Mouth Torture

Today I conducted mouth torture, on myself. I’m sure you’re wondering what that is. While I imagine there are various types of mouth torture, the one I speak of here is of the tasting kind – the one where you taste gross and disgusting things. Why did I do this? Because a coworker gave me a pack of Jelly Belly jelly beans intended to have the consumer taste various beans that look alike but taste very, very different.

Take for example the yellow ones: either rotten egg, or buttered popcorn. The white ones? Baby wipes or coconut?

See the problem here?

While I initially said “no” to giving these a try, I was quickly lured in to test the toothpaste vs. berry blue. And that’s when this started:

“Why am I going to eat these Jelly Bellys with both normal and disgusting flavors that look the same in order to compare them?”

“Much to my surprise, pencil shavings are not bad tasting. (Wtf is wrong with the world?)”

“Also: the toothpaste is delightful, as expected.”

“I spat out the centipede as soon as I tasted its horrendousness.”















“Thank god that was caramel corn.”

“Moldy cheese flavor – not a winner.”

“Baby wipes flavor tastes exactly as they smell. Fyi.”

“Juicy pear has worked out. Otherwise it was “booger.” Fortunately they only packed one of that option.”

“I absolutely refuse to take a chance with the skunk spray. No-way ho-spray.”

“Canned dog food hanging out with centipede after a moment in my mouth.”

“And finally, I refuse to attempt “barf.” I have no interest in that. More interest than skunk spray, but not enough to try.”



After this, I determined I will never torture my mouth like that again.

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My love affair with Costco

I have long thought of a day when having a Costco membership would make sense. Years on my own, the life of a single man doesn’t lend to bulk shopping on the scale that makes sense to hold a Costco membership. And then, one day came a few months ago, when it started to make sense.

I remember it: We went in to review the items available at Costco. We walked around, perused the aisles (almost all of them), and took note of the prices. “Some good, some OK, some were not,” I said. After some time walking the never-ending building, we proceeded home.

The very next day: Costco coupons arrived in the mail, by no request of my own. In fact, it appeared to be a sign of sorts, one that said: a Costco membership makes sense.

I flipped the pages, looking at the coupon savings and noting that from this packet alone I would make up for the cost of a basic Costco membership. Indeed, add to the coupon savings the already-low-priced items at Costco and suddenly it did make sense: this year’s membership will be worthwhile, at the very least, because of this one packet of coupons alone, plus the already built-in savings of Costco prices.

The following weekend it was back to Costco, to peruse the aisles again just to be sure. Instead, upon arrival, I took the plunge: not only did I become a Costco member, I became an Executive Costco member. (I understand there is some prestige to the “executive” connotation. I don’t get it, but that’s why I capitalized the “e” here.)

Why, pray tell, did I opt for the double-the-cost of a basic Costco membership? Because of the additional savings (read: savings potential) that comes with said Executive membership. (If you’re not familiar, perhaps it’s time to become acquainted with the additional 2% reward on most Costco purchases, plus the 1+% from American Express if you opt that route.) (Yes, I realize how much money one needs to spend to recoup the membership fee based solely on the percentage-reward.)

Flash forward a few months to today.

Is it worth it? Is it all hoped it to be?

The short of it: yes.

The long of it: I have been to Costco an average of every-other-weekend since I purchased the membership. I find myself saving regularly on: bread, canned goods, paper products, meats (those I have bought thus far), Christmas gifts, snacks (I try to be healthy), miscellaneous food items (too many to list), and last but not least: savings at their gas station.

Let me remind you that I recouped the cost of the basic membership simply with that initial coupon mailing. There has since been two additional coupon mailings that brought further savings. Already, less than three (yes, 3) months into the Executive membership, I not only recouped the basic membership fee, but I’m on the cusp of recouping the Executive membership fee as well.

Did I mention there’s a liquor store attached to the Costco I frequent? They also have respectable savings on the items I purchase in that category.

…

Hello. My name is Jason, and I’m a Costcoholic. I consider it a love affair, which is likely the root of my problem with Costco. Please don’t try to separate us.

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Spoiled by the Force

The Air Force spoiled me. Thinking back and comparing to now, boy was I spoiled professionally.

It’s a good thing I had to log in to my work email last night, because if I saw that same email this morning I would probably have gone home. A promotion of a colleague that more or less made me want to vomit – literally. I just couldn’t believe that *I* didn’t get the position. I must mention, though, that I didn’t apply… So… Therein lies the problem.

Back on point: why did the Air Force spoil me? Because, professionally speaking, promotions and raises were a given up to a certain level – the level at which I left the Air Force for greener pastures. It became well-known of when you’d make rank. And my bosses pushed to give me more – unofficial increases in responsibility – a way to shine above the rest.

