically, if you were cool, you had the brown paper cover. If not, you had store-bought. Every September, when we would go back to school, our parents would set aside a bunch of paper grocery sacks from the store and the dining room table would become a slaughterhouse of cut up brown paper, like some craft project gone seriously wrong.

Flash forward 27 years, and now it's Thing 1's turn. Her teachers have informed her that her books will have to get covered. Personally, I was excited over the prospect to teach Thing 1 the same skill my brothers taught me decades ago, and that I taught to my younger brother. It was a this point though that it was pointed out to me that this product is available in stores: Book Sox. Socks for books. Stretchy fabric covers that slip over the books and held in place with some sort of elastic, I guess. As the website says, "no measuring, no cutting, no taping." What the hell fun is that??? If we've lost the ability to cover our own textbooks, what will we lose next? The ability to defend our own borders?

This of course brings up the big question.....since Thing 1 is our oldest, we have no idea if other kids actually buy these, or if they're only purchased by the insanely hopeless like in my day. If we cover her books in brown paper bags from Kroger, will Thing 1 be elevated to the ranks of "cool kids"? Or will she be forever labeled as a "poor kid"? If we buy the Book Sox, will she be seen as some helpless geek that can't figure out how to cover a book? Or will she be at the same level as someone wearing a Twilight t-shirt from Hot Topic? These are the things we need to know to avoid getting our daughter branded as something negative.

I figured Middle School would be easy for Thing 1, since I knew which mistakes to avoid. Unfortunately, after so much time has passed, they probably changed the rules, and the mistakes are completely different than the ones I made. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair.

Talking Hypotheticals

2010-08-04T13:06:00.001-07:00

OK, men: Let's say it's about 95 degrees Fahrenheit outside. *checks thermometer* Yup, 95 degrees. Not quite "Hotter than the hinges of Hell," but certainly in the "hot as balls" category.

And let's say you're with your wife/girlfriend/baby mama in a car, with two kids in the car seats in the back, and the lady is driving.

Let's say you need gas, and pull into a gas station.

Do you:

A: Get out and pump the gas?

Or,

B: Let the woman get out and pump the gas?

While I recognize that in this modern society, women are just as capable of pumping gas as men, isn't it a little bit of a dick move to sit in an air-conditioned car with the kids while the fairer sex gets out and gets her hands dirty from gasoline and germs pumping gas?

Or should I just simply count my blessings that she was kind of hot and exotic-looking in a Mediterranean sort of way, and gave me something to look at while I pumped gas into my own car?

Discuss......

Here I am, On the Road Again..... (Part 1)

2010-06-15T10:54:00.000-07:00

I'm in sales. Industrial sales. Chances are, if you're reading this, the electricity operating your computer was supplied by a power plant with some of my parts in it. 80% of my sales are done right here in Georgia, but I have a few customers to whom I occasionally need to pay visits to. One in Colorado, one in Wisconsin, and one in Houston. Last week, it was Houston's turn.

Let me just start by saying that of all the cities to which I've ever traveled, Houston is my least favorite (and I once visited Buffalo New York in January!). It's hot, sticky, crowded, and worst of all, while claiming to be part of "The South," the state is completely devoid of sweet tea. For that reason alone, Houston sucks. There is nothing worse than going into a restaurant for lunch on a hot day and being told unsweetened tea is the only option.

So, it was with much reservation that I got up at 4:30AM last Thursday, shaved and showered, and left the house by 5:45AM so that I could drop my car off at the off-airport parking and be at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport by 7-ish for my 8:45 flight. Traffic was light. That's the last thing that went well until about 5PM that day. I flew through the security lines only to be subjected to the group scolding by the TSA worker, yelling at us like 5 year olds about how there should be nothing in our pockets, not even our boarding passes. I'm reasonably certain if I jumped the line, this particular woman would not have had the physical stamina to chase me for a distance of more than 2-3 floor tiles.

Apparently, my laptop has been infected with malware which my various protections aren't quite able to eradicate (which stopped being a priority when the boss decided I was due for a new laptop). One side-effect of this malware was that it disabled my internet browsers, so I was unable to get online and work (and by work, I mean "write about all the funny/gross/sexy people at the airport waiting for flights), so I couldn't even pass the time doing something productive. I could at least see emails on my Blackberry, but that wasn't so great as one of them was an announcement that an acquaintance of mine passed away (he was 67 and had massive organ failures).

My 8:45 flight was late, because the plane I would be flying on was late coming in from wherever that plane was coming in from, so it was pushed back to 9:15. I kind of wish Delta had decided to put in a different plane, because the one we were on turned out to be an MD-88. If you're not familiar with that model, imagine having about as much elbow room as a coffin. The legroom wasn't too bad, but I spent the entire 2 hour flight wedged in against the woman next to me (I had the window). The armrest was up, and she kind of spilled over the middle (I should have arranged a DMZ like my younger brother and I had when traveling by car as kids....anyone crosses the middle, they are fair game for getting punched). She wasn't fat...she was just big, like a basketball player. Pushing 6' tall with hips wider than mine. Not only that, there was little cushion left to the seat. It was hard enough that I had this metal bar pushing up against my coccyx the entire flight. That was a brief experience in how it feels to be pregnant, I think.

As this is obviously a long entry, I will break this up into at least one more part. Stay tuned tomorrow for:

* Bladder Control Issues
* Airsickness Bags
* Houston
* Smoking Laptops
* Unsweetened Iced Tea
* Expense Account Meals
* Customer Service
* Salesmanship

Real Life TFLN

2010-05-20T18:21:00.001-07:00

I got this text message from my brother earlier today. I'm debating whether or not to submit it to TFLN.

"Woke up this morning with, what I think to be, a booger in my ear. D (his wife) claims that once I flicked a booger on her in my sleep. Do you have similar sleep issues?"

I could only reply with, "No. No I do not."

Even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't admit it. The biggest sleep issue I had was when I was a kid and talked in my sleep. Apparently my dad once peeked in on me thrashing about in my bad, and I was saying, "No! No! Bi....Bionic....Bionic Bigfooo......" Thankfully I haven't talked in my sleep in years, I can't imagine the kind of crap I'd say. Probably "you call that a tackle?" and "Dammit, if you don't shoot, you won't score!" Or worse.

Bon Jovi lyrics.

Karma Got Me Back

2010-05-11T20:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight, shortly before dinner, Thing 1 was playing with her Nintendo DS on the sofa. She was so engrossed in her game that I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, so as I walked behind the sofa on the way to the garage, I licked my finger and gave her a Wet Willy (in the event you’re not familiar, it’s the act of licking a finger and sticking it in someone’s ear). She was mildly annoyed, but not enough to stop her game.

On the way back to the kitchen, I walked by the same sofa, and this time, I made a very exaggerated motion of licking my finger to do it again, which she saw and heard. As I came in with my finger, she knocked it away.

I continued on to the kitchen when I realized I hadn’t stopped to give her a hug and kiss upon coming home from work. So, I walked back to the sofa and leaned over the back of it to kiss her on the cheek. Thinking she was about to be Wet Willied again, she closed her hand into a fist and swung at me, basically bitch slapping me, connecting the back of her closed fist with the right side of my face.

She was worried for a second, and while it stung, I knew it was my own fault and gave her a hug regardless, having a laugh about it. Lesson learned by me: There’s only so many times I can push that button before paying the price. I think she stands a good chance of surviving middle school next year.

Saving Lives With Google Maps

2010-04-27T20:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday morning, the phone rang. My older daughter, Thing 1, immediately grabbed the phone, having seen that it was her favorite uncle (my younger brother) on the caller ID. My brother asked for me, but Thing 1 thought I was still in the shower so she told him I was not available.

Apparently my brother, E, felt that T1 could help him because I heard her say, “Hang on, let me turn on my iPod.” She then started fiddling around with her browser (it’s an iPod touch) and pulling up a website.

(I should point out, she was at the family computer at the time, accessing iTunes)

I heard her ask E for the name of the street he was on, and she then said she would find it on a map. She then asked him what street he was trying to find. At this point I realized my brother’s potentially tragic mistake: He was lost, and was relying on his 11 year old niece to help him find his way. Seeing as how my brother lives in Manhattan, unless he was a hundred miles from home, it’s not likely she would be able to locate any streets where he was, so I insisted she hand me the phone. I then sat down at the computer and pulled up Google Maps.

Me: So where are you?

E: 39th and Northern Blvd, Queens. I need to find the Queensboro Bridge to get back to Manhattan.

I found his intersection online, and told him to take a right on Northern, and it would take him right to the bridge.

E: OK, I’m heading that way now.

Me: OK, in a few seconds you should be passing Honeywell Street. Do you see it yet?

E: No, I just got out on the road, I only went half a block.

Me: You should be halfway there, bad traffic?

E: No, I’m riding a bike.

Me: A bicycle?

E: Yeah.

Me: You rode a bike across the Queensboro Bridge? To Queens?

E: Yeah. There’s a footpath across the bridge.

Me: *stunned silence*

E: I only live 3 blocks from the bridge, it’s not far.

E often does things that boggle my mind. He once bought a sofa that was too big to get into his apartment. He did the logical thing….rather than returning it, he and his friend cut it in half, moved it in two pieces, and then reassembled it using plates to join it back together. He once decided to go jogging with a friend. However, his friend was running in the NY Marathon at the time, so he waited for his friend to run by his intersection, and he ran out into the pack and ran with his friend. For 10 miles. When he got to where he needed to be, he stepped out of the pack and then called me to say “hi.”

And now he rode his bike from Manhattan to Queens. Which really isn’t far, but the idea of taking a bicycle into that kind of traffic, crossing a bridge, and then getting lost and having to call his brother 800 miles away, is just kind of odd.

But not as odd as thinking his 11 year old niece could help him out by pulling up a map of Queens on her iPod.

I Saw The Sign

2010-04-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

A sign of a bad economy....every intersection around town has a sign advertising some opportunity to make money (which rarely work), usually as a telemarketer. "Earn $3K a month FROM YOUR OWN HOME! Call 401-555-1212!"

To differentiate between them, sometimes the guys with these offers / pyramid schemes have to be creative in order to get the jobless calling them instead of the other guys offering ways to help you earn money from your own home.

Thus we have signs like this:

I am assuming the hidden message is, "You will make so much folding money working from me that you'll be able to go into your regular job and slap your boss (and then spend the weekend in the county lockup). I have not called the number. Mostly because I'd be worried that my number would thus be on his caller ID, and I would get endless phonecalls wanting to know if I needed a job.

Further up the road, I saw one with similar handwriting that said, "Too much month at the end of the money, call 678-278-8274."

In college, I would have absolutely called this number.

At 3AM.

Hammered. Off. My. Ass.

Repeatedly.

When in doubt, mumble.

2010-04-05T12:58:00.001-07:00

The above piece of advice is how my 11 year old, Thing 1, gets through the day. When asking my wife or I for permission to do something she knows we will reject, she tends to mumble her way through the request, hoping that by hearing only every other word, we will get only a scrubbed-version of what she wants to do and thus rubber-stamp it.

Example: "I want to *something something* with my friends, can I?

"What? Speak up, please."

"I want to show my friends this really cool website on our computer, can all 5 of them come in?

"No."

Saturday was one such day where she made a valiant attempt to get something past us. I was on the phone with my sister-in-law (my younger, hipper SIL, the wife of my brother). She has a fairly strong finger on the pulse of pop culture, so when Thing 1 iinterrupted our conversation and asked for permission to buy a song called "How Low" from iTunes, I asked her if she was familiar with the song. Needing more info, I asked T1 for the name of the artist. "Curtis, or LaCurtis, or something like that.

I relayed this info to the SIL, and she advised that she was not familiar with any artist named Curtis/LaCurtis, nor a song called "How low." Thus, I told T1 that it would have to wait until I could check out the lyrics. Upon telling this, she protested by saying, "But mom told me I could download the song once she checked out the lyrics!"

"The fact that you are asking me suggests she has either not done so, correct?" I asked.

"No, she hasn't," she replied.

"Then I will check them out later and let you know." T1 told me she had the song (music/lyrics only, not the video) up on Youtube and I was welcome to check them out when I was done talking.

Once I finished talking to the SIL, I went into the office and looked at the screen. The title of the song was "How Low," by the singer we all know better as LUDACRIS. At that point, I already made my decision, but so that I wouldn't be accused of passing judgment too quickly, I checked out the lyrics. Here's an excerpt:

She could go lower than I ever really thought she could,
Face down, ass up!
The top of your booty jiggling out your jeans,
Baby pull your pants up,
I like it when I see you do it,
Better then I ever seen it done before,
A lot of women drop it to the ground,
But how low can you go?

(Lyrics by Ludacris)

Would you like to guess how far I read before I made my final decision?

I wouldn't suggest that this song is *as* bad as "Low" by Flo Rida, but I think I have a strong statistical case that any hip hop song with "Low" in the title is not appropriate for an 11 year old girl. (Says the man who loaded a Who greatest hits compilation onto Thing 1's iPod, which included the song "Squeeze Box," a song that is one giant sexual innuendo...but one that Thing 1 will not realize until she's in her 20's).

An Actual Wrong Number

2010-04-01T20:36:00.000-07:00

Tonight, the family and I took in a high school soccer game (they were having a special night for our youth club where all players in their jerseys got in free, and the kids from our club got to be ball runners on the touchlines.

During the game, my cell phone rang. It is a work-issued phone, and it was a local area code, so thinking it was a customer of mine I answered it.

Me: "Hello, this is Steve."
Woman: Whose phone is this?
Me: This is Steve.
Woman: Is this a business?
Me: Uhhh....yes (I the said my business name).
Woman: What business are you in?
Me: Widgets.
Woman: Is this a strip club?
Me: Uhh....no! (at that point, I assumed this was an April Fool's joke and I hung up the phone).

A few people around me, including the guy I coach with (who is a church pastor) started laughing, and joking about how I was getting pranked. Figuring they were right, I had a good laugh. And then the phone rang again.

Me: Manuel's Taqueria (in a slightly Spanish accent).
Woman: Who did I reach?
Me: Manuel's Taquerie.
Woman: Is this a restaurant?
Me: Si.
Woman: Where are you located?
Me: Acworth Georgia.
Woman: What is your address?
Me: 5 Main Street.
Woman: OK, thank you.

She hung up, and everyone around me was snickering at the idea that I obviously gave this woman a fake business and address. And then the phone rang again. Same woman. At this point, everyone around me was convinced I was being pranked. I again announced myself.

Woman: Did you call me? I had this phone number in my phone. (she then confirmed my phone#, which was accurate)
Me: No, I haven't. This is a business phone, I've had it on me all day, and I can assure you I did not call you.
Woman: This was a couple of weeks ago that you called. I just found my phone today, and the call was a couple of weeks ago.
Me: No, wasn't me, unless it was a wrong number. What's your name?.
Woman: Christine.
Me: Is this a business phone number?
Woman: I'm a dancer.
Me: Oh. OHHHH. Well....no, maybe I dialed a wrong number. I definitely wasn't trying to reach you.
Woman: Ok then, sorry.

So....apparently, a few weeks ago I accidentally called a stripper, who subsequently lost her phone, found it, and wanted to know why I called her, thinking (hoping?) that I would have a dancing job for her.

What's In Your Desk Drawer?

2010-03-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

Here are the contents of my “junk” drawer in my desk at work.

Each Friday morning, on the way to work, I hit the Chick-Fil-A for a chicken biscuit, hash browns, coffee and an orange juice. I usually use 2 creamers in my coffee, plus 2-3 sugars, and of course I grab the obligatory stir stick.

Usually, my ritual includes walking up to the counter (walking in is quicker than taking the morning drive-through, which wraps around the building), place my order, and walk over to the condiments rack where I proceed to take 4-6 creamers, 4-6 sugar packets, and 2-4 stir sticks. The end result: I usually have a week’s worth of creamer and sugar in my office, in the event I run out of creamer that I buy and keep for my morning coffee (which is better than the free stuff provided by the office).

It’s not quite the mess that was Allison’s purse in “The Breakfast Club,” but it’s a hell of a lot more functional. It won’t get me through a zombie apocalypse, but it will get me through a week in the office.

One more thing….the metallic-looking object on the right is actually a photograph. I invite all to guess what that might be a photo of.

An Actual Conversation (Subject: Olympics)

2010-03-02T05:53:00.000-08:00

The following conversation took place during the Winter Olympic closing ceremonies between myself and my 5 year old daughter, Thing 2.

Thing 2: Dad, what was your favorite sport in the Olympics?
Me: Well, I really liked the Hockey, Skeleton, and Snowboardcross. What was your favorite sport?
Thing 2: Curling.
me: Curling?
Thing 2: Curling.
Me: Really?
Thing 2: Really.

(Note, this conversation took place after she saw the pants worn by the Norwegian men's team during the gold medal match between Canada and Norway. That might have tipped the scales).

Pre-Teenage Wasteland

2010-02-24T19:52:00.001-08:00

For Christmas, Santa Claus gave me one of the greatest CD's I've ever owned. It is The Who's "Then and Now 1964-2004" greatest hits compilation. Since Christmas, it has been in the CD player of my car, and whenever the radio was lacking anything interesting I would hit "play" and listen to the best that Townshend could write and Daltry could sing. Aside from not including "Bargain" and "Baba O'Riley," it is otherwise full of some of the most amazing songs in rock history. Often against their will, I have been exposing my kids to The Who whenever we'd run errands, going to soccer practice, taking them to school, etc.

This week, I was asked a question by Thing 1 that frankly about stunned me. Aside from "Boris The Spider," she never really shared my obsession with The Who, so imagine my shock when she asked me to download the CD onto her iPod Touch.

"Which songs?" I asked.
"The whole thing, I guess," she said.
"All 20 songs?"
"I guess."

So there I sat yesterday, loading the entire CD onto her iTunes account and then downloading it onto her iPod. As each song loaded, I got pleasure knowing there was finally some musical balance to her playlist, with The Who classing up the joint after it was spoiled by the likes of Justin Bieber and other future has-beens.

I don't think I've been this pleased with my ability to shape her mind since the first time I heard her state that the New York Rangers suck.

Winter Olympic Opening Ceremony Commentary...In Texts!

2010-02-19T20:18:00.000-08:00

One week ago, during the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics (the only watchable Olympics), I exchanged a series of text messages with a friend of mine, K. Both of us tuned in to see who would light the flame (we both predicted that assclown Wayne Gretzky, although I was secretly hoping it would be Alan Thicke). The following are the messages we traded. Many of these are random thoughts throughout the evening. Others are obviously part of a larger conversation.

Note: Many of these may sound anti-Canadian. We're not. Although, that will be pretty hard to prove after what you're about to read.

Everything we're writing is after the athletes enter the venue.

K: According to Kevin Smith, it'll be Gretzky.

Me: (upon seeing the Hungarian team enter) There were a lot of Hungarians considering the Winter Games involve almost zero swords. (My friend is Hungarian-American, 1st generation. Magyars are not known for winter sports acumen, or any sport that doesn't involve fencing, wrestling, or circus tricks)
K: Or juggling.
Me: Maybe they are freestyle skiers or snowboarders, those sports require the skills of circuls people.

Me: (upon seeing Sarah MacLachlan) Lip synching?

Me: I saw a cute blonde in the Armenian delegation. 2 eyebrows. I think she's Armenian by marriage.

K: (upon seeing a performance of about 500 fiddlers playing some folk song) Uggh. Too many fiddlers. Where's Charlie Daniels?
Me: In a cardiac care center. I think poutine would be too much for his heart.
Me: Canada hearts flannel.

Me: (upon seeing about 500 tap dancers) The job application:
-Are you white?
-Are you Canadian?
-Can you tap?
-Are you willing to have your feet set on fire?

And then one of Canada's most famous slam poets came out and did a poem about what it means to be Canadian. Transcript here.

K: Snore
Me: Welcome to the Winter Olympiad! We're going to rock you with.....ummm...poetry.
Me: The Uzbek delegation must be SO confused.
K: Most delegations are. Hell, I am.

The chair of the Vancouver Olympic committee then came out to say a few words.

Me: Take a drink each time he says "eh". (note...I would've taken zero drinks)
Me: Pleasepleaseplease finish with "now take off hoser!"
Me: (upon hearing end of speech) Fuck this, I tuned in for stereotypes, not sentiment.
K: Good day, eh?

Me: The world is watching. Or at least those that can comprehend winter. And tv.
K (a volunteer firefighter): That's a dome. Big hazard for a big indoor fire.
Me: If it can handle suckage like poetry, it can handle combustion.

The athletes all seemed to have been given these little drums to beat along to the officials during their speeches.

Me: Those drums will be traded for condoms by Wednesday.

Enter KD Lang. Singing "Hallelujah"

K: Oh God Dammit! Light the stupid thing already!
Me: I thought KD Lang was a chick?
K: And this song is seriously overplayed.
Me: A (my wife) just said she's looking more and more like Alec Baldwin every day.
K: Wait, that's a chick?
K: Looks like Joe Peschi
Me: Halllleeeelluuuuujahhhhhhhhhhhhh
K: Did you just say "youts"?
Me: What is a grit?
K: OK, I see the Baldwin now.
Me: This song was shorter in Shrek
K: Beat me to it.
K: Timberlake did this better for Haiti.
Me: (as the athletes wave their free swag flashlights) Wave these lights or no free condoms for you!!!
Me: I bet 9 out of 10 people commit suicide to this song.
K: On and on and on....is this ever gonna end?
Me: OK, I have a theory. Janet Gretzky lost the flame on a bet. (Janet Jones-Gretzky was alleged to have been involved in a gambling ring)

Announcer on TV: 12 minutes until the flame enters the building.
K: 12 minutes?
Me: Fuck! 12?

In comes the Olympic flag. Here is my description of the folks carrying it.
Me: Dude, Donald Sutherland, dude, dude, chick, old chick, dude, oh cool, Bobby Orr! And, chick.
K: Bobby Orr, I'm impressed.
Me: I'm impressed he can walk. Bad knees.

Enter some opera singer, singing the Olympic Hymn.

Me: JESUS!!!!
K: My ears started bleeding.
Me: The astronaut (one of the flag bearers) is wondering why she's there.
K: So am I.
Me: Put the camera on Shaun White. I guarantee he's lip synch mocking her.
K: I could have checked the hockey scores waiting for this nonsense to end.
Me: This song was shorter in Shrek.
K: LOL
Me: She's actually sort of hot.
*Song finishes*
K: PLAY BALL!

K: Did those Mounties just goose step away?
Me: Yes, Mounties are a 50 cent cab ride away from exterminating Jews, Gypsies and Newfies.

In comes the flame. It's being passed around the arena like a joint at a Dead concert.

Me: It'll be Gretzky and he'll do it by pulling a slot machine lever.
K: Here's a surprise! The Hanson Brothers!

Me: Gretzky takes it up the ass....
K: Doo dah, doo dah

Gretzky has the torch, and he's getting ready to light this weird mechanical 4-legged contraption. Only 3 legs some out of the ground.

Me: Shit! The lift broke, eh?
K: Awkward....
Me: Now's a good time for a Twix
Me: Call the MacKenzie bros!

They finally decide to light only 3 of the 4 legs. The 4th one is hopelessly broken. While they're trying to lift it, Gretzky is standing there looking clueless, like he just showed up at a casino and all they have is Bingo. The 4 celebrities go to light the 3-legged flame.

Me: For those about to rock....FIRE!....we salute you!

Me: And I thought Atlanta had a shaky start when Mohammed Ali lit the flame. Boom-tish!
K: Ba-Zing!

Gretzky leaves the building to light an outdoor flame at a nearby park.

K: WTF? Run you lazy shit!
Me: The cab broke down.

Cut back to the arena, to the show going on.

Me: Shaun White is going to look for Danish strange in 3, 2, 1....

Cut to Gretzky, lighting the outdoor flame, an identical version of the one inside the arena. But with 4 legs.

Me: Oh...so that's what it's supposed to look like.
Me: $20 Canadian says some drunk tries to climb it. Tonight.
K: What's that US? $300?
Me: Aboot $15.
K: (talking about the flame) Just as goofy as the other one. Well, 125% goofier.

K: All right, I'm off. Good night, eh?
Me: Yeah, good night. Take off, eh?

Commuter of the Day 2/15/2010: Deez Nutz

2010-02-15T20:48:00.001-08:00

Stereotypes are horrible. Stereotypes are what prevents us as a species from evolving past caring about things like skin color, religion, language, etc.

Unfortunately, there is often a hint of truth behind the evil that are stereotypes.

For example, today's Commuter of the Day:

On the same vehicle (a pickup truck hauling....take my word for it....bedroom furniture) is a Sons of Confederate Veterans commemorative license plate AND a pair of Truck Nutz. Well, I think they're Truck Nutz. They could also be Bulls Balls, Bumper Nuts, or any number of scrotum-related vehicle accessories available online (all of them with rush shipping options available, in the event you want to pay extra for shipping to get these balls on your vehicle quicker).

In summary, while stereotypes are by nature wrong, there tends to be some truth to them. Germans love sausage and accordion music. Canadians love hockey. Confederate History fans love them some balls hanging from their truck.

Anybody have a favorite or least favorite stereotype? Share with the group!

The Hills Are Alive....

2010-02-03T12:10:00.000-08:00

Thing 1 is in her last year (5th grade) of elementary school. In 5th grade, the school requires all students, as part of the music curriculum, to purchase a recorder (not a huge expense, the one we got is $7). In order to pass music class, they must take tests throughout the last half of the year, playing songs they are learning on the recorder.

Naturally, she practices at home.

While I love my daughter, and I love how she is interested in a variety of subjects and disciplines (music, chorus, sports, etc), the sound of "Hot Cross Buns" played on the recorder is, I'm afraid, beginning to be too much to bear.

I'm starting to wonder if setting myself on fire really would hurt all that much.

Next Stop: Bangalore

2010-01-28T07:13:00.001-08:00

I worked from home yesterday. My work laptop has an internal wireless card, and I have my cable modem hooked up to a wireless router so that I can work anywhere inside the house, or in the backyard if I so choose.

Yesterday afternoon, without warning, I completely lost my internet connection. I checked the modem and the router and both were working fine and sending strong signals (my wireless card even showed it as a strong signal). My home desktop PC connected to the internet perfectly fine. As a last resort, I checked with Thing 1. She has an iPod Touch, so I asked her if she was getting a signal.

"Thing 1, are you online right now? I can't connect to the internet," I said."

"Yeah, I'm online now and reading emails. Did you try turning it off and turning it back on?" she asked.

I stared blankly at her for a minute in disbelief, that she gave me the same suggestion dozens of IT specialists (literally) around the world (very literally) have given me for years, as a sign that they don't know what the hell to do to fix the problem.

"That's what I do when my iPod freezes up, it fixes it every time," she added.

Grumbling, I went back to my computer and fiddled around with it some more. By that, I mean I furiously hit the "connect" button next to my wireless connection. After 10 minutes, fed up, I shut everything down and rebooted. In minutes, my desktop was back up, and I received a signal that I have multiple wireless signals available (my neighbors all have wireless). I clicked on mine, and instantly it said "connected."

I couldn't believe it. An 11 year old girl provided the solution to my wireless problem. And it worked. I am fully expecting her to also tell me that my cables are too long, which is why my network is too slow. If that happens, I'm outsourcing to India for a new daughter. She will be beautiful, dark-skinned, have an insanely thick accent and answer to the name "Laura."

OPSEC*

2010-01-26T19:59:00.001-08:00

*Operations Security

Definition: Operations security (OPSEC) is a process that identifies critical information to determine if friendly actions can be observed by adversary intelligence systems, determines if information obtained by adversaries could be interpreted to be useful to them, and then executes selected measures that eliminate or reduce adversary exploitation of friendly critical information.

In other words....a completely foreign concept for a five year old.

This weekend, we went to the Ikea in Atlanta, in the hopes of finding bedroom furniture for Thing 1, our 11 year old that would be more befitting a girl that will soon be in middle school. As anyone who has ever been to an Ikea is all too aware, it is a cornucopia of chaos. Mindless suburbanites wandering throughout a massive furniture showroom cum warehouse are everywhere, so many that you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting one (and if you then labeled said dead cat with something in Swedish....Död Katt, for example.....you could probably sell it for $9).

It's also a brilliantly fantastic place to people watch. College students are common, in the ultimate paradox....they are horrified at the idea of shopping with their parents for college dorm furniture, but willing to put up with it for the prospect of getting new furniture.

One can also see lots of young couples, fresh out on their own, on tight budgets and willing to put together furniture with no written instructions, only pictures, with Swedish names. And one can also see urban hipsters who don't have a lot of money because they are willing to work low-paying jobs simply for the chance to live in a city. These types can be seen wearing eclectic clothing like combat boots, Ramones t-shirts, and funky hair styles.

Enter Thing 2. At five years old, she is a mixture of both discretion and excitement. While perusing one of the furniture sections, she spotted something which she simply had to tell me about. So she crooked her finger and signaled that I bend down to hear a message. When I did so, she whispered, "She has green hair!" I didn't quite hear her at first, so she repeated it louder, "She has green hair!" I straightened up and started looking around for someone with green hair. If it was important enough for Thing 2 to mention, then I owe it to her to stare.

Not seeing her at first, Thing 2 decided I needed help. So she pointed right at the young green-haired woman and said, in a loud outdoor voice, "RIGHT THERE!" Following her finger, I looked over and sure enough, there was a woman, about 25, with bright green hair. And she was looking right at Thing 2.

I believe the time has come to teach the concept of OPSEC to Thing 2. Never pointing, but rather using signals to alert me to the presence of somebody that is funny looking. "Psst...behind you. Behind me. Over my left shoulder. Don't look, but she's over by the water fountain." I think once she has this down, she will be a brilliant scout of funny looking people everywhere.

I think I'll take her to Costco this weekend for practice.

The Complete Works of Shakespeare Can't Be Far Behind

2010-01-10T08:42:00.000-08:00

My younger daughter, Thing 2, just turned 5. She is in Pre-Kindergarten, and will be starting Kindergarten in August. She knows her alphabet and her numbers, and spends a lot of time practicing her letters. Mostly, it's random letters thrown together. The only word she knows how to write is her name.

She has a miniature white board that hangs on her bedroom door, with a marker, and will often use that to practice words. Yesterday, completely by accident, she wrote the word ELF. When my wife pointed this out to her, she was incredibly proud of herself and declared that she would never erase that whiteboard.

Now if we can just team her up with an infinite number of monkeys and an infinite number if typewriters, she'll be able to recreate all of Shakespeare's works, seeing as show she already has a good start on "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Commuter of the Day 12/16/2009: He Who Smelt it, Dealt it.

2009-12-16T05:37:00.000-08:00

I was at Wal-mart last night (my daughter is in her school chorus, and they sang Christmas carols there, something they do every year....it's a good practice for them, because they're also singing at the Governor's Mansion tomorrow), and walking through the parking lot I saw this license plate. On what is probably a very expensive Corvette.

I somehow don't think such a license plate would ever appear on a Jaguar or a Mercedes Benz. But a Corvette? I'm not surprised at all.

A Preschooler's Movie Review: Planet 51

2009-11-30T09:04:00.001-08:00

On Saturday, my wife took our 10 year old, Thing 1, to see "New Moon" (T1's 2nd viewing, my wife's first). At the same time, I took Thing 2 (who will be 5 in January) to see a showing of "Planet 51," which started around the same time.

I have to admit that I am a bit leery of taking young kids to see movies. Thing 1 is plenty old enough, but Thing 2 is at that age where the Icee from the snack counter could catch up to her, and she might not make it through the whole film. I still have memories of taking Thing 1 to see Miracle when she was about 5, and being halfway through the game between the US and Soviet Union (the climax of the film) and her having to use the bathroom. I carried her at a full sprint down the hall to the bathroom and was back in our seat in less than 2 minutes (hands may or may not have been washed).

Thing 2, unlike her sister, has the ability to nurse an Icee or a drink. Thing 1 has it finished by the time the opening credits are done. Thing 2 usually has some left over by the end of the movie, so she has that going for her. We made it through the movie "Up" back in June with no problems, other than her developing a speech impediment where she would say "Squirrel!" every 5 minutes for a week or so.

I have to say, I was not at all impressed with Planet 51. I think as far as the voice talent went, they did OK with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and the guy from the Mac commercials, but the story just wasn't that good (the writer also did Shrek and Shrek 2, and obviously strained his brain trying to squeeze in just as many double entendres and pop culture references but not as good). However, a movie has to be awful for me to want to leave a theater, and let's face it, I was not there to see Planet 51. I was there to spend quality time with my daughter, who DID want to see the movie. Even though I wasn't that wild about it, I had that feeling that we were going to miss some of it when T2 started fidgeting in her chair. And I knew we were going to have to rush out when she leaned toward me to whisper something. I bent down to hear her, and she cupped her hand around my ear to whisper something that I never thought I'd hear her say:

"Can we go soon?"

I was kind of taken aback by her question. So I said, "What?"

"Is this almost over? I want to go home."

Wow.

Dear producers of Planet 51:

My 4 year old daughter thinks your movie sucks.

Warmest regards,

Steve

Commuter of the Day 11/20/2009

2009-11-20T20:16:00.000-08:00

I have a pretty good idea of how this went down. This particular commuter got into his car with his arms full, carrying a Pepsi. He probably put the Pepsi on the roof of his car while he fished out his keys, and put his briefcase, jacket and other items in the back seat. He then got in the front, started his car, and drove off. Forgetting the Pepsi on the roof, of course.

As he drove off, the Pepsi fell over, and rolled around on the roof of his car. Because of his roof rack, it prevented the Pepsi from going off the edge. Instead, the Pepsi merely went back and forth, hitting the rack, and going back in the opposite direction. Due to the low speed limit, there was not enough speed to send the can flying.

One little twist, however. This was my Pepsi. My car. And my commute.

I realized where I had left my Pepsi when I heard a thunk on the roof. I then heard a few more as the Pepsi rolled back and forth, smacking the rack and rolling back to the other side. I even made two turns, and the can continued its back and forth rolling. This was absolutely embarrassing, I couldn't believe that not only I left a soda on my car, but the damn thing wouldn't fall off. I finally made a turn onto a long, straight road which allowed me to get up to a decent speed, and I went from 35 to 50mph pretty quickly. It was at that point I didn't hear any more rolling, and instead, in my rear view mirrow, saw a can of Pepsi flying through the air.

I felt bad about littering. But I felt worse thinking other drivers might have been pointing and laughing at me. And possibly Twittering about it.

Educational Pwnage

2009-11-13T05:44:00.001-08:00

My younger daughter (Thing 2) is in Pre-K (pre-Kindergarten, the year before going to elementary school....throughout the US, pre-K programs basically prepare kids for starting Kindergarten by getting them to be able to identify letters, numbers, shapes, etc, so they can start Kindergarten already knowing how to write their name, and even read a few words in some cases). She is in a private pre-K program and goes 4 days a week, 9AM to 1PM (state pre-K programs are from 8-2:15, full day basically).

One of her best friends is a year older than she is. That girl is in Kindergarten, and was in a state pre-K program last year.

As many of you know, a lot of education is taught through song. We learn the ABC's by putting it to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (thus, when we're adults and pulled over at a DWI checkpoint, when asked to recite the ABC's without singing, it's a guaranteed fail). We also learn the history of the universe from The Barenaked Ladies "Big Bang" (trust me, it's a lot more fun than 4 years of physical science at a university).

Apparently, someone decided that learning the months of the year is a lot easier if you put it to a tune. Of course, the number of tunes whose length matches that of the months of the year is somewhat limited. So limited, in fact, that apparently "The Macarena" is the ONLY one. I know this, because if there was another one, don't you think they would have used that one instead of "The Macarena"? So, the new thing is to now teach the months of the year, to the tune of "The Macarena," complete with the dance moves that go along with it (if you live in a part of this planet where "The Macarena" never hit pop culture, count yourself lucky).

Because the Months Song is taught in both pre-K and Kindergarten, Thing 2 and her friend both know it, and both sing it. Recently, they did this in front of me. Thing 2 started it, doing the hand gestures, singing perfectly, and got all 12 months, in their right order, and stuck the landing. By that, I mean she took a bow. Literally. Her friend then made an attempt at it. The wheels fell of that bus by the time she hit April. Next thing you know, December is in the Summer, August is in Winter, and a couple months got counted twice, and some not at all. Naturally, I had to really stifle the snickering and potential guffaws that wanted to break free. I certainly didn't want to hurt this poor girl's feelings.

Please make no mistake, this is not an argument for private school. I was educated in a public school system, as were my brothers, and most of us turned out OK. My kids will go through the public school system, and probably attend public universities. This is me simply being very proud that my kid is smarter than another kid a full year older than her.

Father of the Year

2009-11-05T10:51:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, my 10 year old, Thing 1, came up to me and said, "Dad, I have a silly question. I can't believe I'm asking this, but how do you spell 'near'?"

"Near?" I asked, making sure I heard her.

"Yes, near. I know I should know this, but it's been a long day and I just can't think straight."

"Simple," I said. "Just remember this classic rule, when spelling with vowels. 'I before E, except after C.'"

She looked at me funny, and thought for a minute. I could see the gears turning. Finally, she looked at me like I was a giant idiot and said, "There's no "i" in "near". I know there's an e, it's n-e-blank-r, but there's no i."

"Thank goodness you at least knew that," I replied. "I'll give you a hint, it's another vowel, and you already eliminated one of them."

I think she then went and asked her mom.

How I Make Neighbors Cry

2009-11-05T10:08:00.000-08:00

First of all, if making your neighbor cry is your goal, it’s always best to find one that is hyper-sensitive, and possibly a semi shut-in. I suppose a drunk will work too, as drunks can go from “fighty” to “teary” very quickly.

Second…have a damn good reason to make her cry, or you just come across as an asshole. I’m not an asshole. I had a DAMN good reason.

There is a family across the street whom I affectionately call “The Bumpus Family.” I won’t name the kids, but one of them is named after one of the 5 boroughs of New York City, which seems to be all the rage (or was 6-8 years ago). And they have dogs. 2 dogs, to be exact. They also have an electric dog fence in their back yard. On exactly 1 of the 4 sides of their backyard fence. No more, no less.

Needless to say, with their digging ability, and their ability to determine that they won’t get an electric shock every time they dig under 3 of the 4 sides of their backyard fence, our neighborhood often looks like one of the scenes from the move “A Christmas Story,” when the dogs are running through the Parker’s house (minus the stealing of the Christmas turkey). Most of the people on our block have discussed these dogs, and how they have managed to survive without getting hauled off by animal control. This past weekend, the Bumpus family went to Disney World, leaving the grandparents in charge of the dogs. The dogs got out the day they flew out of town on Thursday, and came back home on Sunday when the family got back and the kids hauled them back home.

Recently, a line was crossed when I went from my house into my garage (the garage door was open) to walk out to the driveway to get into my car, before driving to work. I was quite surprised to see a dog walking around my wife’s car in the garage, ignoring me. I closed the door to make sure my cat didn’t dart out (she hates dogs) and heard this dog panting and walking just outside the door. Once the noise went away, I walked out to my car, threw my briefcase in the back, and walked across the street to the Bumpus House.

After ringing the doorbell a couple of times, a very nervous mom and daughter (the daughter is in middle school, so her bus is later and she was still home) answered the door. The father had already gone to work. I started by asking them if they knew where their dogs were. I received a blank stare in response. The ensuing conversation went like this:

Me: I walked out of my house this morning and found your dog in my garage.
Mom: I’m awful sorry, we…
Me: Your dogs spent the weekend walking around the entire neighborhood, as far as two streets away.
Mom: You see, we were out…
Me: I have a right as a homeowner to be able to walk to my car, or even into my garage, without having a neighbor’s dog in my garage.
Mom: I’m really sor….
Me: Neighbors up and down this street have been talking about these dogs, and a few of them have suggested calling animal control.
Mom: I’m…
Me: I am tired of seeing your dogs up and down the street running around, and I especially don’t want them pooping in my yard. Please do something about it immediately.

At that point, I left the porch.

That night, while preparing to sit down to dinner, the phone rang. It was Mr. Bumpus, the father. He called to apologize for his dogs being in my garage, but apparently, what ticked him off the most was that after I left, his wife called him, extremely upset, because I was, and I quote, “rude, mean, and sarcastic.” Obviously, his wife doesn’t know what that word meant, because sarcasm is, “oh, I just LOVE it when your dogs run free everywhere.” As I told him, I was blunt, to the point, and I wanted to make sure I got my point across.

Can you believe the balls on this guy? He calls me to make me feel guilty for upsetting his wife, and he told me that if there’s an issue with the dogs, I should go see him. Apparently, his wife is very sensitive, and cares what people think (and is apparently concerned now that the neighbors think they’re trailer trash). He, on the other hand, does not care. My response? “Sir, that’s where the problem is. If your dogs continue to run free, they will be picked up by animal control and you will be ticketed, and if the dogs have no tags, they will be put down. So you SHOULD care what people think. As for me, I will not apologize for talking to your wife. I am not going to wait until YOU get home if your dogs are in my yard in the morning. It does me no good if the problem is happening right there.”

He kept alluding to the fact that his wife was very upset, and felt intimidated, and couldn’t get in a word in edgewise with me talking this morning, which leads me to believe she was an hysterical mess. I think he was surprised when I explained to him that I was not there to discuss, nor debate. I was there to tell them to do something about their dogs. Why their dogs were running loose was irrelevant to me. But, I did not tell him to go to hell or pound sand, as our daughters all play together, and if I was a dick to him, then he would tell his family what he thought, and his daughters would take it out on my daughter, and then there would be a war.

So, once again, issues with neighbors rears its ugly head. I really think we need to move within the next year.

"I Call"

2009-10-20T05:54:00.000-07:00

Kids love playing the game of “I call.”