After the Air Force I joined a company that, for whatever reason, promoted me after just 3 months – a mere continuance of the already-set promotion schedule. And ever since, it’s been a challenge to gain any ground.

Sure I’m in a better place than I was years ago. Sure I have a better life. Sure I’m more comfortable and arguably more happy. But I’m missing that gain – missing that growth – missing that improvement in career.

For 3 years now I have held the same title and position, though my duties have changed slightly over the years. I’m quickly becoming over-educated and under-employed (actually, I’ve been under-employed for a long time). What’s worse is that I have seen little to no growth – especially compared to the schedule set of 6 years between the Air Force and the post-Force job.

I’m not one to sit by and let things happen. Actually, yes, yes I am… But seeing the promotion announcement last night made me feel left behind. Hopefully that was the last straw. I’m educated, I’m qualified, and I’m smart – I can do anything, literally anything, that I set my mind to. I’ve been in over my head and came out on top time and time again. I’m a survivor. I’m a go-getter. I’m good. Hear me roar. Hear my battle cry!

… … …

Thanks for the pep talk. Now let’s go get it.

(And keep on me about it!)

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Coffee accessories: The never-ending plight

My office has coffee machines much like any other office with coffee machines you can imagine. Also with the coffee machines are the typical accessories: sugar (fake and not), creamer (dry and wet), stirrers (wooden), and cups (paper or ceramic). Coffee packets and filters are also provided to allow for proper coffee pot operation.

This is all fine and dandy. And even though the coffee sometimes is less than desirable, it is free nonetheless and easily doctored with various powdered and liquid substances.

The plight that is mentioned in the title above comes from the coworker(s). I have not yet identified who, but I had quickly grown tired of, and continue to be tired of, the way they place said coffee accessories on the counter.

“What could possibly be wrong here,” you might say. “Well let me tell you,” I would quickly retort.

You would expect that the primary accessories be placed near each other, and they are. The problem at hand: a paper towel dispenser that hangs on the wall next to the sink.

Now, what could be wrong with that? A lot, in my book – seemingly nothing, in others’.

You see, said coworker(s) move the open sugar and creamer container to just below the hanging paper – where once a person reaches with wet hands, water immediately drips to the countertop below – right where said coworker(s) continue to move the open sugar and creamer containers.

I, like most people, would rather have clean and un-dirtied coffee accessories. I, apparently unlike most people, recognize this hazard and continue to move the accessories (stirrers included) to a dryer, safer place. Over and over and over again.

Please, people: pay the fuck attention to the coffee accessories.

Thank you.

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Is blogging dead?

It is for me, or so it seems.

It’s been a long time since I seriously sat with the intent of writing a post, be it poetry/prose or the non-writing blog content. For a long time I’ve thought about splitting this blog in two in order to keep those two seemingly different content types apart, mostly out of respect for each audience type.

And then there’s Twitter. And my iPad. And food. And alcohol. And life. And school (again). They all get in the way and take away attention and interest from this. From here. From you.

But honestly, I’d like to reconnect with you. See if we can’t re-light the flame that has seemingly extinguished.

So hello again, again, and probably another again. Here we are: face to face.

What do you think? What do you think about the content split? What are your thoughts?

Who am I kidding… I’m the only one who’s reading this. (Except for you, you’re apparently reading this as well.)

Back on point: is blogging dead? I guess we all face this question at some point or another if we’ve ever associated with blogging in any way. But I think I have the answer:

Blogging dies or lives for each one of us; it never dies as a whole. Blogging dies if you ignore it or don’t partake – it lives so long as you pay attention to it. But, know that so long as one person pays attention to it, it will always be alive.

And at last check of my Google Reader, quite a few people pay attention on one side or the other. So no – blogging is not dead.

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The birds and the basketballs

Someone wanted me to write this, so here it is:

When I was younger, say, late-single-digits/early-doubles, I used to play basketball in the yard. I would hop around doing the basketball thing, you know… typical stuff. Many times I would warm up by shooting the ball straight up and catching it, straight up and catching it.

One day as I was warming up, I shot the ball straight up, caught it, shot it straight up, caught it, shot it straight up, was blinded by something falling in my eye from above, and I promptly ran into the house.

Upon further inspection, I became acutely aware that a seagull had flown above and relived itself not just on me, but in my eye.

MY EFFING EYE!

The end.

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Onward Ho

It’s been a while since I last updated the blog. In fact, the last time I updated the blog was almost 3 months ago and was about my love interest with Twitter. Needless to say, that has quenched my thirst for writing publicly and has been a decent success by my measure. Also needless to say, that has resulted in a lack of blogging, as you can see.

Anyway.

I come to you today with nothing of value, nothing to offer, nothing of worth other than a mere empty acknowledgement that this blog exists and with any luck someone is reading this. If so: Hello. How are you doing? Thanks for hanging around.