“I call getting to lick the beater!”
“I call shotgun!”
“I call sitting next to (insert friend or preferred parent’s name here)”!
“I call getting the next game of Pac-Man/Guitar Hero/Space Invaders!”
“I call lighting the next bottle rocket!”

At least, these were the things that were called in my house growing up (aside from Guitar hero).

My two daughters, Thing 1 and Thing 2, have not been happy with their assigned seating at the dinner table lately. Well, Thing 2 has not been happy. From her seat, Thing 1 can see the TV in the living room, whereas Thing 2 can’t. Occasionally, we’ll let Thing 2 pick a different seat. Lately, we make it easier by shutting the TV off during dinner (which is tough, that’s when iCarly is on). Regardless, I’m on the verge of simply letting Thing 2 take my seat, which would not only allow Thing 2 to see the TV if she turned around, but block Thing 1 from seeing it (assuming we allowed the TV to be on).

Needless to say, this created conflict too. Both of them now want to sit in my normal seat. I’m convinced they keep changing their minds simply out of spite. Neither one of them is happy unless the other one is unhappy. Since Thing 1 is 10-1/2 and Thing 2 is 4-1/2, it makes for interesting conversations. For example, the latest:

Thing 1: I call Dad’s seat tomorrow!
Thing 2: Oh yeah? I call that tomorrow, I get to hit you…..really badly…..in the face!

As you can see, Thing 2 wastes no time, at a tender age, in employing the Nuclear Option in all negotiations. I’d sure as hell hate to see how she handles the argument over licking the beater.

5 Weeks. And Counting.

2009-09-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

Quite some time ago, I wrote some comments regarding Halloween costumes. Well, they’re actually more like rules. Yes, they’re definitely rules. And I will not negotiate any of them.

Sometime between now and the blessed event, I will post some more specific rules regarding costumes. For now, here’s a good start, so you can start planning ahead.

As you can guess, I’m a bit excited for the arrival of Halloween. Now, I believe it is a holiday that can be shared by all. It’s a time for fun, and letting the hair down. No Satanism, no evil shit, just people having a good time. For everyone to have a good time trick or treating (meaning, for ME to have a good time), here are some simple rules:

1. You better be wearing a costume. I don’t care if you’re a teenager, if you’re at my house grubbing for free candy, you better entertain me. You, as a trick-or-treater, are obligated to put out some effort in order to get the candy reward. Put on a sheet and call yourself a ghost. Paint your face to look like an accident victim. I don’t care, but make the effort. Don’t phone it in. I will still give you candy, because I don’t want my house vandalized, but I have 2 kinds of candy. The good stuff for kids in costumes, and the crappy stuff for kids without costumes. If you are without costume, you will get root beer ringpops, which are foul, or super sour lemon balls, which are inedible.

2. Don’t ask for a different type of candy. You get what you get and you don’t bitch a fit.

3. Don’t fucking touch anything on my yard. I put in some effort to entertain you. If you violate that trust, you are ruining it for everyone.

4. You may come to my house as many times as you want in one night….but you better be wearing a different costume each time. The way I see it, if you are putting that much effort into it, you should be rewarded. Most kids don’t believe me. One kid, last year, called my bluff, and he was rewarded. I like seeing all the creative costumes as much as you enjoy getting free candy, you mooch.

5. Parents…..stick with your kids. It’s a dangerous world. Many of our neighborhoods have sex offenders living there. I know mine does. Please, keep an eye on them, we don’t want to spoil this day.

6. All peanut butter cups are mine. This is not negotiable.

7. Teenagers too cool to trick or treat….while you’re hanging out in the street, impressing your ugly girlfriends, don’t race up and down the streets in your cars, dirt bikes, 4-wheelers, etc. 2 years ago, I called the cops on you. You know I will do it again.

8. Parents…if you are taking kids Trick or treating, please, if it is a 2-parent home, one of you stay home and hand out candy. I consider this Karma. When you are getting candy for free, you should be giving candy for free. When both parents are gone, the house is dark, and it makes it a lousy neighborhood to T or T in. It’s only fair.

9. Kids, be respectful. People are giving you free candy. When we open the door, yell “Trick or Treat!” When we give you candy, say thank you.

10. Have fun. Don’t be jerks, vandalizing stuff, making loud noises, ringing bells a million times. Don’t make fun of other kids’ costumes, they put effort into them for one reason or another. As Bill S. Preston Esq. and Ted Theodore Logan once said: Be Excellent To Each Other.

Above all else, never, ever forget Rule #6.

If I owned a fragrance line, I'd call it "Schadenfreude."

2009-09-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my previous entry, Atlanta has received a biblical amount of rain. It started raining last Tuesday, and it rained every day since, until today. Today is the first day I've seen the sun since last Monday. Of course, another line of storms is on their way from Alabama. Proof that nothing good comes from Alabama (to further prove my point, Alabama has produced as many American Idol contestants as astronauts, according to Wikipedia).

I left the office at 3:30 yesterday after hearing reports on the radio that there were several bridges throughout the metro area that, if I didn't get across them now, they would not be there in a couple of hours. Or something like that. So, after wrapping up business, I got in my car and went home. Things went smooth until the last leg of my journey, which was about 2 miles of road on Highway 41, the main artery through Cobb County. Apparently, there was severe flooding north of my side road, so everyone at my side road had to either turn left or right. Thankfully, I had the good sense not to drink anything on the way home.

After about half a mile on Hwy 41, driving in the left lane, I was caught by surprise by a small Toyota 4WD pickup truck driving by me on the left. What shocked me was that there was no actual road to my left, just a grass and mud median with about a 20 degree sideways pitch to the left. I quickly surmised that he had to turn left at the next light, and was cutting in line to get to that left turn lane up ahead. I watched him bounce along for about a quarter of a mile, avoiding obstacles, the occasional drain pipe, things like that. But, after much bouncing along, he made it. For the last couple hundred feet, he was followed by a Jeep Cherokee that got the same idea, both of them going slow and bouncing up to the intersection.

They were about 20 feet from the additional left turn lane being added, when a police car passed them going south. Seeing 2 vehicles drive illegally on the grass median, the cop hit the brakes and turned on his lights. He then backed up on Hwy 41 (all the traffic was heading north....as the road was closed north of where we were, nobody was behind him). The cop pulled off to the side when he got near the intersection, and waved both vehicles over. A Toyota Camry was behind them and thought he got pulled over too, but as the Camry was not off-roading, he was waved past them.

The driver of the Toyota pickup obviously thought he had done nothing wrong, so he got out and started holding up his arms in a "WTF" gesture. I was still a few hundred yards away, but I clearly saw him stop, and turn around and get back in his truck. Clearly the cop was taking no shit on this day, and ordered him back into his vehicle (police in traffic stops do NOT want the occupants to leave the vehicle, and if necessary, a tasing will occur).

Traffic was going slowly enough that I was at first fearful that the cop would issue both tickets and have them on their way before I could get up to them. However, he was clearly taking his time. Probably because douchebags that cut in line in traffic have previous arrests to go through, to make sure there are no outstanding warrants. But, I was rewarded when I finally got to that intersection and they were still there. I was able to have my coveted moment of Schadenfreude by laughing, and saying, "Haha, fuckerrrr!!!" and giving them the "You're Number 1" sign. Oh, and I took their picture for posterity. It's not a good one, as it was raining and the raindrops obscured the view somewhat. But, this is what douchebags drive, apparently.

Here is the view of the scene as I passed them, from my side-view mirror. You can see the cop pulling over both douchenozzles, and the loooooong line of cars behind me.

Needless to say, I had my moment of Schadenfreude. Getting pleasure from the misery of others. This was tempered somewhat when I heard on the radio that about 7 people died in the floods throughout Atlanta. One of them was a 3 year old who was in a mobile home that got swept away in a flood, into a river, and broke in half. This was further encouragement to take it easy, drive carefully, make it home OK, and hug my kids.

Those thoughts, of course, went down the toilet when I got out of my car and saw the mud splatter all over the driver's side from the asshole in the white truck as he drove by me, and again I was thankful that a cop was driving by and ticketed that asshole.

A Work Conversation

2009-09-21T20:03:00.000-07:00

While at work today, outside my windows (which were behind me), the skies were opening up and unleashing a torrential rainstorm which some of you may have read about or seen on TV. At about 11:30AM, one of my coworkers poked his head in my office.

D: Hey Steve...have you looked outside?
Me: Yeah, it's raining like crazy. Sideways, last time I looked.
D: Did you see your car?
Me: No, why?
D: Take a look. You might want to do something about that.

I turned around and looked out the window. Unable to see anything, I stood and walked to the window, and spread open the blinds so that I could see better, as the rain was obscuring everything. Letting my eyes focus, I could make out my car. Unfortunately, I couldn't make out the asphalt on which it was parked, as it was completely surrounded by a rapidly growing lake.

I realize to some it may seem like another crappy Blackberry photo (taken with a coworker's phone), but it was raining so unbelievably hard, getting it in focus was impossible with a camera phone. What you can't see is the water going up to the bottom of my door. I quickly ran across the parking lot to get in and move it. The water was above my ankles, and while running, it completely soaked my pants above the knees. I didn't bother with an umbrella, as it would only slow me down.

I jumped in, started it, and put it into gear. And it wouldn't move. I gunned it, and I could feel the wheels turning very slowly. I began to panic, until I realized I had, for reasons unknown, put on the parking brake that morning (something I never do unless parking on a hill). I disengaged it and moved across the lot, where it was higher. It was then that I saw the nearby storm drain had obviously clogged up, creating a dam. The warehouse manager parked next to the drain, and the water was above the lower rim of the door, and water got inside his car.

My initial plan was to go home at lunch and change into dry clothes (less than 8 miles away). Unfortunately, every road to get home was closed due to flooding. It was certainly nothing like the Mississippi Valley in 1993, or the Brisbane floods of 1974, but for the Atlanta area, this was pretty damn bad. After 2 miles, I turned around and went back to the office, hoping matters would improve later. On the way back, another two coworkers called me. They had gone out for lunch, drove down the road past a Wal-Mart, and drove through what they thought was a puddle, only to find the water was halfway up their door, and they got flooded out. By the time I got there to pick them up, they got the car pulled out, and the local tire place stuck cones in front of the puddle to block it. Another car came zooming down the road, promptly drove around the cones, and then buried their car in over three feet of water. Clearly, a flooded road with cones in front of it was not enough to stop that dumbass.

My car, thankfully, is dry. It took me 90 minutes to get home, as there was only one road open that could get me there. All of the schools in the county are closed tomorrow, so that kids don't get stranded at schools (unlike today). I'm considering risking the drive in to work, down flooded roads, in order to avoid working from home with a 10 year old and 4 year old with chronic cabin fever.

What's Grosser Than Gross?

2009-09-18T13:58:00.001-07:00

Has anyone here ever played this game as a kid? I know it made it further than my hometown, because I knew kids from all around the area, usually at places like Boy Scout camp, school museum trips, etc, where this would be a discussion. It was basically a joke, usually along the lines of the book series "Truly Tasteless Jokes," that would go as follows:

Q: What's grosser than gross?
A: Falling off the Empire State Building and landing on a bicycle with no seat.

Obviously, this would generate loud groans among the male audience (it was always boys telling these, girls seemed to have too much good sense).

Naturally, the ante would be upped, when someone would say:

Q: What's grosser than that?
A: Halfway down, you catch your eyelid on a hook.

Or:
Q: What's grosser than gross?
A: Eating a bowl of corn flakes and finding your brother lost his scab collection.
Q: What's grosser than that?
A: Kissing your grandmother and she slips you the tongue.

You get the point. In retrospect, it was really a disgusting way to spend the time. For other people, I mean. I have two older brothers, so I had access to all of their dirty joke books (and dirty magazines), so I often had a distinct advantage when playing "What's Grosser Than Gross?" It's kind of one of the things I miss about childhood, sitting around with friends telling dirty jokes. I see my daughter doing the same thing with her friends, talking quietly and laughing, but I have a hard time believing she's telling gross jokes.

In honor of one of my favorite activities of my childhood, I will now play a blog version of What's Grosser than Gross?

Q: What's Grosser than Gross?
A: My Thumbnail:

Q: What's Grosser than That?
A: The Daisy Sour Cream that expired on June 1, 2009, and is still sitting in the work fridge. You can kind of make out where it's starting to turn blue, and get all lumpy. Imagine that on a baked potato!

Enjoy the gross-out session. I would like to say you've been warned, but that would've taken away all the fun.

Everybody knows that smokin' ain't allowed in school!

2009-09-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

I pulled out of my driveway today and went to the end of the street, where I made my usual right turn. As I approached this intersection, I could see the high school-aged boy that lives next door to me (the younger brother of the tramp that likes to throw loud parties). He was sitting in the front yard of the house, presumably waiting for the school bus (I didn't realize that's where the high school bus stop is, I'm usually on my way to work a little earlier).

He was on the side street, his back to me, and as I approached, I could see that his hand was up to his mouth, and a puff of smoke had plumed away from his mouth. As it is still September, I knew it wasn't his cold breath, so I knew right away David was puffing away on a cigarette.

As I came to the stop sign and turned (yes, it was a rolling turn), I saw his arm drop. When he recognized me, he waved, and I returned the wave. I could see that neither hand held a cigarette. So, once I passed him, I looked in my rearview mirror. Sure enough, David reached between his legs, and I saw him pick a cigarette off the ground and continue smoking.

It's been 20 years since I began my senior year in high school, but I can see not much has changed. Many teenagers still smoke, and many of them are still sneaking it. And, amazingly, they think they get away with it. This alone makes it funny. And it's even funnier if young David thinks he can get away with it at home. His dad is not a smoker (which means he has a sense of smell), so chances are his dad knows exactly what David is doing at the bus stop.

And if not, I wonder if I can parlay this fact into a chance for some free lawn care in return for my silence?

Naturally, I'm interested in hearing your smoking stories, and if you got caught. I never smoked in high school, but I did try it 3 or 4 times in college (alcohol was involved, and even while drunk I knew I did not enjoy it).

Random Thoughts 9/9/2009

2009-09-09T20:20:00.000-07:00

Fact: I love free breakroom donuts more than I fear catching H1N1 Swine Flu from germs left on those donuts by unwashed coworkers.

Fact: In the last 3 years, I have seen a doctor on 3 different occasions for soccer-related injuries (broken finger, bruised ribs, sprained ankle). Today, I had to tell a doctor I injured myself while painting lines on a soccer field.

Fact: I cut my thumbnail in half, right down the middle, on a sharp metal protrusion from the paint sprayer. That could be the worst soccer-related injury I've ever had.

Fact: The idea of losing my thumbnail (which is a when, not if, scenario) is probably going to keep me awake at night.

Fact: I'm coaching two soccer teams this year. One, a U12 girls' team with 10 and 11 year old pre-teens. The other, a U6 team filled with kids aged 4-1/2 to 5. This is the first week where both are practicing. I'm not too concerned about which one is worse. I'm more concerned with the over/under on how long my sanity holds out.

Fact: Soccer moms FTW.

Fact: "Leverage" could be one of my 3 favorite current TV shows (on TNT). This is not helping my unhealthy obsession with Gina Bellman, who could be one of the greatest things ever created in New Zealand.

I want to wake up in a city, that never sleeps

2009-09-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, I had the pleasure of attending the wedding of my baby brother (who isn't so much a baby anymore) in, of all places, New York City. From the time of my birth until I was 18, and again from the age of 22 until 26, I lived about 75 minutes from the city by train, and as far as I was concerned, that was close enough. Trips to the city were limited to museums, planetariums, many baseball games (mostly Mets, and 1 Yankees game on a work-related outing) and exactly 1 circus. Never, until last weekend, have I ever spent a night in the city.

I expected to be kept up all night long with sirens, horns honking, gunshots, etc. Amazingly, the only thing that kept me awake was the hum of the air conditioner in the room. Due to the location of the wedding, we stayed in the Radio City Apartments, which is right near Rockefeller Plaza, Radio City Music Hall, and Times Square, which is not the Times Square of my youth (strip clubs, porn shops, peep shows, etc). It's the Times Square for my kids' youth (a large Toys R Us, an M&M's store, a Hershey's store, Planet Hollywood, Hard Rock Cafe, etc). This was the first time I actually got to walk around the city and just look, as all other previous visits were for a specific destination and then a trip back home to Jersey, so I actually got to do more people-watching.

Between the trip up and the wedding itself I have a lot of thoughts to put down, so I just want to touch on the unusual things I saw or experienced:

-Each morning, outside our hotel, sat a homeless Native American, with a sign that read that he was trying to get back home to Arizona. For the first time in years, I gave money to a homeless person. 10 feet away from him, my daughter found a dime and a penny on the ground, and I made her give the money to that guy, along with whatever change was in my pocket. I probably would've ignored him except all I could think of was the Crying Indian Commercial from my childhood. Remembering that guy crying guilted me into helping out this Indian in NYC.

-I left my cell phone charger in NJ. There was a Verizon store right next to the hotel, and my phone was running low, so on Saturday morning I walked down there to see if I could buy a charger. It was closed. The city may never sleep, but God help you if you need to buy a cell phone or pay your bill on a Saturday.

-My brother works in the Empire State Building, so he was able to get us specially-priced tickets that also enabled us to skip the line and go right to the elevators to the observation deck. I immediately noticed, west of the ESB, Penn Plaza and Madison Square Garden, where the NY Rangers play in the National Hockey League. When I pointed this landmark out to Thing 1, from approximately 2 blocks over and 1058 feet up, she proceeded to boo Madison Square Garden. That's my girl! (Suck it, Rangers!)

-While sightseeing on Saturday morning, during a steady rain, in Times Square, a Latino guy wearing shorts and a t-shirt crossed the road, near 47th Street. I should point out that all he was wearing were shorts and a t-shirt. He was pushing a double-decker hand cart that had cases of soda on the top, and underneath was a boom box playing a Def Leppard song. He pushed it towards the crowd, and when he came across an obstacle, he would hop around, change direction, and move to avoid hitting people, always hopping, like he was the happiest guy on earth. He almost looked like Frogger, trying to avoid hitting people with his cart. All the while with Def Leppard blaring. Barefoot. It was possibly the most surreal moment of the weekend.

-But, the absolute strangest sight of the weekend occurred while I visited the lunch counter right next to the hotel. It had a short-order counter for breakfast and lunch foods (eggs, bacon, home fries, sandwiches, etc). A short Latino behind the counter would take orders, and had fairly good English. Better than most of the people ordering, who were literally from all over the world (I heard Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, and Hindi). After I placed my order, for a couple of bagels and some scrambled eggs with bacon, an Indian (Hindi) guy next to me ordered. He asked for a bagel, with cream cheese, and eggs. Now, normally you put one or the other on a bagel. But combining the sweetness of cream cheese with fried eggs is, for lack of a better word, disgusting. It's like cheese on Chinese food. So, the Indian gentleman places his order, and the Latino behind the counter wrinkled up his face, and said, "bagel...with cream cheese, and eggs?" And the Indian confirms this order. And the cook again says, "with eggs?" With even more disbelief. Meanwhile, my stomach is just twisting at the thought. And the Indian says, "yes, with eggs." and one last time, the cook says, "EGGS?" Just to make sure he heard him right. And the Indian nodded affirmation. The cook shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and went to prepare the order, and undoubtedly a part of his soul died at the thought that he came all the way to America to put that piece of shit food order together. I almost wanted to ask that guy if he was sure he wanted eggs on a bagel with cream cheese.

Next up: Emergency tuxedo repairs, Princess Bride quotes, shitty NY pizza, open bars, and shit for which people will pay $118.

Commuter of the Day 8/17/2009: Muscle vs. Atrophy

2009-08-17T20:40:00.000-07:00

While driving near my office today, I saw for the first time, up close, the new Camaro. A redesign of the classic American muscle car, more angular than the Camaro of the 80's and 90's, more of a re-imaging of the original 60's Camaro. While I thought the front end looked kind of dorky, I liked this view. To date, I had only seen it in commercials.

Since this was the first time I had seen this on the road, I figured this was an easy slam-dunk for commuter of the day. Until I was emailed the following photo. I don't want to say in which state this was seen, because I don't want to destroy the morale of millions of people.

Right...where to start? First of all, as I've said before, anyone who would pay all that money to have the brand of vehicle painted/decaled to that extent onto the side of the vehicle without actually having a check in-hand from the manufacturer to cover advertising costs is a complete douchebag. The human body is 98% water, those people are 98% vinegar and water.

Secondly....a spoiler? Seriously? On a Ford Focus? Are they expecting it to go fast enough where becoming airborne is a problem? Jesus, you watch "Fast and the Furious" and you suddenly think you can put a spoiler on anything. Jackass. My dad had a college buddy who owned a Corvette back in the 60's, and once drove it hard enough that he could've used a spoiler and unfortunately didn't have one (he was a good enough driver that he was able to maintain control). But this isn't a Vette. It's a farking FOCUS.

Lastly.....you know, most people wouldn't think that blue painter's masking tape would go well on the rims like that, so I kind of have to admire their bold choice.

I'm kidding of course. The driver is clearly an asshole. To prove he's an asshole, he's parked his car near the street, so people can see how much money he spent on a commuter car. And it's clear that he got the upgraded pipes, so while he's driving through this nice quiet community, everyone can say, "Ahh, Asshole's coming home!"

So, between the two vehicles, we have one that is proof that some people want to relive their youth, while others are too stupid too appreciate theirs.

Was This Inappropriate?

2009-08-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

I have a supplier that recently pushed out the delivery on a part (which I've purchased before) from 4 weeks to 12 weeks. Needless to say, this is outside my customer's window for the project they have going on, and my customer wants to know why it's late.

Thus, I have been peppering my vendor with questions. Is this a supply chain issue? Are their sub-vendors late? Is the factory behind schedule? Is there an infrastructure issue that we need to know about, and possibly try to find another supplier?

Each time I sent her an email, she would simply reply that the new delivery is 12 weeks, with no other explanation. She repeated this statement each time I asked her why the lead time tripled.

Finally, exasperated, I changed tactics, and sent her the following message:

What is driving the lead time? Does it have to go through a 4 week heat-treat process? Did the factory get leveled by a flood/earthquake? Are you waiting for it to be forged by dwarves under a mountain, using primitive tools, and then carried by donkeys?

Her response: In the future, please refrain from the inappropriate comments. I do not treat you with any disrespect. She then rambled on again how the lead time is 12 weeks and she won't respond to me again if I keep using inappropriate language.

I knew she wasn't going to change her answer, but I at least got her worked up a little. I just hope she knew I meant the mythological dwarves found in the Lord of the Rings, and not someone you'd find in a sideshow, or a reality tv show. Because if it was the latter, well, that would've been inappropriate.

Ashes to Ashes

2009-08-11T13:03:00.000-07:00

"Hey Steve, what're you doing?" my boss inquired, as I pressed the cell phone to my ear with my shoulder as I opened another cardboard box.

"Nothing, just looking for my grandmother's ashes," I replied.

"Uhhh.....oooookay," was his response, along with a half chuckle in the event I was only kidding.

"Don't worry, you can laugh, it's a funny story," I reassured him. And, as I searched my mom's basement looking for Grandma's ashes (while in New Jersey last summer on vacation), answering what WAS an emergency work-related phone call (which my boss quickly forgot about, once he had something better to discuss), I told him the story:

It all started in February 1982. Or ended, I guess would be the better way to put it. My grandmother Elinor passed away. The cause of death was a foot race between lung cancer due to decades of smoking and liver disease due to decades of drinking. In fact, it was the drinking that ended her marriage with my grandfather, and was bad enough that my dad and his sister lived with my grandfather until they went off to college. Ultimately, the lung cancer won out, relieving her of a couple of years of pain. She was the first relative I ever had that died, and I remember being absolutely destroyed, despite the fact that I barely knew the woman. When you're ten, all death is a tragedy. As you age, you can pick and choose your tragedies as you see fit.

There was no funeral, as I recall. We lived in New Jersey, Elinor lived outside of Chicago near my dad's sister. Only my dad went out west to help my aunt handle the affairs. The rest of us followed 2 months later, at Spring Break, to help clean out her apartment and haul back to NJ the items we claimed. I knew nothing of how she was interred, or even if she was interred.

I remained blissfully ignorant to that part of the death process, until one day, several years later (for reasons still unknown), I was snooping in my parent's bedroom. My parents had two dressers in their room, one of which was opposite their bed and on which sat the TV in their room. They also had a video game system (possibly a Nintendo) in there. It was kept there so that we didn't tie up the main TV in the living room. Bored from playing one game for a while, I decided to do what boys often do. I started opening up drawers just to see what was inside. In the very bottom drawer of this dresser, there sat nothing except a brown cardboard box. The box was about the size of two tissue boxes stacked one on top of another. Growing more and more curious, I opened that box, and inside found a cylindrical metal canister, about half the width of one of the large coffee cans. On the top of the canister was a label that said something to the effect of "Cremated Remains of Elinor Z," along with the statement, "Temporary Container."

And this is when I realized my grandmother's cremated remains were sitting in the bottom drawer of my parent's dresser. I won't say this is the same kind of shocking as walking in on your parents having sex. It's a different sort of shocking, but still shocking.

Over the years, I talked to my dad about his mother's remains, and it was always the goal to one day send them to a cemetery in Punxsutawney Pennsylvania (about 90 miles NW of Pittsburgh), where Elinor was from and where her family had a family cemetery plot. There was already a plot bought and paid for, all we had to do was send the remains there and the cemetery would handle the rest. This was a project my dad was going to take on, but for some reason never got around to doing it. He was not close to his mother, but he still respected her enough that he wanted to personally make this trip and oversee her being laid to rest.

My mom, on the other hand, kind of had fun with the whole thing. She would ask girlfriends of my brothers and I if they had ever met Elinor. With a mixture of 2 parts black humor and 1 part insanity, she would then bring down the box in which my grandmother was stored, and sit there drinking coffee and chatting while the young woman sat there horrified. I have to say, my mom never liked Elinor, and I think she kind of paid her back a little.

In 1998, my wife and I moved to Atlanta, and at the time Elinor was still there. In the few years that followed, my dad and I would occasionally bring up his mother's remains in conversation, and I assured him that if he ever felt up to the trip, I would go with him, but he never got motivated enough to do it. And in 2001, he retired, and he and my mom purchased a house here in Georgia, about an hour northeast of us, making it more difficult to go to Western Pennsylvania. So, Elinor was packed up and moved to Georgia.

My parents' stay in Georgia did not last long. In 2003, my mom decided she absolutely hated the entire state, and so they sold the house and moved back north to New Jersey. Unfortunately, they sold the house I grew up in, so they rented a 2 story duplex not far from the Raritan Bay in NJ. Again, Elinor made the trip, never once complaining about the lack of dignity of being moved around the country along with dinette sets, books, throw rugs, etc. Her remains were packed in a box along with other articles my mom did not readily need, and they sat in the basement.

On Friday, January 26, my father passed away unexpectedly, and I have to admit, all thoughts of Elinor left my mind for several months. However, I remembered her that summer when we took a family vacation to NJ. In the laundry room, on a high shelf, sat a bag from the funeral home, and in that bag was a box, not dissimilar to Elinor's, in which sat my father's remains. And it brought to mind the travels my grandmother made. A month after, I visited my aunt just outside of Chicago, and she asked me if I knew if her mother's remains had ever been sent to Punxsutawney. I told her that I didn't think they did, but the next chance I got, I personally would find them and send them home. She seemed very relieved that I was willing to take on the project my father, her brother, never got to finish.

In June 2008, I told my mother that it was time to find Elinor and send her to her final resting place, and I asked her where she was. The blank stare I received did not fill me full of hope. She was able to give me one clue. "It's in a Lego box." OK, great. My grandmother's mortal remains are in a Lego box. I then went to work. Her house does not have central air conditioning (window units all over), so the basement was hot. I got to work opening each and every box in that basement. My guess is there are probably 100 cardboard boxes in that basement filled with everything from pool toys, to gardening tools, swatches of fabric (my mom does a lot of sewing), unused kitchen sets, and mementos from my parent's childhood (for example, an antique chronometer, a tool used for celestial navigation, which my dad very likely knew exactly how to use by the time he was in his teens). But box after box, nothing. I did, however, find plenty of examples that my mom's 2 cats did not always use the litter box, so stepping around down there was done with extreme care. And it was during this search that my boss called me on my cell phone with a work-related question, and it was then that I informed him about my mission.

Along one wall of the basement there were boxes stacked 3 or 4 high, 10 wide, and about 4 deep, so I had to wade through all of these, trying to find the one box that contained my grandmother. Some of the boxes were empty. Some contained decorations you would hang around a swimming pool (with a tropical theme). I even found a brass sink, like you'd put in a fancy bar. I was down to the last stack of boxes when I started to lose hope. As I opened each one, searched, and moved it aside, I put the ones I looked in behind me as I waded further into the pile. And then I finally reached the last box in that stack, and opened it to find drinking cups.

It was then that I noticed a small white box, about 12" wide, 18" long, and about 18" deep. The box was narrow enough that it was wedged in between a couple stacks of boxes and wasn't visible from where I started. I reached down and opened it, and immediately saw a tin can advertising instant mashed potatoes. Filled to the brim, and above, in this can were dozens of Lego pieces, held in place by packing tape that stretched over the can. It was then that I realized it. "Oh. Not a Lego box. A box of Legos!" My eyes drifted inches from the can full of Legos, and I saw a nondescript brown box with the markings of a funeral home in Illinois on it. I opened the box and in it was a cylindrical metal canister, about half the width of the mashed potatoes can inches away. On the top of the canister was a label that said something to the effect of "Cremated Remains of Elinor Z," along with the statement, "Temporary Container."

I had found my grandmother. I then sat down where I was, on top of a box I had just searched through, and I wept. I wept at the realization that I had just spent hours doing something my father was never able to do before he died, and due to his health problems, probably never could have done. I wept because this woman's remains were kept in a box, in a dark, damp basement for years and nobody had gone looking for her. And I wept because this search had become a mission, a hard mission, and I was successful. My grandmother was going home to Punxsutawney Pennsylvania.

I brought the entire box....ashes, Legos and all...upstairs. On the way up, I recalled that I had played with these very Legos as a kid, and I wanted to give my daughters an opportunity to play with them. As for my grandmother....I placed her in a temporary resting spot of honor....on a high shelf, in the laundry room, right next to my father. Her son. And there she sat until my mom, shortly after, put the box into a shipping box and took it to the post office, where it was sent to a funeral home that was simply waiting for her remains to arrive so that they could lay her to rest with the rest of her family, family that had settled western Pennsylvania for over 200 years. And until I received confirmation from my aunt that they made it, I lived in fear that the box would be pounded around in transit until it finally split open, sending my grandmother's remains all over in a puff of ash. Which, I have to admit, kind of made me chuckle out loud a few times.

This story is one giant version of the lesson, "don't put off tomorrow what you can do today." Between him and his sister, my father was the more motivated of the two to deliver Elinor to her grave, but obviously life got in the way, coupled with the fact that my really couldn't give a damn. Which of course leads to an even bigger lesson....mothers, don't piss off your daughters-in-law. Especially the ones to whom your mortal remains might one day be entrusted.

As for me....I'm happy knowing that I fulfilled a job that I know my dad always intended to complete, but didn't. As his oldest son, I know I carried on an important family job, so that when I next see him, I can hold my head up high knowing I finished what he started in 1982. I have to hold my head up high to see him, as he'll be in his place of honor, on a high shelf in a funeral home bag in my mother's laundry room.

Commuter of the Day 8/6/2009: Confused Atheist

2009-08-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

Today's commuter of the day was the car that had 2 bumper stickers on the back. One was a pro-atheism bumper sticker. It had some witty slogan on it that made me chuckle, but I failed to write it down.

The other bumper sticker said, "May The Force be with you - Always."

Now, can one really be an atheist if one is also a follower of the Jedi religion? Regardless of the fact that (and this may shock some) it's a made-up one?

Does the 5 Second Rule Apply.....

2009-08-06T10:32:00.001-07:00

....1 hour after the exterminator did his quarterly rounds through the office?

And if not, how quickly should one get to the hospital?

Discuss.

Awkward Theological Conversation

2009-08-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

A: I'm doing some volunteer work at XYZ Baptist Church this weekend (that wasn't the actual church name, but there are so many Baptist churches here, I don't really keep track of who's who).

Me: You're Catholic, isn't it a mortal sin to associate with Baptists? (of course, I said this in front of a close friend of both of ours, who is Baptist).

A: Hell, I don't care, I'm probably going to be excommunicated anyway.

Me: What'd you do, bang your sister?

A: No, I'm getting a divorce.

(awkward silence)

Me: Oh.

(more awkward silence)

Me: Well, who HASN'T the Catholic church excommunicated? They did the same thing to my ancestors 500 years ago.

A: You have a point.

Like a True Nature's Child,

2009-07-31T10:31:00.000-07:00

We were born, born to be wild.
-Steppenwolf, 1968

Marco keep your eyelids up and see what you can see.
-Dr. Seuss, 1937

As I wrote recently, I went on vacation for a week to northern Wisconsin. I will always encourage people to drive across country rather than fly (and not just because I’m not a big fan of flying), because we live in such a huge, such a diverse country, filled with deserts, mountains, rolling plains, river valleys, shoreline, rain forests, and cities. Very few countries offer the geographical diversity that the United States offers. And, the people within the US are just as diverse. When you drive for a thousand miles, you get a first-hand glimpse of the heights and depths of that diversity.

And, more importantly, you will always have a story to tell. And the most interesting people on the planet are those with a story to tell. Hmm, I kind of implied that I am among the most interesting people on the planet, which kind of makes me out to be an arrogant ass. What I’m saying is, YOU can be among the most interesting people on the planet. Hell, you know what I mean.

A large portion of our drive is through Illinois….where we spend the most hours, by far, as we enter through the southernmost portion, and leave through the northernmost point. We bypass Chicago, which is the only interesting city in the state, and instead go through places like Metropolis, whose claim to fame is having a statue of Superman in front of the county courthouse, and Rockford, whose claim to fame is being the home of one of history’s greatest rock bands, Cheap Trick (and after that, its interest factor drops dramatically). So, it’s not surprising when the highlights of the trip occur on the interstate itself. One of which was the guy we saw with the Vespa scooter tied to the roof of his Nissan Sentra, which I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. The second was the group of bikers we saw.

With mostly flat roads, you can see for some distance in Illinois, so we saw this group of bikers overtaking us pretty early. They looked pretty tough from a distance, so we kept in the right lane and let them pass. My wife was driving. In a few minutes, the 4 bikers on Harleys came alongside. One of the bikers had a woman sitting in the “bitch seat.” 3 of the bikers, plus the “bitch,” had no helmets. A 4th biker, one of the solo riders, had one (Illinois does not have a Helmet Law). They looked especially tough….lots of road dust, scraggly beards, and one of them had a shaved head with a tattoo on his head. On. His. Head. Did we stereotype? Sure, I suppose, but considering you see more guys with skull tattoos in prison then you do in, say, an orthodontist or investment banker’s office, you can understand why. We gave them a wide birth, allowing them to pass easily. Once the quartet passed us, they smoothly moved into the right lane and kept up with their pace, and pulled ahead of us, their Michigan license plates clearly visible.

Naturally, my 10 year old, Thing 1, would not stop commenting about the tattoo on the side of the head, as I completely expected. But in a few seconds would be the vehicle that would capture MY attention. Shortly after the bikes passed us, we were overtaken by a small SUV pulling a trailer. The trailer appeared to be a motorcycle hauler, as there were frames on the trailer to which you could hold two motorcycles and tie them down into place. The hauler passed us and then pulled in front of us, it’s Michigan plate visible. At this point, I realized the hauler must be with the motorcycles. I had to snicker….these badass-looking bikers, who easily could’ve passed for Hells Angels, Pagans, or Del Fuegos, and they need a hauler to move their bikes and catch a ride in case the poor widdle babies get tired. I wouldn’t say this to their face, in case they actually WERE Pagans, but I sure as hell was thinking it.

The hauler and the motorcycles pulled further on ahead, and then we were passed by a Honda mini-van, which pulled in front of us once it cleared us. It too had Michigan plates, which I took to be a coincidence. It was then that I realized the rear window was dirty, and there was something written in the dirt. I strained my eyes, until I could make it out:

CAUTION:
MOTORCYCLE
PERCESSION

So in summary…we have 4 bikers (and 1 bitch) that looked like they were going to the rally at Sturgis to kick some ass. One SUV with a motorcycle hauler, to carry them when they got tired, and a (dirty) mini-van, warning people to be careful (as though it was a “Wide Load” vehicle), driven by an apparently illiterate person. From Michigan.

This is indeed a great and colorful country. With bad spellers.

The most practical use for a hijab

2009-07-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

I was in the nearby Wal-Mart Supercenter that's down the road from my office, and I saw two Muslim women, in full-length burqas (I guess that's redundant....it's not like they have summer length burqas that only go to the knees, and flash a little leg), with the hijab head scarf, but without the face-covering niqab veil. The hijab was rather tight, as normal. What stood out though was the fact that she had a Blackberry Curve wedged INSIDE her hijab, so that it was pressed tightly to her ear, enabling her to have a hands-free conversation.

I briefly considered taking a photo of it with my Blackberry (also a Curve, which is why I knew). However, that's kind of ballsy and brazen, even for me. You'll just have to take my word for it that it looked like the clumsiest Bluetooth headset ever. But, in the day of tiny cell phones, it sure does make it easy to hold, since you can't press it between your shoulder and ear like a regular phone.

Wisconsin's Victoria's Secret

2009-07-24T11:17:00.001-07:00

Retail shopping in Wisconsin is an interesting experience. The harsh reality of Wisconsin is that the weather sucks. A lot. They get their first snowfall in October, and their last in April. They then have 2 months whose weather can best be described somewhere in between "planting season" and "brisk."

Around Fourth of July weekend, people get brave enough to venture into outdoor swimming areas (until then, most swimming is indoors....because of the climate, some genius in marketing figured out that if you build an indoor waterpark in a state that sees freezing weather 8-9 out of 12 months a year, people will flock to it like prison inmates to Soap-on-a-Rope). But, until those magical 3 months of summer (I will say this, no state in the country is more beautiful and has more going for it than Wisconsin in the summer), the weather always has the potential for astronomical amounts of suckage.

Therefore, the concept of One Stop Shopping is heavily embraced. Wal-Marts and Targets were welcomed with open arms throughout the state, and Wal-Mart Supercenters and Super Targets even more so. To be able to buy groceries, beer, hardware, rent videos, get film developed, buy electronics, and seeds for the garden in the Spring, all under one roof, and then being able to go straight to the car and go home, without having to go to 5 different stores in weather so cold your boogers are freezing inside your nose? Entire towns gave the big middle finger to their small businesses just for the opportunity to stay warm.

Even home improvement stores have gotten into that market. Where you used to go only for tools, lumber, and other home improvement-related goods, stores like Menards now sell limited amounts of groceries and books.

But the store that merges convenience in a matter more entertaining than all the others is Fleet Farm. Fleet Farm can almost be described as "Home Depot / Lowes / Menards.....for Farmers." There, you can buy stuff to build an animal pen, as well as windows and doors for barns (or, the home). But, it takes the convenience of home improvement shopping and merges it with the sporting goods shopping of Wal-Mart or Target, and offers a lot of recreational goods. I have been in grocery stores smaller than the section of the store that sells fishing poles and equipment at the Fleet Farm in Antigo. Across the aisle, they have water recreational gear.....inner tubes, water skis, etc. Elsewhere in the store is an entire section for all your hunting needs. Rifles, bows, arrows, ammo, knives, etc. In Fleet Farm, you can buy deer piss that will A, mask your natural smell, and B, make a buck think he's smelling a doe in heat, thus making it easier for a buck to walk right by you, allowing you to eat venison all winter while smoking a cigar in your easy chair underneath a mounted deer head.

And last but not least....they have a complete line of clothing. High-wasted jeans for those fashionable women who still think it's 1991. Practical clothing for men, women, girls and boys. Hip-waders, hunting jackets, clothing covered in camoflauge and trimmed in blaze orange. The camo is so that you can hide from deer, the blaze orange is so that other hunters see you.

But, what is amazing about Fleet Farm is that there is nothing.....NOTHING....that they won't trim with camoflauge and/or blaze orange. Which is why, when given the opportunity to go there (my daughters were going fishing with their uncle for the first time, and needed fishing poles), I jumped at the opportunity. Because, I knew I would see the following:

Yes, those are blaze orange panties, with some kind of animal motif. The kind of motif that folk artists will often paint on saw blades, but rarely on lingerie. And I also saw this:

Camo panties, for the hunter (huntress?) who likes to be completely in "kill" mode. Or, realizes that serial killers live in the woods, and just like in the movies, at some point she'll have to be running in fear while only in her underwear. Of course, the hot pink trim seems defeat that purpose, but I will never pretend to understand the mind of a hunter. But I will say this....tomorrow, Saturday, you can bet somewhere in Wisconsin, there is a young woman packing a bag for a honeymoon, and in her bag is at least one pair of underwear that you see here.

Breakroom Fridge Day 4

2009-07-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

Here’s an update. You can see the right side of the pizza curling up more than it was the day before, as it dehydrates and shrinks in upon itself.

Another update….the office manager and the operations manager have every intention of leaving it there. They know who the pizza belongs to, and are waiting to see if the guy gets a clue and gets rid of it.

And the onions were indeed a condiment of sorts for burgers they grilled a while ago for lunch, left there by the same guy who apparently is too big of a pussy to finish his last slice of frozen pizza.

Mystery Food in the Office Fridge

2009-07-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

I might make an entire series out of this. I noticed this next to the pizza, that I described below. I had no idea what it is,other than it's been there since I got back from vacation (last Monday). There are really no words to describe this, other then “oniony” and “pepperish."

Breakroom Fridge Experiment

2009-07-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

This slice of “pizza” (I use the quotes because it came from a frozen box, and I’m not sure if everything on it is edible…and I don’t think this is any closer to pizza than Budweiser is to beer) entered the breakroom fridge yesterday after lunch, when one of the guys here in the office couldn’t polish off his lunch.