I think one main reason for not updating here, other than Twitter use, is that I feel this blog has lost direction. Nay, rather it has a lack of focus. I feel the need to break this blog into two: the first being the usual entries you’re used to with the touch of humor; the second being a place for the poetic & prose type of entries. To some degree this division, and lack of dividing, has prevented me from posting altogether.

So.

Here we are. At a crossroad of sorts: time to change, time to divide, time to write.

One thing at a time though. First: decide to divide or not. Second: divide or not. Third: write.

Onward ho.

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A Date with Twitter

So I’ve fallen off the blog wagon. I’m trying to get back on but it’s proving more challenging than previous times I’ve fallen off.

No, I’m not saying that I’m giving up. Nor am I saying I’m going on sabbatical from writing.

You see, there’s someone (read: something) else…

I don’t know how to tell you this, but, I think Twitter has come between us.

I know, I know. I’m sorry and I hate saying it, but it’s true:

Twitter has my attention.

…

I know this must be hard for you to understand, and it’s certainly a lot to digest, but, please know that I still think of you, and want you in my life. It’s just that, the whole 140-character thing has dragged me in and provides that release, the give-and-take, you once provided, dear blog.

You see, it all began when I started the Twitter account for this blog. At first it was meant to be a promotion tool, a way to get out the word, and be a place to express, in short-form, thoughts that may or may not be relevant to the content of this blog.

Little did I know that it would slowly but surely take away my focus from you.

And I’m sorry for that.

Maybe… maybe we can all have dinner together and I can introduce you to each other? Maybe you two can be friends? Maybe you’d get along. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I think you two would really hit it off.

Unfortunately, I must say that there is no way I can end my relationship with Twitter, at least not within the foreseeable future. And I also cannot end my relationship with you… so…

…

I hope you understand that this is not goodbye – I’ll try my best to write for you into the future (as inspiration comes of course).

But now I must go. I have a date with Twitter…

…

‘Til next time…

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Change the trunk oil, not the engine oil, please.

Many years ago, my friend wanted to buy an engine from a guy so he could upgrade his car for racing purposes.

We went in my car to get the engine from some guy in El Paso. He thought it appropriate to bring my car and also thought it perfectly sane to put the newly-purchased used engine in the trunk of my car.

After lining the trunk with tarps, we loaded it in.

As we drove back to his place, which consisted of both left and right turns over the course of an hour, the engine understandably tipped from one side to the other.

What did we open the trunk to find after arriving at his house to unload the engine?

Engine oil. Everywhere.

Apparently no one thought to drain the engine prior to transport. Also apparently, no one thought about checking to see if the oil had been drained from said engine prior to loading it into the trunk.

Needless to say, that was a nightmare to clean; a process which took days, included a laundromat, and never fully removed all of the oil.

Fortunately I don’t have that car anymore.

_

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Zombies in the News! (You may learn something. Nothing that would save your life, though.)

It’s been a long, long time since I last posted about zombies, so I offer you this historical info to peruse at your lehzure):


Apparently at one point (August 11, 1950 to be exact), someone thought that Koreans were zombies from the USSR. I guess that’s a little strange, and probably a gross misinterpretation of the Korean people.

On October 17, 1944, someone thought it would be neat to give jobs to the zombie population, because they’re people too.

In 1937, zombies were Republicans, sent all their laundry to Maine, and ate their dinners out of a crack barrels (whatever those are).

In 2009, researchers became finally sure that zombies would kill us dead if things start to go down.

And at least one city council in the world has had to admit recently its preparation shortcomings in regard to a zombie attack.


So there you have it. Zombies. Now go read my other posts on this subject.

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Questionable Acts with Food and Drink, Part One.

After writing about my nacho incident I realized that I had other stories regarding food and drink that would bring my character into question. I think it’s best to share these stories with you. Here’s part one. You’re welcome.


“The Turkey Club”

It was already an eventful night: people getting in trouble with their girlfriends for being a wingman; too much alcohol for some; people tripping up the stairs and spilling beer all over their clothes; and a random woman screaming at me “TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF! REAL MEN FROM OKLAHOMA TAKE THEIR SHIRTS OFF!” while standing in line for a beer, even though I’m not from Oklahoma… all while taking in a country music show.

But the highlight of the evening took place after the event when we went to a nearby restaurant to eat and drink even more.

We arrived at the place and found it to be wall-to-wall packed. Understandably, we opted to leave and go elsewhere, if not home altogether.

On the way out, we walked past the hostess station. The front side was near impassable and I was drunk, so I walked behind since no one was standing there.

As we passed through we saw a to-go container sitting there. And just like the nachos, this box looked lonely, too. No one was close enough to claim it. And we certainly couldn’t let whatever it was go to waste.