I am willing to bet it will still be there on Friday. I am even considering asking the office manager to not touch it, just to see if it moves on its own (or by the hands of the person to whom it belongs).

This is Day 1. I will post new photos each day.

July 20, 1969

2009-07-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

Author's note: I actually wrote this yesterday, but didn't have a chance to post it here. And, I found that the lunar landing took place on July 21 in Australia, so maybe I'll make this in honor of Aussies that worked on our space program at those remote satellite stations....but, it's July 22 in Aus right now, so never mind.

40 years ago today, two men from the United States walked on the moon, a feat never before accomplished in all of human history, and only replicated 5 times since.

I will not debate this fact.

My father is the smartest man I have ever met, or will meet. If you met him, you would be able to say the same thing as well. I’m not saying this to give you an inferiority complex, I’m saying this because he was a brilliant man. When he was a teenager, he built his own planetarium. When other kids were learning sports, he was playing around with metallic sodium, dropping it into puddles of water to see the minor explosion. And when he looked into the sky at night, he knew what he wanted to study his entire life.

In the 1950’s, the US was locked in a military race with the USSR. Each country divided up the best German rocket scientists they could find after the war, and they both went to work trying to put men in space. To win this, the US created the National Defense Education Act, which essentially paid college tuition for anyone who wanted to go to school for science, math, or engineering and use these skills to either blow up the planet, or watch it from 200 miles up in space. My dad was one of them, and in 1960, he packed up his belongings and went from Chicago to California to study Astronomy at Pomona College, one of the few colleges in the US where one could major in this degree program. By 1970, he had a PhD in Astrophysics from UCLA. So yeah, he was pretty friggin smart.

And sadly, there aren’t many like my dad anymore. Long ago, this country lost interest in pursuing the sciences, and in some cases, retarded our scientific growth. Once we landed on the moon, we felt we hit a peak, and had to try something more challenging. Whereas a sports team, upon winning one championship, does what it can to win that championship every year, our country seemingly decided, “Nahh, we’re good, we just wanted to beat the Soviets here,” and we packed it in. We went from a space program that used a missile capable of carrying 250,000 pounds of payload, to a space shuttle that could carry only 50,000. And thus we lost our edge. The space program had so much potential, and so much of it wasted. But still, my dad loved it. He loved the innovations we got from it, and the new discoveries, especially when he saw the first images from the Hubble Telescope. I didn’t see him cry when his mother and father died, but I saw him cry when the Challenger exploded in replay after replay.

We, as a country, need to set our clocks back 40 years. We need to remember that money spent in the pursuit of exploration, science and peace is worth way more than money spent helping those who don’t want help, or money spent in learning new ways to kill. We need to remember that our worth as a society is not in how many lawyers we have, or how good our professional sports teams are, but how educated our population is, and how hard we work to pull our citizens from the depths of ignorance. And we need to do this intelligently. I remember asking my dad about Bush’s plan to use the Moon as a jumping point to Mars, and he laughed it off as a joke, explaining to me how stupid it is to cart all that infrastructure to the Moon (the facilities, the fuel, etc), when the Moon only saves you a few days travel time to Mars (on a 6 month trip). We don’t need to dream big….we just need to keep dreaming, and keep pushing, and keep innovating. And we need scientists willing to do this. Scientists like my dad. I sometimes hear people question whether or not we walked on the moon, and to those people, I can say with assurance that it was people like my dad who put those men on the moon, and if they were as smart as my dad, then it damn well did happen. We were at one time a nation of people who dreamt of nothing but putting people in space, and the benefits from those dreams are immeasurable. We need to go back to having those dreams again. We may not have been a better country then, but people back then were sure working a lot harder to make it a better country. People like my dad, who taught two generations of college students the same love for the stars that he had.

And one day, maybe his love of science will rub off on someone else with that same dream, which is to never stop learning, and never stop pushing for the stars, so that we can one day set foot on the Moon, and continue our unfinished business.

40 years ago today, two men from the United States walked on the moon. I will not debate this.

The Food Chain

2009-07-19T04:57:00.000-07:00

The entire week I spent in Wisconsin was marked by a regular occurrence, one to which you could almost set a clock. Each night, shortly after midnight, I would hear howling in the distance. And that howling would get closer and closer each night. It was the howling of a pack of coyotes. We heard them every night, calling each other, sending signals to one another in their hunt for prey.

One night, we heard a different sound. The cows at the dairy farm across the road started bellowing. The cows are often in the field each night, eating and sleeping. This was one of those nights. When in the field, they are usually quiet, but this night, we heard them making loud noises. I knew immediately that they sensed something wrong. Within 2 minutes, I heard the howling. This was different than any other night though. The hairs on my arm and the back of my neck stood up. This was different because we knew where the coyotes were, and where their expected dinner was.

However, cows are quite good at natural defense. They form a circle, with the calves in the middle to protect them, and their heads face out, ready to meet the instigator. For about 20 minutes, we heard nothing but the cows bellowing, and the coyotes shrieking. We knew from the sound there was a siege in place, the coyotes trying to get a sizeable dinner.

The noises ended as abruptly as they started. We knew a pack of coyotes could not have taken all of the cattle, but if they got a hold of a calf, they would have torn it apart. We heard the occasional cow bellow, undoubtedly standing watch, but eventually it fell completely silent.

The next morning, we contacted the farmer across the street, and suggested she check her stock. She took the 4-wheeler out into the pasture and returned a little while later, reporting that all of her cows were fine. As vicious as coyotes can be, I was extremely impressed that the cows could fend them off.

In addition to coyotes, Wisconsin is home to a lot of other wildlife. A lot of deadly wildlife, like wolverines and badgers. The mascot of the state of Wisconsin and the University of Wisconsin is the badger, another animal native to Wisconsin. In the same family as wolverines, badgers are extremely protective of their young. And like wolverines, they have short tempers and long claws, and are genetically suited to disemboweling a human. Apparently, they are often found hunting WITH the coyotes. They have a mutual alliance with the coyotes, travelling behind and eating the carrion, or hunting alongside.

The Department of Natural Resources is apparently trying to reintroduce wolverines back into the state. Wolverines once extended their habitat throughout the upper Midwest (Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan) but now are extremely rare. Wolverines are the mascot of the University of Michigan. They are also nasty animals with foul tempers. The largest of the weasel family, they also have very strong scent glands, so they basically stink (much like the University of Michigan). Wolverines can take down animals several times their size with their ferocity, so putting them back into the habitat there is a wonderful idea, considering I take my kids there each year. So, the badgers aren’t dangerous enough, we have to put wolverines into the mix.

And then there’s the latest wild animal found in Wisconsin. As if the wolverines and badgers weren’t deadly enough, cougars have been sighted in Wisconsin. The DNR swears up and down there aren’t any, but there have been numerous sightings of what is the largest cat in North America.

In short, Wisconsin is rapidly becoming one of the deadliest spots in North America. Thank God there aren’t any snakes up there too!

Text Conversation 7/17/2009

2009-07-17T23:08:00.001-07:00

I received the following text from my younger brother, E, who lives in Manhattan and can get away with such foolishness in his 30's):

E: Wish me luck, I'm about to participate in a beer pong tournament for charity.
Me: (After first getting over the fact that there are beer pong tournaments for anything other than celebrating the end of a week at college and/or turning a "4" into an "8"): As the mothers of Sparta would say, come back with your shield, or on it.

I heard nothing from him for a while, so I followed up:

Me: So how are you doing? What's the beer? Pabst?
E: This girl never played before and absolutely ran the table. We lost in like six throws. It was absurd. Beer was Blue Moon.
Me: Just like the bitch that plays the NCAA pool for the first time, never seen a basketball game in her life, and wins the pool?
E: Yeah. It was ridiculous.

Well, he at least had a semi-decent beer, normally Beer Pong is played using the cheapest beer possible. So then I discussed strategy.

Me: Did you try heckling? Bringing up her daddy issues?
E: The game was over before I could bring up why she still sleeps with teddy bears.
Me: You need to work faster. Always start with "So do you know your real father?" Or, "Which dead grandmother do you most resemble."

You can bet his next beer pong tournament will be very different. Although, I have to wonder why a 32 year old man is still playing beer pong. Is charity the ultimate goal? Or does calling it a charity legitimize the fact they're still playing a college game?

The Rise and Fall of the MILF

2009-07-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

I don't think I'll ever forget the first "MILF" that ever got my attention. This was way before the term MILF was ever used. This was way before "Hot Mom" was used. In fact, there was no word for it. I think the only way to describe such a woman was going to your friend and saying, "Dude, your mom's hot." Followed by the obligatory "Shut up Ted." (Before Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure came out, it was simply "Shut up Steve.") Or, we would say "So and So's mom is hot," followed by the dirty things we would do to So and So's mom, which of course would never, ever happen (until just a few years ago, when half the mom's in America apparently lost their mind and started sleeping with teenagers).

I will call this first MILF "Mrs. C." Mostly because I can't remember her first name, just her last name (no it wasn't Cunningham, it was a Spanish last name). Mrs. C was, in a nutshell, a hot, tanned woman, not very tall, round face, round cheeks, gorgeous smile, and long dark hair. She had definite Latin looks, but probably more Italian than Hispanic, unlike her husband. She was the first adult woman I remember paying attention to whenever she would bend over, hoping to get a look down her shirt (sure, this may be shocking to some, but guess what, teenage boys typically enjoy looking down the shirts of women).

She was the mom of one of my younger brother's friends, and in the mid 80's she was probably in her late 30's. I sometimes played soccer against her oldest son, so she would be there in a beach chair on the sidelines talking to other (less hot) moms and smiling beautifully. When watching my brother's baseball games, she was there on the bleachers, cheering on her younger son. When I was 13 and umpiring my brother's age level, I probably umpired every one of her son's games (and her husband was the coach), and I remember her sitting there on the bleachers. At times, I recall angling for a possible view up her skirt. Perverted, sure, but typical for the age.

By the time I was approaching high school graduation, she was divorced. Apparently, her husband, while married to an absolute goddess of a woman, had a hard time keeping his hands off of other women (plus, he was an incredible dick). Being a friend of the family, she would come over and visit occasionally, and we would get to hear (second hand from my parents) how worthless her husband was, and how wronged she was. I remember one such occasion when she was over talking about how she had a girl's night out, and was incredibly drunk. She was wearing short, loose-fitting nylon running shorts and a tank-top. She lay down on our sofa and described how she had to hold onto the floor to keep the room from spinning, and I remember seeing her white underwear with red hearts all over them, and being very excited at getting such a glance.

When I graduated high school in 1990, I moved southwest to Arkansas to attend university, and haven't seen her since. I have nothing but a flood of memories over this woman, about 20 years my senior, and how arousing she was. And I had no idea why, no clue that she contained a wealth of experience that I could only hope to enjoy.

Recently, I came across a woman who grew up not too far from Mrs. C, and played on a Select soccer team coached by Mr. C and on which their daughter played with this woman. We got to enjoy the "small world" moment, and afterward I emailed my brother with the story. I commented to my brother that Mrs. C was probably the first MILF that ever entered our lives. My brother emailed me back and said, "Yeah, Pete's mom was pretty hot. I saw her at Pete's wedding several years ago. She no longer has that MILF look to her. It's a shame."

And thus all of my childhood dreams and fantasies were destroyed with one email.

Recreating the Assault on Foy

2009-07-15T05:51:00.000-07:00

Independence Day was spent on a family farm in the middle of northern Wisconsin. A cousin and a friend of his shelled out about $900 in fireworks, and put on a fireworks show over the corn field. But that was not the most interesting part of that evening. The fun part was once the fireworks were over. The group split into two teams. I was teamed up with my wife’s uncle and one cousin and a couple other guys. The rest spread out across the barnyard, most of them hiding behind the large red barn, and 1 behind the grain bin. And everyone had several handfuls of Roman Candles.

Like in Foy, at the tail end of the Battle of the Bulge, the Germans were occupying the village, with snipers in the buildings, behind them for cover, etc. My team had to go across open ground to hit them behind their cover. I tried to direct traffic by sending one guy around the right side of the barn, another guy around a drainage ditch where he’d have a good field of fire, and me and the uncle up the middle, using the grain bin as cover. I made 3 mistakes:

* The uncle was drunk.
* The two guys running the flank maneuvers were teenaged idiots.
* I wasn’t entirely sure who was on my team.

The last became evident when I was leaning against the grain bin, lighting a Roman candle. A guy in a white t-shirt was walking up behind me. All of a sudden, I realized I was being shot in the ass. I quickly ran around behind the grain bin. This basically gave the entire side a complete line of fire on me. And I was basically cornered, like in a firing squad. Unfortunately, there was no Captain Spears to come in and hold the line and reorganize us. At this point, it was every man for himself.

And then it hit me. Literally. A Roman candle shot in the arm. While checking myself out, I was shot at by more Roman candles, but these were different. It took me a few seconds to register the fact that these were exploding when they got near me. Jesus….someone bought the upgraded EXPLODING Roman candles, and was firing them at people! Saying to myself, “fuck this noise,” I ran back to a position of safety…that being where all the kids are. That was one constant, nobody would fire near the kids. I kind of pulled a Saddam Hussein on that one.

Within minutes, everyone was out of Roman candles. Everyone, that is, except my 10 year old daughter. I was walking around picking up the discharged candles, when I see my wife handing her one and lighting it, and pointing at me. And with a gleam in her eye visible through her protective eyeware, Thing 1 charged at me with verve and vigor, firing SURPRISINGLY accurate shots right near my head. I managed to get cover behind the barn, at which point she ran out of ammo.

Fireworks are fun. Fireworks with audience participation are funner.

An Argument for Traveling by Car Instead of Air

2009-07-13T11:46:00.000-07:00

Marco, keep your eyelids up and see what you can see.
Dr. Seuss

The United States is a large country.....3.7 million square miles (9.6 million square kilometers). Much of the population is centered along the Eastern seaboard, the West coast, around the southern Great Lakes, the Gulf Coast, and in a strip across the mid-South. Otherwise, aside from a few pockets of large isolated metropolitan areas around the country (Dallas, Denver, Phoenix, etc), there is a lot more open land than there are people occupying it.

We have deserts, rain forests, wide open plains, majestic mountains, and rivers that hold the balance of life inside their riverbanks and stretch for thousands of miles. Beaches of white fluffy sand, hard-packed sand, black sand, and shorelines with rocky, deadly coasts with no beach at all. We are a country with areas that never see snow, and areas that never see an absence of snow.

But, what makes the United States such an awesome country to drive across (and I use that in a biblical sense) are not the range of landscapes, but the people that make up the United States. This is a country that is beautiful from both the ground, and from 35,000 feet in the air. But, I assure you, at 35,000 feet you will never see a sight like this.

This photo was taken by me at a rest area on Interstate 74 in central Illinois, partway between Champaign and Bloomington. What made this site truly unusual was the group of shirtless guys standing around the car. They looked like extras from "American Chopper." They would've looked right at home standing next to a bunch of Harley Davidsons. Instead, they're standing next to a Japanese commuter sedan with a moped tied to the back.

Knowing he would immediately appreciate the humor, I emailed this to my brother, E. Within minutes, I received the response, "Is that a Vespa tied to the back of a Nissan Sentra?" I knew any elaboration could do no justice, so I simply replied, "Yes it is. Don't fall asleep while driving through Illinois, you never know what you'll miss."

Choose Your Own Adventure

2009-07-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

I am back from a week of vacation in Wisconsin. Like most vacations, I have much to talk about. I'm not really sure where to start, so I'll let you, the reader decide from the following stories:

* Recreating the Assault on Foy from "Band of Brothers"....using Roman candles.
* The pitfalls of relying on Google Maps.
* Culvers...the fast food restaurant you wish your city had (and the girls who serve you the food).
* Talking soccer with Herman's Hermits (the band).
* Visiting Asheville NC for exactly 2 hours.
* Quoting the movie "Airplane!" via text-messaging...from an airplane.
* The Food Chain, Part 1: Coyotes and Cows
* The Food Chain, Part 2: OMFG this place has wolverines, badgers and cougars?

So, if you care to, let me know where you'd like me to start. I have the attention span of a kitten, so I have no problem starting in the middle.

If I Could Taste Heaven...

2009-07-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

...It would taste (and look) like this.

This, my friends, is a Bacon Butterburger Deluxe, with a side order of fried cheese curds. A medium Pepsi accompanied the meal, but I felt it would take away some of the class of what you see here (and that's coming from someone who loves Pepsi and hates Coke).

This meal may have taken weeks off of my life. But, as smokers would say, only the ones at the end, when you're sick and decrepit anyway.

I've been on vacation for 5 days, and I've had this same meal twice.

Jesus Saves

2009-07-05T13:15:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not talking about the starting goalie for Cruz Azul, Jesus Corona.

I'm referring to Effingham Illinois' one and only noteworthy landmark: The world's tallest cross.

Specifically designed for the world's tallest Lord and Savior.

Yes, it has a visitor's center. And Trucker Parking.

A theological question to pose....would Jesus Christ enjoy this memorial in His honor? Or would he think it's as tacky as South of the Border, Panama City Beach, and Gatlinburg TN?

Commuter of the Day 7/1/2009: This time, it’s personal

2009-07-01T06:33:00.001-07:00

This is more of a weekly recap, as there are a couple of drivers that pissed me off to the point of wanting to get out of my car and wail on them.

As I mentioned, I took Thing 2 to go see "Up" on Monday. While coming up on an intersection, trying to get to the theater before the good seats were taken (which proved pointless, as there were only 2 other people in the theater), this guy pulls out of a gas station parking lot in front of me. We had the green light. He SLOWED DOWN approaching the green light. And then, to my unimaginable horror, the light turned yellow. Instead of hitting his gas pedal and flying through the intersection, this dipshit stopped. HE FUCKING STOPPED!!! There were no cars, he was just being a damn Mary. Look, this is no time to be a good "citizen." This is afternoon rush hour, people have places to go! And this was his license plate.

Speech? You want a speech? Fine, I'll give you a speech. Fuck you asshole. Drop dead. Peace out.

And then yesterday, on the way home from work, I was driving through downtown Kennesaw GA, which is a 2 lane road and a 25mph speed limit. The guy right behind me, the asshole on the cell phone, was riding my bumper like you wouldn't believe, pissed that I was going the speed limit (cops patrol that road constantly, so speeding is kind of stupid....plus, there are lots of pedestrians, so speeding is stupid anyway). I heard an ambulance from somewhere. It took about 20 seconds to realize it was behind me, coming towards me. So I do the (legally required) right thing....I pulled to the right.

So what does Asshole behind me do? HE PASSED ME!!! He didn't pull over also, he just whipped right around me, and THEN he pulled to the right. This is like being at the checkout lane at the grocery store, stopping to look at the gum/candy rack, and someone just walking around you putting their groceries on the conveyor belt. The ambulance passed us, and Asshole pulled right back out, in front of me, and went on his merry way, still talking on the cell phone.

Would I have been justified in ramming him?

Up

2009-06-29T20:18:00.001-07:00

Because of a super-good deal on tickets, my wife took Thing 1 to the Demi Lovato / David Archuleta concert at the Gwinnett Arena tonight (for those not in the know, the former is a teen singer/actress heavily featured on Disney Channel programs, the latter owes his fame to American Idol…no clue if he won or not). After a heated game of Rock Paper Scissors that may or may not have involved an actual pair of scissors being pulled, it was determined that my wife would take her (her BFF and the BFF’s mom went with).

I was left with Thing 2 for the evening. If I had driven Thing 2 to the hospital with a compound fracture, part of her femur sticking through her leg, and having to hold her while the doctor popped her dislocated arm back into the socket, I think I still would’ve had the better end of the bargain.

I decided to take Thing 2 to a movie, so we went and saw “Up,” the latest Pixar movie. Question: Am I the only person in America that had no idea this was a 3D movie? The last time I saw a 3D movie in the theaters was “Treasure of the Four Crowns,” which even at the age of 10 I knew was an enormous piece of shit. Obviously, the technology has come a long way. We were given our complimentary 3D glasses (which looked like cheap Ray-Bans, sort of), loaded up on popcorn, candy, and soda, and went into the theater. Upon walking in, we doubled the amount of people that were already in the theater, so we were able to take the perfect seat.

10 minutes into the movie, Thing 2 missed the cup holder with her kids’ sized Sprite, and dropped it right onto the floor. She looked VERY nervous for a second, until I leaned down and whispered, “don’t worry. Free refills. Let’s go get you another one.” So off we went, missing the two minutes where Ed Asner modified his house with balloons. We got her another Sprite, and a handful of napkins, and reclaimed our seats. Amazingly, she was able to sit through the entire movie without requiring a bathroom break. Thing 1, when I first took her to a movie solo, needed one. But, it was “Miracle,” which was about 45 minutes longer, and she held out until the game against the Soviets was almost over. I literally carried her, while running, to the bathroom and got back before the game ended in that movie. Thing 2, however, made it the entire 96 minutes, plus the previews and credits. Gotta love a kid that’s a camel.

There was one sort of emotional part in the movie, but it had nothing to do with the film itself. I had a flashback to when I was Thing 2’s age. My dad would take me to see lots of movies, just him and I. That’s where I saw the Disney classics…Pinocchio, Peter Pan, etc. We also found a way to get together and see all three of the Lord of the Rings movies. Of course, in a solitary lack of judgment, in the summer of 1977 (the same year he took all of us to see Star Wars), he took me and my two older brothers (I was 5, they were 11 and 14) to see Animal House. My younger brother had just been born, so I blame lack of sleep on his part, he probably slept through the whole thing. But, going to see movies was a big part of my childhood, and one of the things I loved doing with my dad. So there I was, for an hour and a half tonight, more like my dad than I’ve ever been (I’m not counting the times my daughters learned to say 4 letter words from me).

So, this movie could’ve been as big a piece of raw sewage as “Treasure of the Four Crowns” (it wasn’t, it was actually pretty good), and I still would’ve lifted up that armrest, put one arm around my daughter, and enjoyed a movie with her. And, while Thing 1 is going on and on about how awesome Demi Lovato is, Thing 2 and I will forever have the inside joke of being able to yell “Squirrel!” and have it be instantly funny.

Commuter of the Day 6/26/2009: Dueling Vanity Plates

2009-06-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

Cue the banjos.

So what's worse? The guy that is clearly nouveau riche who is so proud of his new BMW that he just HAS to tell the world, for an extra $50 in vehicle registration fees, that he owns one? A fact that we can clearly see from the BMW logo 12 inches about his vanity plate? And not only that, put his initials on it, so that he can show his friends that "This is MY Beemer, I'M KING OF TEH WURLD!!!!1111ELEVEN1111!!!!"

Or, the douchenozzle who is so panicked over the idea of parking next to 5 Honda Accords exactly like his, that he has to put his name on his vanity plate. The adult version of his mom sewing his name into his underwear right before he heads off to summer camp. Either that, or I was following former Journey, Divinyls and Bruce Springsteen bassist and current American Idol judge Randy Jackson.

One wants to tell the world that he's driving a BMW, because clearly that's not obvious. The other guy wants to tell the world his name. Both spent money to send this message. So, there are no real winners, except maybe the State of Georgia, whose vehicle registration system has that much more money in its coffers.

Bartering

2009-06-25T08:43:00.000-07:00

I get my hair cut once every 3-4 weeks. Yesterday was the day for me. My barber is a woman, in a barber shop of all women. She is a good enough barber that I actually followed her from her previous shop to her current one, something usually only done with women and stylists.

Once a year, I barter with her for a haircut. She gives me a free haircut in return for me bringing back a gift from my annual trip to Wisconsin (which is in 2 weeks). That gift would be in the form of beer. So yesterday, we conducted the negotiation. Many beers in the US are regional or even local, so there are hundreds of excellent beers that will never see Atlanta unless carried here by a traveler.

Me: Do you want Moose Drool?
Her: No, it’s no different than Newcastle, which we can get here. What’s that one you got me last time?
Me: Bitter Woman IPA?
Her: (face lighting up): YES! THAT ONE! And any decent wheat beers you might see. You know what I like.
Me: Consider it done.

Very rarely will I react to a woman saying, “you know what I like,” without responding with something dirty. But, when exchanging beer for a free haircut, it’s all about business.

Seen Outside the UPS Store

2009-06-24T13:48:00.000-07:00

I wonder how that conversation goes down, when the Fedex guy is dropping off/picking up at the UPS store. Is it like in the Warner Bros. cartoon where the sheepdog and the wolf both clock in, greet each other politely, and then spend the next day trying to kill one another?

Or is it short and sweet?

UPS Guy: (nods to Fedex guy) Fucker.
Fedex Guy (nodding back) Fucker.
UPS Guy: See you tomorrow.
Fedex Guy: Rot in hell.

I Hope That's Not A Dick in a Box

2009-06-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, I am a writer of sorts on a completely amateur level (meaning, I don't get paid, and never will). My writing consists entirely of drinking a beer, writing my thoughts down on that beer, and posting those thoughts to this website, a project of a friend of mine and I going on 13 years now. 13 years, and 1330 beers later (with about 6 of us doing all the writing...approximately 900 of those are mine).

On a rare occasion, a brewer or a beer marketing firm stumbles across our website, and decides this would be a cheap and easy way of marketing their product, so they contact us and offer up a free sample. We've had some pretty good brewers send us their beer, which always amazes me because we write reviews like this:

Mow the lawn on the hottest day of the year in flannel pajamas. When done, pour the sweat from your nutsack into a bottle, slap a label on it, and as Emeril would say, "BAM!" You have Bud Light.

Honestly, if I was marketing a beer, I don't think I would want to run the risk, even if I knew I had a flawless product, of letting my product get into the hands of someone so immature they would use the word "nutsack" in a beer review. Or, there are our reviews for Iron City Lager. I disliked that beer so much, I asked an Australian for advice on insults.

Now, for every review that dances across the thin line of Satire and Libel, there is one that inspires sycophantic praise that would simply make you feel embarrassed for me. So, maybe those are, by some freak chance, the ones these marketers are seeing. And, when they do, they somehow feel compelled to send me the best kind of beer on earth: Free Beer.

Unbeknownst to me, my friend that does all the production work on the website had been in touch with one such marketer, and he had given her my address as well when she offered to send us beer. So, it was with great surprise when I opened my front door to go out to get the morning newspaper and saw this box sitting outside (we often enter our house through our garage, so the box arrived the night before without our knowledge). I brought the box inside and took a boxcutter to the tape, praying I wouldn't find something horrible, like free samples of Christian music. Instead, upon opening the flaps, I saw this:

Sure, it looks like a box of beer coasters and a letter, but the key point here is the (hippie recycled) shredded cardboard packing. When you have that in a box, unless it's a joke birthday gift, that means there's precious cargo inside. I reached deep inside (I should've looked at the shipping label, for all I know this came from Australia and it was full of Redback spiders), and felt glass bottles. There were four of them, so I also figured it wasn't the ashes of deceased relatives (you never know what my mom will send in the mail). I pulled them out, one by one, and found these:

I always say that it's important to have a hobby. And as you can see, some hobbies can yield much cooler results than other hobbies. Well, warm at first, but after time in the fridge, cooler.

Glaucoma Discussion

2009-06-19T08:02:00.001-07:00

I had my annual eye exam this week, to get a new prescription for contact lenses, and the glasses I wear as a backup (I take my lenses out each night, and wear my glasses until bedtime, and then wear the glasses first thing in the morning until after I shower, where I then put on my contact lenses).

Eye care technology has advanced enough, apparently, that eye doctors are able to tell in their exam if there is a risk factor for glaucoma, at which point they will then test for it by blowing that high pressure puff of air INTO MY FUCKING EYEBALL! Thankfully, the doctor saw none of the risk signs and decided there was no need for me to suffer through the aforementioned sadistic procedure.

While staring at the lights that he was waving around, my mind wandered, and I got to thinking how much fun it would be to have filthy, dirty sex in the eye doctor’s chair. And, since I have the attention span of a kitten, I got to thinking….if I had the choice between suffering through the glaucoma test where they shoot a blast of air into my eyeball, followed by the best sex imaginable, or not having the glaucoma test at all, getting my eyes examined, paying for the service and leaving, which one would I do?

It did not take long at all to decide that I would prefer not having a glaucoma test. If sex was involved, I would gladly give blood, see the dental hygienist, or sit in traffic for 2 hours listening to political talk radio (3 things I hate to do, but have done). But I would gladly pass on the sex if it meant not getting a glaucoma test.

Road Rage on a Clean Street

2009-06-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while driving to work, I was caught behind the one thing that could possibly be worse than a school bus.....a street sweeper. It was going about 15 mph in a 35 mph zone, slowly moving, its brushes cleaning crap off the road.

This road, which is 2 lanes with a double-yellow, has a lot of traffic in the way I was going that morning, as it heads roughly to the interstate that takes you into Atlanta, but not a lot of opposing traffic. So, it's very easy to pass if you are going around a bike, a horse-drawn carriage, or someone on a wheelchair (what are things that move faster than a street sweeper, Alex?). But, the double yellow line was freaking a lot of people out, apparently, because I was about 8 cars behind that street sweeper, and despite there being PLENTY of opportunity to blow around it, it never happened. The street sweeper is not moving at blistering speeds, so using simple math*, passing should be easy.

Unfortunately, the first couple of cars in this Train of the Damned were treating the sweeper as though it was a school bus, carrying precious cargo. In reality, it's carrying non-potable water and 1 or 2 city employees. But, that did not matter to the first couple of cars. They were going to follow this street sweeper if it was the last thing they did, regardless of all of the honking behind them.

Eventually, the street sweeper came to a 3-way intersection. The driver of that vehicle knew exactly what was happening behind him, and he was clearly trying to stay as far to the right as possible, giving people room to pass, but no good. With the first 2 cars not passing, the subsequent cars were not willing to pass 3 vehicles to get around. But, when we hit that intersection, the driver made a move to the right in the sudden gap, and the first couple of cars got the hint and quickly passed. Every car behind soon followed, looking like one of those mass escape scenes in "Victory" or "The Great Escape".

The truly insane thing....the first two cars, completely unwilling to man up and pass a street sweeper on a double yellow, tore off into the distance, going at least 50 in a 35, hurrying to their destination. They can drive like a bat out of hell now, but when following a slow vehicle, they were pussing out. I thought Georgia was well-steeped in NASCAR culture and would've made that pass 3-wide, on a curve. Yesterday, I was wrong.

*The Simple Math (I'd like to thank my dad, who was, literally, an astrophysicist, for inspiring me to break out the calculator on this one:

It is a simple fact of physics (or calculus, or something) that if the driver you are following is going 10 mph, that driver is only driving a ridiculous 14.66 feet per second. If these people are driving a Town Car (which all old slow people drive), that vehicle is 18 feet long, so they can’t even go the length of their vehicle in 1 second.

So…..if you are second in line behind them, back off to give yourself some takeoff speed, and get that sucker to 35mph, you can cruise at 51.33 FPS, 3.5 times their speed, and literally pass them in about a second from the time you cross the line, to the time you cross back, surely enough time to avoid oncoming traffic. You then repeat this process until everyone has passed this car. This is why every car should come pre-programmed with a Metallica guitar solo, to give you the fortitude to make such a maneuver.

And I did this math recently for a friend who was following a Town Car. I have no idea how long a street sweeper is, so I'm not about to do that kind of math.

Commuter of the Day 6/17/2009: 4 Times a Week

2009-06-17T10:29:00.001-07:00

4 times a week? 4 times a week doing what? Certainly not gassing up, it's a friggin' Prius. 4 times a week doing Yoga? Working out? Doesn't the government think we should eat fruit 4 times a week? Or am I confusing that with something else?

So, for this truly brilliant COTD, we are left with nothing but more questions, which is the mark of a great vanity plate. It really makes us think. It could be ANYTHING! Masturbating 4 times a week, or even...wait...oh God no....you don't suppose they mean having sex 4 times a week do you? Bastard. FOUR???

Grumblegrumblebastardgrumblegrumble

Commuter of the Day 6/16/2009: BLESSED

2009-06-16T10:24:00.001-07:00

I wonder if this driver feels blessed simply the Good Lord shines down on them with good fortune and prosperity, or if they feel blessed because they drive a Lexus?

And is this one of those people that, instead of telling you to "have a nice day," say "have a BLESSED day." As though that's even better than a nice (or good) day. Personally, when I'm told to have a blessed day, that sets the bar kind of high. I would be fine most of the time with a "good day." One in which nobody I know dies, traffic is decent, and I can have a nice refreshing beer at the end of the day. Unlike today, where I had to follow a street sweeper on the way in to work, and I was the 6th car in line and the first 2 cars were too damn timid to pass it, so there I was stuck crawling along. And once we were able to pass it, making me 5 minutes late for work, that's when I saw this asshole rubbing it in about how blessed they are.

Sure, they may be blessed, but some douchebag wrote a heart with an arrow on it in soap on their window. Hah hah! Oh...THEY did it themselves? Wow, that's awkward.

Dear Neighbor Girl: Update

2009-06-11T05:51:00.000-07:00

Many of you read my Open Letter to the Neighbor Girl, who enjoys throwing down with a houseful of guests, drinking shitty beer, and going “Woooo”, and “Fuck” at 2AM.

The lifeguard at our pool, a nice guy of about 19, knows her. And does what he can to stay away from her. Apparently Drunk with Partly Slutty is the way she lives her life.

Also, she just finished high school. She did not, as I thought, just finish her first year of college, she just finished her senior year in high school.

You might be wondering, “So Steve, what does this mean?” Well in my twisted sense of morals, what this means is the next time her dad is out of town and she’s getting shitfaced on Natural Light and being loud and obnoxious at 2AM, her dad is getting a phone call. Her dad will be told to “listen to this,” and he will hear her party from up close (I’ll be standing outside their windows). And, her dad will be given a choice. Shut the party down immediately, or the police will do it.

I guess, knowing she’s not just underage but high school underage changes things for me.

The Dance Recital

2009-06-09T09:02:00.001-07:00

This past school year, my younger daughter (Thing 2) took a dance class offered one day a week after school (she was in a 3-year old classroom at her preschool). It was a 45 minute class, and she learned a little ballet and a little tap. The class was taught by a woman who specialized in teaching these classes at preschools in the area, and gave a cut of her fee back to the school. Halfway through the school year, that teacher moved out of the area due to her husband being transferred, so a large local dance school picked up these classes (at the same price thankfully) and the owner of the school came to teach my daughter’s class.

This Saturday was her recital. They did a little ballet number, that was about as good as what you’d expect for kids that age. Some of the kids, like Thing 2, were 4, but there were a few that were in the 2 year old class this year, so they were 2 or 3 (their moms, thinking their kids were excellent dancers already, pushed the school to allow them to dance a year up…which of course totally screwed up the class dynamic, as half the kids could pay attention and do the moves, the other half had the attention span of a kitten).

One of the moms who thought her daughter’s poop doesn’t stink, of course, was quite flustered to find her precious little snowflake in the back row (the teacher put the kids who could do the performance in the front). This mom did nothing but bitch and complain all year long, about everything from the dance class, to her daughter catching cold and flu from the school, to everything in between. It was very funny to see the program (full color, which we had to pay $5 to get), with Thing 2’s name in there, and her last name was screwed up…..they left the second half of her last name off (it’s a 3-syllable name, they only got the first 2). Well, that wasn’t so funny, what WAS funny was that our complete last name was transposed onto the girl with the annoying mother, so instead of it being “Alex Whatever,” it said “Alex Same Last Name As Steve.” That actually made it worth it. Sure, we got robbed, but this woman got even more burned. Sucker.

The theme of the recital was 80’s music, so there was a lot of neon, lots of dancing to Michael Jackson, Madonna, and other 80’s hits. The intro was a compilation of different 80’s songs, the bulk of which were right off the soundtrack for “Flashdance,” that was performed by some of the older students, most of whom were probably born between 1991 and 1997. So, it’s safe to say that most of those kids have no clue what “Flashdance” was about. However, I can assure you every parent in the audience whose daughter was NOT part of that ensemble turned to the person next to them and said, “hey, isn’t this from a movie about a stripper?”

Or was that just me?

Revenge of the Nerds, 25 Years Later

2009-06-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

I remember loving the movie “Revenge of the Nerds.” It wasn’t one of those movies I quoted with friends all the time, unlike “Better Off Dead” (4 weeks, 20 papers, that’s 2 dollars), “A Christmas Story” (I shot my eye out) or more recently, “Office Space,” (Lumbergh’s gonna have me come in on Saturday, I just know it). But, it was a funny movie regardless. My brother and I spent a lot of our childhood playfully poking fun at our father with the line, “I got the ol’ cruise control set at 35!”

On Friday night, I had a slight touch of insomnia (translated: I poured a beer very late, and stayed up to slowly drink it and for lack of anything better to do), and while channel surfing I found “Revenge of the Nerds” on G4, on their “Movies That Don’t Suck” promotion. G4 is apparently toned down for network TV (despite having a show whose premise seems to be “Hot girls that do disgusting things on video, while professional comedians comment on them”), so Revenge of the Nerds seemed to be edited. I have to be really honest here, it’s not quite the same movie without Booger going, “We’ve got bush! WE’VE GOT BUSH!” And they show you the subject of Booger’s exultations. Or, when Stan Gable wipes whipped cream off a plate and exclaims, “That’s MY pie!” Oh, and Louis Skolnick banging the hot cheerleader on The Moonwalk in the funhouse. All of that was cut. So, what we ended up with was basically an entire movie with what appeared to be rampant sexual tension between Louis and Gilbert, and gay jokes at Lamar’s expense, and fart/burp jokes at Booger’s. It’s been since I was probably a teenager (pre-1990) that I last saw this movie, but I clearly remember it being better (meaning, it had a decent amount of nudity).

But there was one scene which was not cut (which probably should have, if they also cut out Louis telling Betty, “jocks only think about sports, nerds only think about sex) was the talent show at the end. The members of Rho Rho Rho fraternity were doing a skit where they were in a rowboat and singing “Row Row Row Your Boat.” At the end, 3 girls sat up in the boat and sang the “Merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream” part. At the end of that line, all 3 girls wiped their chins. How I missed that when I was 14, 15, 16, I’ll never know, but it instantly made that one scene a hell of a lot funnier. That scene went from “hey, those girls might be giving head to the Rho’s,” to “holy shit, those girls just implied they got facials from the Rho’s”. I have to give the director some credit for that, and the censors for being as stupid as I was 20 years ago when I missed it.

I’m sure there are other movies out there that were very different when watched as adults, versus when you first saw them as kids, so feel free to discuss. Or, music for that matter (take as an example, the woman in her mid-40’s who found out….from me, last year…..that Freddie Mercury was very gay, hence the name Queen, and that “Lola” was about a tranny).

Karma Police

2009-06-05T09:34:00.000-07:00

This entry is not about my love for Radiohead (to be honest, I'm not really a fan, and by that I mean I change the station when one of their songs comes on the radio).

This is about a commuter (big surprise, eh?). A guy was absolutely riding my ass in a 25mph zone on the way to work today, through downtown Kennesaw GA, which is a business area.

I had to make a left-hand turn at one point, but where I was, the left-hand turn lane had not yet started. Basically, double-yellow lines, thus it's a no-no to cross them. The left-turn lane was maybe 50 yards ahead. Unfortunately, it was inaccessible due to the traffic trying to get through that particular light, until it turned green and cars were able to inch up.

The guy riding my ass (who had a rather large handicapped parking permit hanging from his rearview mirror) lost patience and crossed the double-yellow and drove up to the left-turn lane. This kind of pissed me off, because I needed to make that left as well, so now this assclown who by all rights should have still been behind me was now in front of me, all because I was following traffic rules, and he was being a dick.

However, unbeknownst to him, there was a cop sitting in the parking lot of the cheese cake bakery just to our right. How he did notice this I have no idea, because the cop was all of about 20 feet from us, watching traffic and drinking coffee. The cop pulled up to the driveway that let out onto the road (traffic was moving, so I let him in front of me), and he pulled up, crossed the double-yellow, and pulled in behind the impatient disabled man and hit his blue lights.

The road the guy was turning onto goes over a set of railroad tracks, and at that point a train came through, putting a red light on the left turn lane. So, I stayed in the lane I was in to go down to a later point where I could cross the tracks instead of using this intersection and getting caught by the train. The guy had nowhere to go, so the cop got out right there to write him a ticket. So there I drove, straight, while passing the impatient disabled man who was going to get a ticket for being a douchebag. My window was down. As I passed him, I am not ashamed to admit, I gave him the "You're #1" sign and said, "Hahhh, fuuuuckerrrrr!"

Commuter of the Day 6/4/2009: Lost Lawyer

2009-06-04T13:40:00.001-07:00

This was the vanity plate that stood out today. You can't make it out too well, but the plate says:

CRIMDEF

I'm assuming that means "Criminal Defense."

I'm also assuming he's lost because he waved to the car next to him, made the "roll down your window motion," and then proceeded to gesture all over the place, indicating he needed help finding some place.

Road Trip to Hilton Head, Part 3: Flora and Fauna

2009-06-04T10:36:00.000-07:00

The drive down to Hilton Head was the only truly eventful part of our driving around. The rest was spent relaxing, playing mini-golf, spending 6 hours at the beach (no sunburn for me, which I think is unprecedented....I slathered on sunscreen so often, people probably thought I was suffering from OCD). But here are some last thoughts on the trip, related to the title, Flora and Fauna.