So of course someone (likely to be TheGreatCon) decided it best to take the container and run out the door… what with being drunk and hungry and all.

After sprinting across the parking lot, we stopped to survey our bounty and consume whatever was inside the container.

We opened to find half a turkey club sandwich. And without hesitation, I grabbed my portion and started to eat.

TheGreatCon followed suit, but only after some disbelief in me jumping right in for a bite. And then he cried in complaint that there was tomato on the sandwich.

…A sandwich which we did not order.
…One that we could not customize ourselves.
…As if he could complain in any fashion whatsoever.

And then we went home.

The end.

Wait. No, that’s not how the night ended.

So then we were ON OUR WAY HOME when someone (again, likely to be TheGreatCon) informed us that he needed to vomit.

So we pulled off the highway, turned, turned, drove and turned, and finally found a dark place to pull over for him to take care of business.

He exited the vehicle, went over to the chain-link fence, and proceeded to gag himself.

After being unable to make himself throw up, he called me out of the car to keep him company. And then I offered to help him throw up by punching him in the stomach.

He agreed.

So I told him I would hit on the count of three, but then I actually punched him at ‘two’ like the surprise-maker I can be, which did nothing more than surprise-punch him and did not result in vomiting.

I guess at that point I got back in the car and waited for him to finish up.

And THEN we went home.

The real end.

_

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Yes, I ate them. Sue me.

One night I went to a concert. I drank ahead of time like I usually do in order to A) save money, and B) get the ball rolling.

At one point during the evening, likely between bands or something like that and after being well-oiled with liquor, I was near one of the snack bar areas taking a rest.

Here’s what I found, sitting there all alone by itself, as if someone forgot about it:

It looked so lonely.

And I was suddenly hungry.

And after much deliberation, including phone calls and texts to friends in hopes of helping me find the best way to handle such a situation, I left it like this:

…Why yes, yes I did eat a random order of nachos that were just sitting around in public.

And yes, of course I was drunk.

And yes, they were good.

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I would probably consider moving to Texas if it wasn’t for that jackrabbit.

(Scene: Summer, June/July 2002, Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas. Another airman (woman, actually) and I are conducting a walking tour of the base for newly-arrived trainees. I begin to warn them about the dangers of jackrabbits.) (Narration by yours truly.)

You think I’m joking, but I’m serious when I say “watch out for the jackrabbits.” They’re squirrelly and will attack you. They have human-like eyes that just stare at you, and you can tell that they’re sizing you up. You know they’re looking at you. You know they’re thinking about you. It’s really kind of freaky. Just keep your distance.

(Enter jackrabbit on the sidewalk 50 feet ahead, facing the street.)

See, there’s one right there. We have to go in that direction, so let’s walk slowly toward it and hopefully it will run away.

(The group and I walk slowly toward it. As we move closer, the jackrabbit turns toward us and squares up with the group.)

See! See what he did there!

(As we approach closer, in a burst of speed the jackrabbit runs toward us, aiming directly for the group as if it were trying to attack.)

(We all jump back in fear of being mauled by the rabbit as it comes within 15 feet of us.)

(It turns right and runs with great purpose to the middle of the road.)

(It stops, turns left, squares up with the car driving toward it, and runs in attack mode directly at the car until it is only a few feet from the vehicle.)

(It then bursts left and runs back toward our group until it is 10 feet away, forcing us to jump back again, and then darts away from us with great purpose, running off to terrorize others on base.)

(End scene)


Ever since that day I’ve been wary of jackrabbits. And ever since that day I’ve vowed to never live in Texas, almost exclusively because of the jackrabbits.

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Hey Hey, Rorya (or: Escape From Destruction, starring Velma Sheen

This is about spam. Every once in a while a spam email gets through. This is one of their stories.


Subject: “Esmeralda, hey hey Rorya”

…So my name isn’t Esmeralda, and I don’t know anyone names Rorya. Already this is going well.

First line: “Patricka, All New Stock, Everything available it is here ...”

…Neither is my name Patricka. Which apparently to the people who design these emails is the female equivalent to Patrick.

Second line: “getrefill. ru”

…So the Russians have something to do with this? I know I’m kind of a big deal in Russia (and Ukraine) but this still isn’t making much sense to me.

Then there’s this:

“I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curat But facing that crescent everywhere--at Staines, H
The church bells were ringing for evensong, and a Velmaa Sheen, it seemed, had escaped destruction, but the
It was this howling and firing of the guns at Ripl Ahmada
The man pushed against the crowd towards the gate Gerardoa”

So Velma Sheen (Charlie Sheen’s… cousin?) escaped destruction? Destruction that included howling and firing of guns by something called Ripl Ahmada (something like a Spanish Armada, but farther East of Spain?)? Well that’s good. At least she escaped.