Flora:
Hilton Head, unlike other vacation destinations like Myrtle Beach South Carolina and Panama City Beach, Florida (also known as the Redneck Riviera) does not cater to the airbrushed t-shirt, henna tattoo, party crowd. It doesn't have miles of boardwalk where you can entertain kids with complete crap, go-carts, a million mini-golf courses (it has 4 or 5, but not the density that Myrtle Beach has), etc. It's just a peaceful island. And, the best part is, zoning ordinances do not permit massive advertising of businesses, and large businesses are all hidden behind row after row of palmetto trees. I have actually fallen in love with the palmetto, as we were able to drive by multiple Home Depots and Wal-Marts and not even know it, because they were hidden from the road by palmetto trees. The palmetto is in the palm family, but shorter, with thicker trunks, and they don't bend like palms. They are great trees to have around so that your vacation isn't spoiled by views of large orange home improvement stores.

And, one can never understate the wonderful smells in the air from jasmine and magnolia. In New Jersey, you can be a mile from the ocean and know it, because the salt water smell is pervasive. In Hilton Head, you can be the length of a football field from the water, and you don't have that smell of salt filling your nostrils.

Fauna:
Is it odd that I was disappointed that I didn't see one single alligator? Mind you, I would be thinking very differently if I DID see one, I think, but just to see one from maybe 100 yards away, sunning itself on a golf course, would've been cool. When we played mini-golf at night, Thing 1's ball was launched into some short brush near the course. We wacked around the weeds, and then saw them moving on their own, so we decided going for that ball was simply not worth it.

You know you're getting into South Georgia when the dead opossums on the side of the road (the animal with the 2nd lowest will to live in North America) are replaced by dead armadillos (the animal with THE lowest will to live in North America). If you've never seen one, an armadillo is basically an opossum with friggin' armor. They have to be one of the creepiest looking animals out there. Only once have I ever seen a living one, they are usually found dead on the interstate. They come up from Texas and Florida, but their advance seems to have been stopped dead (literally) by I-16 from Savannah to Macon, I-20 from Atlanta to Dallas, and if any get past I-20, then I-40 from Knoxville TN to Little Rock AR takes care of them (surprisingly, they can cross the Arkansas River!). We saw our first dead armadillo 1 mile onto I-16, and then saw dead ones every other mile all the way to Savannah.

Also on I-16, I saw two wild boars....black, with bristly fur. It kind of made me shudder. Without the protection of my car, I know those things would've charged at me. I've seen The Thornbirds, I know what a pissed-off boar can do. It was kind of cool though, I've never seen one in the wild. It kind of felt like the first time I saw a wild bear. Thankfully, he was on the shoreline of a lake, and I was on a boat.

Once on Hilton Head, and at the beach, the only interesting animal I saw was a dead jellyfish, ten feet from our blankets. I brought both my daughters over to it (Thing 1 already knew to stay away). To Thing 2, I said, "you know in Spongebob? When they touch the jellyfish, and they get zapped, and it hurts?" She nodded her head. "That's what'll happen if you touch that, so be sure to stay away from it, OK?" She nodded her head again and went off and played in the water. The jellyfish didn't have its tentacles, so it couldn't have stung, but still, no sense tempting fate. I got sick of looking at it, so I scooped it into a sand bucket and dumped it into the trash can a couple hundred feet away.

Oh, also at the beach, some douchebag found a horseshoe crab swimming in the water and he picked it up and tried to carry it off the beach. The beach patrol blew the whistle, telling him to put it back. Reluctantly, the guy did.

On the way home, we noticed a funny smell in our van. I pointed out that the sand bucket at one time held a dead jellyfish, and currently held dozens of seashells, all of which were the home to a living animal at one point, and likely still had organic matter in them that the seagulls didn't rip out. Hilton Head does not have a lot of decent seashells on the beaches except in the harbor on the eastern end of the island (called Harbor Town). There, the beach is literally covered with them. And I mean covered, you are walking on shells, not sand (it's not a recreational beach). It was basically a mollusk graveyard. Naturally, we were stealing the headstones for our kids' amusement.

On the drive home, we also saw a brown billboard with while letters that said: JOHN 3:16

I think this is South Georgia's way of saying, "Beware of Macon and its Rub N' Tugs filled with male Hispanic masseurs."

Road Trip to Hilton Head, Part 2: Adult Entertainment

2009-06-03T15:14:00.001-07:00

As you can see, the trip started with some interesting reading material…..that being license plates and bumper stickers.

It only improved from there. As we approached Macon, which is about an hour and a half south of Atlanta, we started to see billboards for businesses that obviously cater to truckers…large truck stops (with showers!), strip clubs, and massage parlors (also known as a “Run n’ Tug). Macon is at the junction of I-75 (which goes from Sault Ste. Marie Ontario Canada all the way to south Florida) and I-16, which goes from Macon to Savannah (Savannah is not just a stripper name, it’s one of the largest…and by some accounts the prettiest…city in Georgia). At Savannah, I-16 connects with I-95, which links the entire East Coast, so I-16 is a major corridor to get to Atlanta from Florida. So, Macon is a busy highway juncture with lots of truck traffic.

Approaching Macon on I-75, the first adult business we saw advertised was a strip club. I have no idea what the name of the business was, because the billboard looked like this:

$TRIPPER$
(need we say more?)

Followed by the location at the next exit.

There is absolutely no hidden message there, they want to get their point across quickly and cheaply. It was white text on a black billboard. My guess is, the quality of their advertising perfectly matches the quality of their “talent.”

A couple miles down the road, we saw a billboard for a Rub n’ Tug. It said:

INTERNATIONAL MASSAGE PARLOR
TRUCKER’S RATES
CAUCASIAN, ASIAN, LATINO

Followed by info on their location and a phone number.

For those of you who are multi-lingual, you may have noticed a typo in what I wrote above. Note, this was not a typo. Let me explain. In Spanish, the vowel at the end of a noun is indicative of gender. -o is masculine, -a is feminine. Thus, if you are describing a Hispanic man, you would say “Latino.” A female, on the other hand, would be a “Latina.” If you’re following what I’m saying, then you now know what this business is offering is a “massage” (French for “coughHANDJOBcough”) by either a white chick, an Asian chick, or a dude named Manuel. Yes, the children’s Disney Channel show “Handy Manny” did indeed cross my mind.

Before posting this, I wanted to make sure my Spanish is indeed accurate and I contacted a friend of mine, who is from Mexico. He confirmed that this business did indeed offer the sexual services of a male Hispanic, and he also suggested that if you wanted a Latina masseusse, your best bet would be an Argentinean or Chilean, preferably 20 years old. Otherwise, you could get a Mexican girl for less money but MUCH higher quality in Mexico, but do NOT get a massage from a Mexican girl in the US, because they look like they swam across the Rio Bravo. His words, not mine.

Hopefully reading my journal was a learning experience. You now know that Macon is a great place to get very cheap strippers, and massages from Latinos, and you should never get a massage from Mexican women IN the US. Settle only for Argentineans or Chileans.

Road Trip to Hilton Head

2009-06-02T07:00:00.000-07:00

This past weekend (Friday morning to be exact), my family and I piled into the Family Truckster and drove southeast to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Normally, trips to SC frighten me, due to rampant ignorance, the religious fundamentalism, and the weak beer due to arcane beer laws in that state. However, Hilton Head is like this little paradise surrounded by misery, with beautiful beaches, palmetto trees, beautiful scenery, and a relaxed atmosphere. I think if the Nazi death camps looked like Hilton Head, the Nazis wouldn’t have quite the same reputation.

I knew this road trip would be legendary when I wasn’t even out of Atlanta (hell, I hadn’t even entered Atlanta yet, I was still in Cobb County) when I saw a Chrysler Crossfire convertible with the license plate that said: THE DEX. I love this plate. This is how a vanity plate should look. It should tell you something about the driver. A nickname, a job (but never simply what kind of car he/she drives, like CRSSFR). So, THE DEX meets all accepted criteria. Mind you, THE DEX is still a douchebag, but not because of his vanity plate, but simply because of his nickname. “Hey, are you THE DEX?” “You bet your sweet ass I am,” he replies, while giving the wink-and-a-gun. Wait, no…THE DEX is probably a wink-and-a-double-gun kind if guy. Two finger-guns, one wink. While he makes that clicking sound with his mouth.

Upon crossing the Chattahoochee River on Interstate 75, I entered Fulton County and the city of Atlanta. Almost immediately, I was right behind a commuter car with a bumper sticker that said:

“I wasn’t born a bitch. Men like you made me this way.”

Obviously it’s never a good idea to be behind a bitch so angry that the bitch must have a bumper sticker advertising this fact. You want to pass them (preferably with at least one lane between the two cars) and get as far in front as possible, so when they do “go postal,” the carnage is behind you. Otherwise, you’re stuck in traffic while an angry woman is being tased in the middle of the interstate by state troopers. So, I passed this car on the left, and glanced over to see what an Uber-Bitch looks like. Much to my surprise AND amusement, I saw that the driver was no less than a MAN, BABY! That’s right, somewhere in Atlanta there is a man so pussy-whipped that he’s driving his girlfriend’s car with this sticker on it. If you’re scoring on a scale of 1-10, buying your girlfriend’s/wife’s tampons is a 10, and driving this car is about a 90. I have actually purchased tampons before (and not for a college prank either!), and I can honestly say in comparison to riding in the Bitchmobile, I’d rather hitch a ride in a beat-up white panel van with no windows and Buffalo Bill at the steering wheel, telling me to put the lotion on the skin.

This is just one of a 2-parter. There is still more to discuss about this road trip, from bible quotes, to adult entertainment, to flora and fauna (more fauna, actually).

Dear Neighbor Girl,

2009-05-29T06:59:00.001-07:00

I realize you are 18 or 19, and in your eyes an adult. I realize your dad is out of town, and having just finished your freshman year at the local state university, you want to blow off steam. I also realize that you definie blowing off steam as "drinking copious amounts of cheap macrobrew beer," using the word "fuck," every other word, and using the official Drunk Girl Mating Call ("WOOOOOO!") constantly throughout the night, with about 2-15 of your closest friends.

However, I would like to offer the following suggestions:

* When this social gathering is taking place, please understand that while you do not have school on the following Tuesday morning, the folks next door might very well have to work (I say "might," because there IS a chance they are unemployed, but you don't know that do you?) that morning.
* Because of this, having this party until 2:30AM in the back sunroom of your (dad's) house with the windows open might not be the best way to generate goodwill with your (dad's) neighbors.

I do appreciate the fact that unlike your last part, I did not have to throw cans of Natural Light from my front yard into your (dad's) front yard. Unfortunately, when my 10 year old daughter comes into my room at midnight complaining that she can't sleep because you are having a party, that doesn't make it better. If anything, tossing empty beer cans into your (dad's) front yard is kind of fun in comparison.

I know for a fact that your dad is a born-again Christian. This is not to suggest he doesn't enjoy having fun, I know he likes the occasional decent beer, and while he's kind of a goober, I know he likes to kick back and have fun. However, I'm reasonably certain if he's not the kind of guy that will decorate the house for Halloween due to the un-Christian atmosphere of that day, he probably wouldn't like his daughter walking around his house, beer in hand, yelling things like "Woooo!" and "Fuck that fucking shit!" with 2-15 of her closest friends.

So, please know this....I once tolerated your Natural Light cans in my front yard, because it gave me satisfaction throwing them back, especially if you missed them and your dad came home and saw them. I again tolerated your loud party through your open windows, because I remember (amazingly) what it was like to end the first year in college and celebrate both the success, and access to alcohol. However, the next time I am up until 2AM on either a weekend or a weeknight because I'm hearing "Wooo!" all night long, one of the following (or a combination of the following) will happen:

* You will see a crazed Suburbanite male, possibly in boxers and sneakers, outside your house with a boom box playing German Biergarten Musik, with the volume on ELEVEN.
* Any empty containers left in my yard will be held by me, removing your opportunity to do early morning cleanup, until you are gone and your dad is home, at which point I will stack these containers in a pyramid shape on the railing of your front porch. If no containers are in my lawn, I will get them from your garbage can. If I have to, I will use my own from MY recycling can and totally frame your ass.
* Your dad, whose cell phone number is programmed into my phone, will receive a phone call from me at 2AM at which point I will say, "hey Rick, are you home? No? Then who are these people?" And I will either send him a camera phone pic of your party, or simply hold the phone up to his house so he can hear you yell, "Woooo! FUCK!" I might even lie and say, "Rick, your daughter is running around your backyard shirtless while all the boys at the party are yelling "Go Chelsea! Go Chelsea! Go Chelsea!" Or, even better, tell him one of those portable stripper poles is set up in his sunroom, and you apparently have amazing leg muscles.

Hopefully we are both in accord on this issue, and there will be no further transgressions.

Warmest Regards,

Steve

Please Spell “OMGWTFLOLROTFLMAOBBQ”

2009-05-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

I went to my barber today at lunch to get a much needed hair cut. They had ESPN on, and ESPN was showing the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

The redneck at the next chair was complaining that they were showing spelling on ESPN (he spent the entire time calling all the Indian kids “Patel”). I pointed out that it was a hell of a lot better than poker. The woman cutting Cletus’ hair turned and said, “Clearly you’ve never played Texas Hold ‘Em before.”

(Nope, never have and never will). I responded, “Poker on tv is nothing but video footage of guys wearing sunglasses, laying cards on a table. These kids are a 50 cent cab ride from having an emotional breakdown on national television, hell YES it’s better than poker!”

Everyone in the establishment agreed with me. The woman cutting my hair (who has been my barber for about 3 years) already saw my way of thinking, when we witnessed the following:

* A 13 year old boy of possible Greek background (his father is clearly northern European descent, but his mom has that Mediterranean Islands look to her, complete with facial hair), with a moustache. Apparently, I missed the 13 year old with blond hair and a full beard.
* The young Indian girl, also 13, immediately after the moustached kid, had a better ’stache than the boy before her. Not only is her moustache better, so is her spelling.
* A 14 year old Indian girl who, upon getting dinged for mispelling a word, responded with a bemused “Oh.” I realize it’s hard to get anything from a 2-letter monosyllabic word, but her facial features said, “Thank the good Lord above I am done with this bullshit.” Her parents, who appeared very traditionally Indian, actually looked like they had a similar thought in mind.
* Why do some of these words even exist? One of them was “hebdomadal.” Definition? “Occuring every week.” Oh. You mean…..weekly?
* One of the words was “stapp.” She asked the announcer to use it in a sentence. I said out loud, in the barbershop, “Scott Stapp is the shitty lead singer for Creed.”
* Another kid got “Santeria,” which is a Catholic religious ritual in the Caribbean. It’s also a song by the defunct band “Sublime” (the lead singer dying of heroin often makes a band defunct). The kid asked the guy to repeat it MULTIPLE times, and use it in a sentence, and definite, etc etc. At some point, kid, just say “I have no fucking clue.” Well, he took a whack at it, and mispelled it (it’s not Santaria). I predicted to all in the barbershop that when he returned to school, his smartass friends would leave a Sublime CD on his desk. That song is probably older than the kid, but it still gets radio airplay, unfortunately (I say this because Sublime sucked), so he SHOULD know it.
* The guy reading the words sounds like an even bigger know-it-all than Alex Trebeck.
* A suggestion I made to the barbershop occupants: Have a NASCAR spelling bee. National TV, have all the drivers in NASCAR in a spelling bee. “Dale Jr, spell “hebdomadal.” “Do what now?” Juan Pablo Montoya, spell “stapp”. “Que?” My guess is only Ryan Newman would do well, since he’s got an engineering degree from Purdue University. Of course, he coud still be a shit speller. Still, we need to make this happen.

I didn’t see anyone fainting this year, unlike last year. But, it was entertaining nonetheless, and I now have half a dozen people convinced that the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee is one of the highest forms of entertainment on TV. In the summer rerun season, anyway.

Recipe for Disaster

2009-05-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

This is my recipe for disaster:

1. Take 4 pounds of frozen shrimp (tails on), 2 pounds of andouille sausage, a bag of red potatoes, several white onions, and about 8 ears of corn, cut each one in half.

2. Put them into a turkey fryer, with about 3 gallons of water. Cook the potatoes and onions first, then the corn, then thrown in the sausage, and then throw in the shrimp for a couple of minutes.

3. Serve a delicious Low Country shrimp boil to a houseful of guests on a Memorial Day weekend (Sunday). Be sure to have lots of beer, rum, and vodka.

4. On Tuesday evening, remember that you forgot to clean out the turkey fryer. Go to the garage, remove the lid from the fryer, and choke back the vomit that fights its way to the surface as you stare into 3 gallons of murky water with a few onions, a chunk of red potato, and 3 small pieces of sausage.

5. (This is very important) Dump the fetid mess as far from your house as possible, and still be on your property. I suggest this, because you don't want it near your residence, and pouring it into someone's backyard is just wrong. However, if you're right on the property line, and most of it splashes into the next yard, well, accidents happen.

6. Rinse pot out with garden hose outside, before taking in and cleaning with hot water and soap, to avoid coming into contact with rotten sausage residue.

Braves Game Recap

2009-05-26T06:07:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned last week, I was at the baseball game between the Atlanta Braves and the Arizona Diamondbacks on Saturday, May 16. This was my first Major League Baseball game in 13, so a lot has changed. The last time I went to one, it was at Yankee Stadium in New York City. Yankee Stadium was falling apart then. They averaged several million per year in attendance back then, which is a lot of people using the public bathrooms.

Turner Field, where the Braves play, was originally Olympic Stadium for the 1996 Olympics (you know, the Olympics where Juan Antonio Samaranch said the games were "most exceptional," as opposed to "the greatest Olympics ever," which he used at every. other. Olympics), and was converted to a baseball stadium, since there is no need in Atlanta for a massive track and field venue. It's a pretty nice facility, lots of red brick, huge video screens everywhere (you can see the game from a giant screen that faces the parking lot), and amazingly, everyone was nice. Driving into the parking lot, I passed 4 different parking attendants who all said, "enjoy the game!" There's no way in hell that would've happened in New York. Up there, the only pleasantry one is likely to get is "keep it moving buddy, you're holding up the line!"

Inside the ballpark, it was People-Watching Central. Almost to the point of sensory overload. But again, people were a hell of a lot nicer. The ushers at each section would occasionally throw candy into the crowd of kids. At Yankee Stadium, I was sitting in the bleacher section, surrounded by (aside from the co-workers with whom I went) people who were probably in prison as recently as that morning. I remember one incident where people in the bleachers were shouting at a beer vendor in the box seat section, and he was shouting back. Eventually, the vendor reached down and grabbed his balls, which caused the ~~heathens~~ ladies and gentlemen in the bleachers to cheer. This was followed shortly afterwards by a chant from the bleacher section, "Box seats suck! Box seats suck!" over and over again. And, whenever a "Wave" was started, the chant was "Keep the Wave in Shea! Keep the Wave in Shea!" referring to Shea Stadium, the home of ~~much more civilized fans~~ the New York Mets, which is the team I always followed.

I did see one young woman at the Braves game wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and Ugg boots. It's nice to see she was finally able to escape her dad's basement sex dungeon after a 10 year imprisonment, now if only someone could help her with current fashion.

As we were leaving the game, right after the 7th Inning Stretch (an American baseball tradition, where "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" is played....basically, an excuse for the grounds crew to rake the dirt and make the field pretty for the final 2 innings) my family went into the women's bathroom, and I waited outside for them. While waiting, I saw a young woman off to the side with, presumably, her boyfriend. She was crying, trying to shove him away, and saying things like "oh my God it was so disgusting," followed by more unintelligable garbling and weeping. Her boyfriend, the entire time, kept hugging her close, telling her "it's OK baby, it's OK," and trying to kiss her. Each time he would bend to kiss her, she recoiled from him, but he'd still lean in. It honestly looked like he was trying to make out with a rape victim. Considering his inability to read body language, he is not likely to survive if he ever gets married. Anyway, after a minute of watching that uncomfortable display, the boyfriend left her to walk towards me, with a very pissed off look on his face. It was then I realized I was about to witness someone getting their ass kicked. I turned as he passed me, watching where he was headed, and saw a group of men in their late teens, early 20's, standing near the railing (we were on the upper deck, and if you were to leap over or get thrown from that railing, you would fall a couple hundred feet to your probably death). When he was about 20 feet from that group, one of the guys intercepted him and tried to get him to calm down, and the boyfriend was shouting at one of the guys in particular. My guess is, it was an alcohol related incident, and the one guy likely did something foul to the girlfriend, like show her his genitals, or the contents of his 401(k) retirement portfolio. My family eventually returned, so I didn't get to see how it played out, but like most suburban white guy fights, I'm sure it ended with everyone calling one another "bro," and the boyfriend going home to try and have sex with his devastated girlfriend.

Lastly, we had dinner at Turner Field. We ordered the following:
2 large hot dogs
2 hot dog kids meals (small hot dog, drink, coloring book)
2 large sodas
2 pretzels
Total: $42.50 (this would have been the same amount had we ate a sit-down dinner at TGI Fridays, Chotchkies, Flingers, or some other casual dining restaurant).

The Braves were losing 5-0 when we left with 2 innings to play. The final score was 12-0. So, these overpriced ass clowns are paid in part by the overpriced concessions at the ballpark, and they get their asses handed to them 12-0? I'm glad they lost.