And some guy walked against the flow of a crowd toward a gate? Why would he do such a thing? Why wouldn’t he go to the other side of the street where the crowd was flowing in his direction? And what does this guy have to do with Velma and her escape from destruction? Was he, too, trying to escape the same destruction? Was the Ripl Ahmada at Gerardoa? Is that where all this went down? I’M EAGER TO KNOW THE REST OF THE STORY!!!

I guess we’ll never know…

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The Rapture is delayed – now what are we supposed to do!

As it turns out, Rapture 2011 has been postponed until October 21, 2011, for unspecified reasons. I figured it was a rain delay, but after giving it some thought I realized that made no sense because it wasn’t raining at my house.

So how is this delay good? Well, for one thing, all of us on Twitter can recycle our May 21st tweets and reuse them on October 21st. Seeing how a person can say only so much about the Rapture, this helps us out quite a bit in the content department. Sure, we now have additional time to develop quality tweets, but really… no one cares at the end of the day, especially if we’ll all be running around on fire.

Additionally, I get to repost my “9 Rules and Expectations for Rapture 2011” in a more timely fashion. This delay also allows me more than 30 minutes to come up with a 10th rule, which I had previously left out on account of a lack of creativity after already creating 9 solid rules.

So how is this delay bad? For one, it’s laughable. And laughable means we won’t give it any credence, so if the Rapture really does end up happening for real this time, we’re pretty much screwed. This could turn out to be the world’s greatest instance of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” and we won’t even know it until it’s too late.


…Well that’s depressing.


I’ll offer one more positive to lighten the mood now that I’ve depressed us both for what may very well turn out to be the rest of the year:

How else is the delay in Rapture good? We now have more time to bulk up on survival gear and supplies. Because after we find water to put out the fires on our backs we’ll want to give survival a go.

And also? You now have more time to develop and perfect your method for catching unicorns when it starts to get real on October 21st.

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The Unpleasant Reality of Dream Rain

Back when I was in the Air Force and living in the dorms on base, I was sleeping and had a dream. This was no usual dream though.

Normally, dreams are… well… dreams. You wake up, you remember them (or not) and move on with your life.

Sometimes, though, dreams can seem more real than others. And an even lesser amount of dreams actually cross over into the real world.

This story is about one of those dreams:


So I was lying there, dreaming away and in my dream it began to rain. A light mist actually.

I remember that the rain was pretty random in the dream, but played into it very well. I don’t remember what the dream was about, though.

I do remember slowly waking up in the middle of this dream and thinking to myself: man, this dream rain seems a little too real.

That went on for a few seconds while I laid in bed attempting to determine the realness of said rain as it gently fell on my face one droplet at a time.

And then I realized I was awake.

And then I realized it was raining in my bedroom.

And then I opened my eyes in search of said rain in my bedroom.

Upon standing and looking at the ceiling for a few seconds I realized the rain was actually water dripping down from the ceiling fan, hitting the fan blades, and then spraying all over the room in a mist. With time, the rate of water dripping increased until the mist became drops pelting me in the face.

And that’s when I realized someone upstairs had sprung a leak.


And then it turned out that the water originated from an overflowing toilet which had been flowing freely for an hour or two and had flooded the room above mine.



And then I realized my dream rain was actually toilet water.




And then I promptly freaked out.


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9 Rules and Expectations for Rapture 2011

9 Rules and Expectations for Rapture 2011

#1. Clowns. You’d better not be afraid of clowns. This is the biggest misconception among the public: clowns are not a part of the Rapture events. You just be ready for clowns, is all I’m saying.

#2. Expect to see some glitter, unicorns, and other mythical creatures taking part in the festivities. If this Rapture really happens, there’s a chance that there will be a moment of euphoria prior to Hell blazing over. If you’re lucky enough to get whisked away, you’ll probably get to live with said glitter, unicorns, and other mythical creatures. Lucky you.

#3. Balls of fire, earthquakes, tidal waves, and horribly-tuned smooth jazz. I don’t expect much thunder, but if there is, it will mostly be drowned out by said jazz and is likely to clap to the beat if you can hear it at all.

#4. Chariots. Lots of them. Ben-Hur style, too.

#5. If this Rapture really happens, expect to see Jesus in the far-off distance, likely hovering in the sky somewhere, standing guard at the aptly-named Pearly Gates along with Peter.

#6. Be prepared to not be whisked away, likely because you’ve listened to rock n roll a few times in your life, or you’ve cursed. They’re saying only 200 million people will be saved. Odds are it isn’t you seeing how that equates to less than 3% of the world’s population.

#7. If you *are* whisked away, be prepared to mourn the loss of loved ones as you watch them on the ground while you float to the sky. Or watch them burn in flames. Or if you suddenly disappear. No matter what, you’re going to want to keep your eyes open.

#8. If you’re lucky enough to see a unicorn, catch it. It’s said that Rapture, at times, can be much like a children’s game in that if you catch a unicorn you’ll be safe.

#9. My final warning: 1) beware of the clowns, 2) some unicorns bite, and 3) glitter likely won’t come off/out of burned flesh, so there’s at least a small chance that you’ll look glittery for all eternity if you’re not magically whisked away.

Good luck no matter what happens.

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The Mundanes

Wow. I burned through a lot of content pretty darn quick. I’m trying to keep things new and fresh here for you, but man, at times this can be challenging.

I took a tip from another blogger and started scheduling posts: writing ahead, setting them up, and writing in the past for the future. Unfortunately, however, I have run out of stuff to write about! Mainly because for a while there I was scheduling posts once a day. Yeah, bad idea.

So then we went to a 3-post-per-week schedule. But I’m not even close to being weeks-out with the writing as I once hoped for.

But you don’t care, so. There’s that as well.

I could go on and tell you what I ate for dinner, breakfast, snacks, lunch. What I drank throughout the day. What I saw outside the various windows I’ve stood in front of. But no. No, I won’t be doing that. I won’t bother you with the mundanes. I haven’t in the past (too often at least) and have no interest in doing so moving forward (you’re welcome).

Instead, I offer you this:

(insert nothing here)

(thank you for your patience)

(more to come as it comes)

Goodbye.

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The Decibel Rule (I’ll just say sorry now)

I’m going to talk about the decibel rule. It’s a rule you’re all aware of, but probably haven’t noticed.

You see, the decibel rule comes into play when a speaker, presenter, teacher, or other officiating entity is in front of a crowd and asks the audience to perform a task amongst the group, ie: talking to each other for some stupid reason that no one in the crowd really wants to do or cares about.

What happens then is the officiating entity will let the crowd go on for so long – and this ‘so long’ is measured in one of three ways: counting to him/herself until a set limit is reached, waiting for a timepiece to reach a set limited amount of time, or they will go by the decibel rule.

What, pray tell, is the decibel rule? It’s when the officiating entity hears the crowd grow to such a level of volume that they know, for sure, that it’s time to end the activity.

What have I just done here?

I have rambled on about nothing of value whatsoever. But I’m not sorry for that.

What I’m sorry for is actually posting this for you to read.

So… “sorry.”

And also hello.

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Planes, beers, and confusions – Oh my!

I’m back from Chicago. Alive.

You may not know I went, probably because I didn’t say anything on account of the surprise party I was attending. But now you may know that I was there. If you didn’t already via twitter.

It was a good time. And I missed you all. Now, on to some highlights:

1) 4:30pm Saturday: Cincinnati Reds fan passed out drunk next to me at the hotel bar. Didn’t wake after the manager tried to wake him. I assumed he was dead. He was not. Or, is a zombie.

2) Late night Saturday: with half a sheet cake on my lap sitting in backseat, I laugh, and thus cry hysterically, over nothing (apparently), whilst eating a soft pretzel. Some of it falls out of my mouth. Icing gets on my jacket as well as the seat. Icing can still be found on said seat.

3) (blurry haze of confusion)

4) Pizza, beef sammich, Chicago dog. No White Castle though, so I can’t die just yet.

5) (more blurry haze of confusion)

6) (Definitely missing something else of relative importance. You’re loss, though.)

7) Beer.

That about sums it up. You may leave now.

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Thank you, Facebook. And a friendly note to nefarious entities.

I almost* fell for this, dear Facebook. Thanks for the offer to inform me, though.

*not a chance in hell.

---
Dan shared a link on your Wall.

LOL !! Me cant believe that you can see who is viewing your profile! I can see the TOP 10 people and I am really OPENMOUTHED that my EX is still checking my Pix and my Profile. You can also see WH0 CHECKS YOUR PR0FILE here)
---

Umm… Me cant? OPENMOUTHED? Big P’s? Zeros as letters? Whatthefuck is going on here? And whatthefuck is wrong with you (he or she who wrote this)?


In summary, I offer this friendly note to nefarious entities: spell correctly, or at the very least learn proper English. You’re welcome for this insider info.

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Now every day is a vacation day. Good.

I remember like it was yesterday:

One day last April, I walked into Tarzjay with little direction (just made up that spelling, because quite frankly I have no idea how else you would spell it, other than ‘Target’. Stfu.). (Great, now I’ve gone off storyline and the entire flow of this is wrong. I need to start over. *Ahem*)

I remember like it was yesterday:

One day last April, I walked into Tarzjay with little direction, and walked out with freedom.

Freedom from The Man. Freedom from responsibility. Freedom from everything life sucks at.

Dear, friends - I walked out with the v-neck undershirt, and I’ve never felt better.