The Star Spangled Banner

2009-05-21T07:17:00.000-07:00

In the United States, all professional and (I believe) university sporting events begin with a common occurrence.....the playing of our national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner." It was written as a poem, and later put to music (to the tune of an English pub drinking song)....and awkwardly so, so the majority of folks in the US don't know how to sing it, and don't know the words even if they did. I tend to simply stand straight, remove my hat if I'm wearing one (covering your heart with your hand is not a requirement of etiquette), and look towards the flag.

The only time there is any deviation from this is when there is a game between American and Canadian ice hockey or baseball teams, and they play "O, Canada" as well (some teams play "God Bless America" instead, as per tradition).

This past Saturday night, at the home Atlanta Braves baseball game against the Arizona Diamondbacks, the "Star Spangled Banner" was sung by no less than the school chorus of the elementary school where Thing 1 goes. Thing 1 also happens to be a member of this chorus, so minutes before the game started, she and her classmates were on the perfectly manicured field, singing their best and most important performance of the year (they do a Braves game every year). Of course, as you can see by the picture, nobody was there yet, most of the crowd was still in the parking lot drinking (the chorus is the group of kids with the light pants and blue shirts near the first base dugout).

I've seen Thing 1 do some amazing thing....scoring the game winning goal in soccer, make some amazing saves at goalie, run a 10 minute mile when she was 6, but I have to say I have never been more proud. It's not an easy thing to perform in front of a large crowd, with people watching you, even if you are part of a group, but she did it, and did it well.

Enough about her though. This was the first Major League baseball game I've been to in almost 20 years, and my next entry will be about all that I saw, so stay tuned.

Commuter of the Day 5/18/2009: Multitasker

2009-05-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

This is a Mercedes Benz C320 Kompressor.

As you can see from the photo, the woman driving it clearly has her left hand to her ear, holding a cell phone.

What you can't see, because of the angle at which I held the phone, is in her right hand she is holding some sort of breakfast sandwich. I happened to be driving alongside her for the better part of a half mile, and never once saw either hand touch the steering wheel.

Of course, it could be argued that it wasn't the brightest thing in the world to take a flash photo of a driver who is doubly distracted, as the added distraction could have caused her to swerve. We were on a 4 lane road, right near I-75 (a busy interchange during morning rush hour), so an accident would have crippled the commute from the Northwest suburbs.

But mostly, I was just trying to capture how this woman was driving with no hands, and also how she looked like she fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.

The Bus Stop

2009-05-14T07:21:00.000-07:00

Each morning, I go outside as my elder daughter, Thing 1, goes to the bus stop across the street and waits for the school bus. I'm usually out there with mug of coffee in hand, and I walk down the driveway to get the newspaper and hang out, reading the front page, waiting for the school bus, and just in general being there in the event bullies jump out of the bushes and scare the kids.

Thing 1's bus stop is one of the last ones on the route before the bus heads off to the school, and often times, throughout the year, a car will come zooming up behind the bus and drop off a kid or three, who apparently missed the bus. The school is only a five minute drive away, but it's a hell of a lot easier to deposit the kids at one of the last stops in the neighborhood. Often, the mother is slightly disheveled, hair not done, sometimes wearing slippers or whatever Crocs were sitting by the door.

Today, a red Ford Expedition pulled up behind the bus, and the mother got out to open the back door to let 3 kids out. She was wearing pajamas, which consisted of tight grey pants, almost in a yoga pant style, with a thin grey top, showing a midriff of about 3 inches (no lower back tattoo...I looked), spaghetti straps, obviously no bra, and hair that was hastily pulled back in a pony tail. This of course showed off lots of shoulder, neck, and a grand display of chest salad.

My brother, who lives in the heart of New York City, can't imagine living anywhere other than a big city. I, on the other hand, could never live anywhere other than Suburbia. Especially during the school year. When the weather is warm.

Any escape might help to smooth
The unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe
The restless dreams of youth
-Neil Peart, as sung by Geddy Lee, "Subdivisions"

Geddy obviously never experienced the joy of watching a pajama-clad MILF trying to catch a school bus for her kids. Of course, he's from Canada, so they were probably wearing coats even in June. However, in the Desperate Housewives era, I'm perfectly fine living in a subdivision.

The Pinnacle of Comedy.....

2009-05-11T14:03:00.001-07:00

....is hearing a Mexican woman try to describe how a famous Latino pop singer was busted while masturbating in the first class section of a commercial flight to Miami, and is now in jail.

Especially when she doesn't know the word "masturbating," or the PC term "pleasuring himself."

Good friends of ours are from Mexico (he works in IT for a multinational corporation here in Atlanta, and a soccer teammate of mine, she teaches Spanish at the same preschool where my wife works). Their English is very good, but she somehow never learned the words "masturbating," "fapping," "jerking off," etc. So she had to describe it to her husband in Spanish, who then snickered, turned to me, and said, "Ahem.....pleasuring himself," while the wife nodded her head, smiling.

We were on the back deck of a Mexican restaurant late on Saturday, and the song being played was by this singer, and she said, "he's in jail now," and proceeded to struggle with describing WHY he was in jail (mostly because our kids were around, otherwise I'm pretty sure she would've just done the hand motion). Once I got all the details out, I said, "So, this Mexican singer was in first class, commercial flight, and masturbating, with a woman sitting right next to him?"

"Yes," the wife said. "Except he's Puerto Rican, not Mexican." "Ahh," I replied. "That explains it. A Mexican would never do that in first class (the wife shook her head no, agreeing with me). He would be in coach." (the husband nodded his head, agreeing with me).

Commuter of the Day 5/11/2009: If this van's a-rockin'

2009-05-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

As the saying goes, "if this van's a-rockin', don't bother knockin'."

Well, now we know what that kind of van would have as far as a vanity plate goes.

As you can see, Joy Van likes to take it in the rear.

The only thing this van is missing is a bumper sticker that says, "Gas, grass or ass, nobody rides for free."

Sharing with the Neighbors

2009-05-08T10:46:00.001-07:00

Recently, we purchased some kind of large plant for the backyard, and it came in a cheap plastic pot that you usually discard once you get the plant in the ground (don't ask me what kind of plant....I think it began with an "H").

The disposable pot was left in the backyard until garbage day. We got a ton of rain recently, and forgot about it, and it filled up with water (along with a bit of potting soil still in it). Yesterday, my wife picked it up and carried it to the side of our backyard, where there are some trees, and dumped it out. Out poured the water. Out poured the potting soil. And out poured a very dead rat, covered in potting soil.

(It's OK, you can shudder, I know I did when I heard this story)

I'm guessing the rat climbed in for some stupid, suicidal reason, and couldn't get out and drowned.

The disposal of dead animals tends to lie on my back. When our cat Kramer died a couple of years ago (while sleeping on our bed), I had to lift him up and wrap him up to dispose of him at the vet. When our neighbor's very large Ridgeback/Doberman mix died, I helped another neighbor (the owner is a small woman and is not moving a dog that is sheer...ahem....dead weight) move him out of the house before their daughter came home from school and saw the dead dog on their kitchen floor.

On another occasion, a bird flew into our back glass door, breaking it's neck. I recalled my disposal method on that occasion, and decided to dust that one off and try it again. It involved this:

At 9PM last night, under the cover of darkness, I went outside with a shovel. I scooped the rat up with the shovel and carried it back to our back fence. Because of the shape of our streets, there are four houses that border our backyard, and two others whose backyard is maybe 20 feet away. So, perfect lacrosse style, I flung the dead rat hard, trying to clear the immediate neighbor's backyard and landing it 2 houses away in thick brush.

Unfortunately....because when dumping dead animals, there's almost ALWAYS an unfortunately....it hit a low-hanging branch in the yard next to mine, which stopped the rat mid-flight, causing it to drop right there, less than 10 feet from our fence. So there lies the rat, not far from our fence (fortunately covered in fallen pine needles, and if not, then I'll throw a shit-load over so that it is), much too close for my comfort. Not that it'll come back to me, but just because I don't want dead things near my house, it skeeves me out.

A Conversation With the Dental Hygienist

2009-05-06T11:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I visited the dentist for a scheduled teeth cleaning. This was accomplished using what is basically a small pressure washer. And suction. Lots of suction.

The hygienist looked at me funny, and said, "You know who you look like upside down (she was sitting sort of behind me, so her view of me was upside down)? You look like the guy from Sixteen Candles, Jake."

I responded, "I don't remember him being upside down in that movie. Anthony Michael Hall, under the glass table, yes, but not Jake."

I am rarely told I look like any celebrities, but Jake Ryan is a first. Of course, according to IMDB he hasn't been in anything since 1991 (I was half expecting to see a list of soft-core porn films), so calling him a celebrity might be a stretch.

Ironic Commuter of the Day 5/5/2009

2009-05-06T06:34:00.000-07:00

I saw this guy on the way home yesterday:

What caught my eye was the SPIRIT7 license plate (there's a website of the same name, dedicated to providing spiritual fulfillment on the internets). But then I saw the two stickers on the trunk. They're hard to make out, but one of them says "26.2". The other one is "13.1". These are the distances of a marathon and a half marathon, respectively. Much like seeing an AT sticker on a car indicates the driver has hiked the Appalachian Trail (or at least bought the sticker), these indicate the driver is a serious distance runner.

So why the hell is he driving? Why not run/walk to work, and help save the environment?

Of course, as you can see from the long line of cars in this picture, this is not exactly the most ideally suited road for pedestrians. And, if I owned a Mercedes, I'd sure as hell would want to drive it too.

Some GT Love

2009-05-04T13:01:00.000-07:00

Yes it was raining. Yes, I was approaching an intersection. Yes, I was taking my eyes off the road to recklessly photograph a douchebag in a Mustang GT. But, it was bumper to bumper traffic, cars were in the intersection, and I couldn't enter, so I safely stopped and pulled out my Blackberry to photograph LVMYGT (Love my GT? I don't know if that's a demand that I love the GT, or if that's a statement that the driver loves his/her GT).

At lunch, I saw another newer Mustang with the plate, MUAHHH. I wasn't sure if that was the sound of an exaggerated kiss, or an attempt at an evil genius laugh (which is normally Muahahah).

Either way, I have definitive proof that Mustang drivers are stupid with money.

Only your Mum would call you an athlete

2009-05-03T20:17:00.000-07:00

On Friday, May 1, we had a solid 2-3 hours of thunderstorms throughout the afternoon. Naturally, not ideal conditions for sitting behind a metal cage, on a metal seat, with my feet in a big ol' tub of water. However, the skies cleared up at about 4:30PM, in time for the 5:30 start of the carnival.

The carnival started with pickup games between coaches, so I did that for the first hour. I then took Thing 2 around to some games, some jumpies, and got her face painted. At 7:30, I went to get changed. Much like the gladiators in "The Running Man" were called to fight Arnold Schwarzenegger, I was called to get into my trunks to get dunked. At 8PM, it was go-time.

I advised several people that they could be the next drummer for Def Leppard, with their arms (after ascertaining they actually had 2 arms...wouldn't want to say that to an amputee). I told a couple of kids that I could've worn my good suit. And I told one girl that only her mom would call her an athlete. This girl, of course, was my daughter, Thing 1.

Unfortunately, instead of softballs thrown at a small target, they were throwing soccer balls at a large round target. Since 2 of these kids who dunked me repeatedly were my players, in retrospect I regret being a good teacher of throw-in technique. Of course, some of the kids decided to be smart-asses, and they ran up and hit the target, dunking me. When that happened, I went in with the cannonball technique, drenching all around me.

At about 8:30, near the end of the carnival, the thunder and lightning came, holding out so that we could get our 3 hours of revelry. At that point, I decided it was a damn good time to get out of the dunk tank.

I need a few good insults.

2009-04-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, my soccer club (the one in which I coach) is having a fund raising carnival. For a second year in a row, I will be sitting in the dunk tank for a good 20-30 minutes.

I need some good heckling. I plan on going with the cliched "Nice throw ma'am, does your husband want to try?" But, I need some cracks that are more original.

Difficulty level: Must be clean enough to use around 6 year olds.

This was me last year:

Commuter of the Day 4/29/2009: Indantatia's Ideal Man

2009-04-29T05:56:00.000-07:00

Words cannot describe how much I wanted to ram this son of a bitch. This is because words cannot describe how much I hate the University of Florida Gators. Illiterate assholes.

Of course, I almost did end up ramming him, as I was getting my phone out to take this picture and failed to see him brake. Fortunately, I was able to stop (my Saturn would not have fared well after hitting him). Hitting him would have been awwwwkward.

Yes, that's a Gator trailer-hitch cover.

Dork.

/would totally spend that kind of money for a Razorback one....if I had a trailer hitch.

/and the gas station to the right is my local Circle K, where strange things are often afoot.

Baseball Memories

2009-04-28T06:15:00.001-07:00

I received a text on Sunday from my younger brother, "E". It said, "At the new Shea watching the Mets. New park is nice."

Shea Stadium was the home of the NY Mets from 1964 to 2008, and during that time it witnessed 2 World Series titles, and a couple blown opportunities for a couple more. Shea was located in the northern part of Queens, one of the five boroughs of New York City, located just east of Brooklyn, both of which lie on the western portion of Long Island.

Shea had very little charm, unlike Yankee Stadium which is in a neighborhood (albeit a shitty one). It was in a semi-industrial wasteland near the water, with planes constantly flying overhead to land at LaGuardia International Airport (or occasionally in Long Island Sound, if the pilot missed the runway). But, one of my fondest memories of the place was the multitude of pretzel vendors in the parking lot before each home game. These pretzel vendors would push around a shopping cart with a hibachi grill in the bottom, filled with charcoal, and would cook the pretzels in the shopping cart on this grill, selling them for a dollar (this is back in the mid-80's, I'm sure they're getting $5 for them now.

Shea Stadium closed last year and was immediately dismantled instead of demolished (it's against city policy to demolish buildings with explosives.....I think NYC has had all it can take of buildings collapsing), and the seats, foul poles, signs, etc were sold at auction. The new Mets home stadium, CitiField, opened this year. It's probably a nice place to see a baseball game, seeing as how Shea was a giant dump. Of course, I had to ask E how the shopping cart pretzels were, but he said it was too hot to eat one, but he was going on a nacho hunt shortly.

Another memory I have of Shea is one I'll never forget. In about 1988 or 1989, we went to a Mets game in32 cars, my parents, brother and cousins in my parents Chevy Celebrity wagon, and me, another brother and his girlfriend in my brother's Plymouth Laser (I was in the backseat, which could better be described as an upholstered storage shelf). A third brother went in his car with another cousin, and the goal was to tailgate in the parking lot before the game. We all found a big open area so that we could park in a row, and once parked, without turning off the engines (in case we wanted to move closer to the stadium, we all got out to confer. Out of sheer habit, someone (I can't remember if it was my mom or dad) hit the "lock" button. After talking for a minute, we decided to stay there in those spots, since we were also near the exit (kind of like "Vacation," except the parking lot was full, and there was no moose). My mom went to open the door to shut off the car, only to find it locked. At that point, everyone did a collective "oh shit." All doors were tried. All were locked. And, since my mom was driving, my dad left his huge key ring at home (he ran the planetarium at a local community college, and thus had about 20 keys for the place, and didn't bring them if he wasn't driving). So, there we sat, locked out of a running vehicle, hoping we could find a way in before it ran out of gas and thus having a second problem on our hands.

My oldest brother, who lives for conflict, and if there is no conflict he'll create it, had to start rubbing it into my mom, which of course didn't help. My other older brother and I decided to hoof it to the stadium (which felt like a half mile walk) to the various security gates, to see if any of them had a slim jim to open the car (my brother knew how to use one....I don't think I ever bothered to find out HOW he knew how to use one, as he was not a mechanic or locksmith). We were literally referred to every single gate in the place, and all of them came up empty, until we were finally referred to a security shack also outside the complex (we ended up walking 360 degrees around the stadium), and amazingly, they had a slim jim and even more amazingly, were willing to loan it to a 17 year old and 23 year old (my brother was in the Navy at the time and probably looked respectable). So off we went back to the car, slim jim in hand. It took a few minutes, but my brother was able to jimmy the driver's side lock open, and my relieved mother jumped into the car, turned it off, and removed the keys.

I couldn't tell you anything else about that day.....not who won, or if there were any home runs (although I'll bet Greg Jefferies sucked that day). I can say we got locked out of a running car, my oldest brother started a fight with our mom, and another brother exhibited skills that would be useful in an illegal industry. And, more than likely, I devoured a giant pretzel cooked over a charcoal hibachi in a shopping cart. Shea Stadium is gone now, and that parking lot is likely covered by the new CitiField, but I'll bet anything those pretzels are still sold in that parking lot, and right now, I would almost give my right arm for one.

Sometimes, you just gotta listen to your inner Bob Marley

2009-04-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

Even if it makes you look like an illiterate douchebag that can't spell.

We're Jamin6, we're Jamin6, we're Jamin6, we're Jamin6, I hope you like Jamin6 too.

Commuter of the Day 4/24/2009: Game On!

2009-04-24T09:11:00.001-07:00

Today's license plate was on a Chrysler 300 with about a couple thousand dollars worth of upgrades (custom alloy wheels, fancy trim, and probably an air freshener that removes the scent of douche from inside the car). The plate said:

GAMEON1

What's funny about this is, the driver is obviously hard-core into sports, and loves to use such phrases as "Game on!" to indicate the start of play. He probably also uses cliches such as "Get your head in the game," and "like shooting fish in a barrel" when yelling at Little Leaguers (I used to umpire Little League baseball as a teenager, and there was a coach who constantly yelled "like shooting fish in a barrel" to the kids.....7 and 8 year old kids, who were probably wondering if their coach was a touch insane).

So anyway, the driver goes to get his plate, undoubtedly "GAMEON," and is told by the lovely people at DMV, "Sorry, someone already has GAMEON. So, rather than coming up with something more original and less High School Musical, he simply said, "well, fine, add a 1 to the end." Thus not only destroying any originality, but further making himself a total sheep, and someone else's vanity plate sloppy seconds.

An Alcoholic Study in Contrast

2009-04-23T07:27:00.001-07:00

This is my beer fridge.

As you can see, you have some pretty good stuff (Samichlaus, Terrapin Coffee Oatmeal Imperial Stout) slumming with some pretty dreadful stuff (Iron City Light, and the previously mentioned 8 pack of Miller High Life stubbies, of which you can see there are 6 left).

I've had that IC Light for about 6 months, and have been afraid to drink it because I've been told that it's simply the worst beer on the planet. I've had that Samichlaus for over a year, and haven't wanted to drink it because it's such a rare, special beer that I'm waiting for a special occasion, and nothing special enough has come up yet (I think maybe I need to review my standards).

More importantly, I have no idea how to get rid of that Miller High Life. I wonder if beer bottle origamy is possible. Maybe a hat, or a broach, or a pterodactyl...

Commuter of the Day 4/22/2009: I Found Wilson!

2009-04-22T12:59:00.001-07:00

Well, now we know where Wilson ended up, after he washed away to sea.

Apparently, the back of a Kidnapper's Van in Cobb County, GA, as you can see from the photo below, taken on my Blackberry.

Litterbugs

2009-04-22T05:57:00.000-07:00

I rushed home last night from work to change into soccer gear, grab Thing 1, and head off to the soccer field where I coach her team. On the way down the driveway, I noticed a Coke can in the small garden that we have around our mailbox. Kind of already knowing the answer, I asked Thing 1 if she knew how it got there.

T1: Chelsea left it there. (Chelsea is the eldest of three girls who live across the street.....whose name should also be Bumpus, as they also need to live far in the country, with no neighbors).

Me: Did you ask her to throw it in the garbage?

T1: Yes, but she wouldn't do it.

Me: Would it embarrass you if I took the Coke can tomorrow morning to the bus stop and handed it to her and made her throw it away when she got to school?

T1: Nope.

Me: OK, consider it done then.

I left the can there, planning on picking it up this morning and handing it to this littering bumpkin, but my wife saw it last night and threw it away. However, a point still needed to be made, as this was not the first time they have left garbage in my front yard. Her sister left a can of Dr. Pepper there a few weeks ago. I knew it was her, because I saw that she had opened the top very slightly and was sipping it through the crack, and squeezing the can as she went. A can with this exact description was later found in my yard.

This morning, I walked across the street to where the bus stop is, and called for Chelsea.

Me: Did you leave an empty Coke can in my garden?

Chelsea: (obviously thinking quickly) *shakes head no*

Me: Everyone saw you leave it there (by everyone, I mean she was ratted out by my daughter)
Chelsea: Continues shaking head no.

Chelsea's sister: Yeah, I saw you leave it there last night, don't tell no lies, Chelsea! (I do believe that thump you heard was the bus running over Chelsea...both axels).

Me: If you have garbage, I have garbage cans, toss it out there. Otherwise, next time you or your sisters leave trash in my front yard, I'm carrying it across the street and leaving it in your front yard, and then I'm telling your parents why it's there. Understand?

All three sisters nodded their understanding.

I relish the day when I get to walk across the street, hand their white trash mom a bag of garbage, and tell her, "I believe this belongs to you, your daughters left it in my yard."