Long gone are the days of crew-neck undershirts while at work. Long gone are the wantings to rip off my shirt Hulk-style and smash it to bits while screaming loudly.

Long gone is the shackle around my neck.

Hooray, I say. Hooray – hooray – hooray.

I am free… I am free… I am free.

(Now work is more like a non-work day, except that I still have to go into the office, but still do similar things to when it’s a non-work day, per usual. Good.)

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An uncommon conversation about a Twitter

Me: do you know what a twitter is?

Him: is this a trick question?

Me: no

Him: you can’t have ‘a twitter’… you can only have ‘a tweet’

Me: But. What is a twitter?

Him: a verb

Me: not a noun?

Him: the noun would be tweet

Me: isn’t twitter a thing?

Him: the website is a thing

Me: do you twitter?

Him: I follow a few people, but that’s about it.

Me: so you twitter

Him: if you run from a chasing lion, does that make you a runner?

Me: it’s safe to say you have some level of twitter.

Him: ok, I’ll accept that.

Me: so you twitter.

Him: I twitter.

Me: you have a level of twitter in your life.

Him: a small level, yes.

Me: but a twitter nonetheless.

Him: quite.

Me: and it’s an official twitter?

Him: as official as a twittered tweet can be twittered.

Me: so you know what a twitter is then?

Him: I do.

Me: and you twitter then.

Him: I twitter. I do not produce tweets.

Him: I partake in the tweets of others.

Me: so you know what a twitter is.

Him: I do.

Me: good.

Me: time for lunch.

Him: Enjoy!

Me: Twitter.

Him: Tweet.

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I have a bike, but I probably shouldn’t have a bike – Part Three

[If you’re reading this, make sure you read “Part One” and “Part Two” first – context it almost necessary… they’re the backstory, and this is the final chapter.]


OK. Flash forward many years. Many, many, many years later from where we last left off, to today.

I recently bought my first bike since the fancy new (read: cursed) bike I last rode many, many years ago. You know, the bike I rode only twice and had horrible experiences both of those times? The bike upon which I was infested head-to-toe with baby ticks the first time out, and then attacked by the ocean the second time out? Yeah… that was the last bike I owned until now.

So, I took the new bike out for its first run. Other than the wind being a little chilly, resulting in gigantic pain in my ears, things went as planned, and I looked forward to the next ride.

As planned, I took the new bike out for a second ride a few days later.

And wouldn’t you know…

Flat tire.

I shrugged it off, but was immediately curious as to what really was going on in the universe.

So then I took the new bike on its third ride.

And… flat tire. Again.


As expected, by this point in time I’m beginning to think that I wasn’t meant to own or ride a bike.

Ever.

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Turns out, the walrus left!

[TheGreatCon, aka Con Lee, wrote a guest post the other day (Is there a walrus in my room?). This is his follow-up. Read here for the backstory.]


In a strange turn of events, while watching the Bulls & Hawks win last night, I was joined at Manny’s (a local bar with great wings I might add) by my boss and fellow coworker. With each sip of his Budweiser, I know my night was going to get worse and worse. “Hey, you know what we don’t have a lot of at the apartment? I ask. “Apples! We need more apples and fruits in our apartment. What a great snack!” “With a look of ‘WTF’ are you talking about on his face, I quietly went back to drinking my Delirium while singing along to Cee Lo Green’s, ‘Fuck You’. Ironic?

Anywho, out of nowhere, he looks at me and says, “I’m moving out.” I think to myself, did he read the posting I wrote?! Oh man, how funny and awkward if he really did! “The apartment is too small and I am waking you up every time I use the ‘John’” Strangle, I found myself thinking, ‘Did I do something wrong? Why is he leaving? He is leaving to go to another apartment where there is already two other people. Is someone else moving in?’

Nope! I have the place to myself!

Well, I found myself waking up in the middle of the night wondering if the disturbing images will ever leave my mind. After vomiting, I realized no, likely not.


Thanks to all the viewers and thanks to JRM at Workspace Writings for letting me post.

http://www.twitter.com/TheGreatCon

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Earth Day, Year 3096, and Cold Elbows

[Originally written: 4/22/2010]

Today, apparently, is Earth Day. The day the Earth was made? Probably not, but there’s a chance. Why not, though? It’s not like Christmas is the day that Jesus was born, so why can’t Earth Day be celebrated as the day the Earth was made? I think the world would celebrate a little more, and give a little more respect to the occasion and our home if we gave the Earth a birthday.


I spoke with a friend today and somehow the year 3096 came up. I don’t remember what the context was, but I had to pause and think about it: will humanity be around over a thousand years from now? Will we still be solely on this planet? Will we have colonized parts of space by then? Will the world be so overpopulated that only the rich and powerful live in space as the poor and weak suffer in the “slums” of Earth?

3096 is a long way off by our measure, but it’s really only just around the corner in the reality of the Universe.


Last weekend I went to a concert and was standing next to a guy whom I, obviously, didn’t know. The show goes on as these things tend to do, and people dance and groove in their space as desired. I don’t usually get bothered when people have a good time – I like to have a good time and let my hair down as well – but all of a sudden, this guy just seemed entirely too close and was definitely invading my space. I didn’t really notice until his elbow touched me. The only thing I noticed at that point, and which started my dislike for the guy, was that his elbow was extremely cold… unnaturally cold. I almost felt disgusted.

Needless to say, I promptly adjusted my space, made a comment to a friend, quickly added the mental note into my BlackBerry so that I could write about it at a later date, and went on with my evening. Hair down and all.


What do the top three anecdotes have to do with each other? Not much, except… that Earth Day should be a real celebration of our home, not just a date on a calendar which gives people a reminder to say “happy Earth Day,” “plant a tree,” and “take care of the Earth.” If we don’t give more respect to our home, my anecdote of what the year 3096 may be like could very well become a reality sometime in the future. Respect Earth every day, and everything should turn out just fine. As for the last anecdote: keep your elbows to yourself.

Thank you.

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Is there a walrus in my room?

[On my drive to work this morning, I was informed that I would be having a guest post today from TheGreatCon, aka Con Lee. Show him some love. Here is his story.]


My job requires that I travel a lot. Typically, I will be on the road three to four weeks of the month. Needless to say, I am familiar with the process which accompanies traveling (i.e. TSA requirements, hotels, car rentals, local food hot spots, etc.). In fact, there is something to be said about going into a hotel and having them treat you pretty well because you have earned their respect… or rather, you have spent thousands with their company. Regardless, at the end of a long day, I can go back to my private room and relax, unwind, catch up on emails and talk to my wife and friends.

Recently, my job relocated to New York City (Upper East Side to be exact) for the entire month of April. Each year, I enjoy this particular case because it gives me a chance to visit NYC and enjoy all it has to offer, and my wife will even travel out over the weekends when she can. Plus, it’s an opportunity to make a good deal of money as well.

Now, because the cost of living is so high in NYC, we are forced asked to share tiny one-bedroom apartments with our coworkers. Fine, I understand that. It makes sense to save money that way.

Here is the problem: I was paired up with my boss who loves to stay out drinking all night. As you can imagine, when he gets back to the apartment, he is a little gassy AND being 65 years old, has somewhat of a bladder issue. Still, both issues are what you can expect from drinking all night.

However, the bathroom is located in my bedroom and to get in there he has to slide the door open, which happens to also be off its track (I have already tried to fix it, it’s just old, like my boss) and walk right past my head.

No kidding – if you are using the toilet in my bedroom, you are no less than 10 feet from my bed. So, of course, I wake up several times throughout the night to the door sliding open and my boss wearing only an undershirt and his tighty whities walking past me to the bog.

Except the past two night have been cause for alarm. I am starting to hear the sound of a person who doesn’t have a high fiber intake and is still VERY gassy. For several minutes, I lay in bed, sickened and forced to listen to what I can only assume is the slaying of a walrus.

Oh, and someone never closes the bathroom door either! “Hey Guy!!! Are you serious?! Close the effin door!” I yell to him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were awake” he replied. “I don’t care, ALWAYS close the door. What is wrong with you?”

Let that soak in for a minute…

Finally, I made it back to bed and got up at 6am to head out to work. I have a nice note apologizing. Thanks!

So the moral of the story? As long as you write an apology note, anything you do is forgivable.

That said, payback is a bitch.


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I have a bike, but I probably shouldn’t have a bike – Part Two

Read “Part One”. The following will make more sense if you do.

So the second time I took my fancy new bike for a ride after my nightmarish first go-round, I opted to ride along the boardwalk early in the day. I had taken this ride hundreds of times growing up, so knew there shouldn’t be any drama this time around.

When I got to the boardwalk, the ocean was calm, bright sunny sky, birds flying above – it made perfect sense to bring the bike along the water and ride along the compacted, water-soaked sand.

After giving it a try, I quickly found I couldn’t build up the speed necessary to continue on. So I stood to watch the ocean.

I squared up with the sea and held the bike with one hand by the center of its handlebar as it stood next to me.

I saw a wave begin to build as it neared the shoreline. I took a step back.

It grew larger than I first anticipated. I took another step back.

The wave crashed and rushed to my feet.

I freakedthefuckout and forgot I was holding a bike.

I turned toward the bike to run. But the bike was in my way.

I tripped over it. The water rushed over me and the bike as I laid there, unable to get up as my legs were on top of the bike.

…

I rode home soaking wet. Barely able to ride because of all the sand in the gears.

And the bike was then covered and full of corrosive salt water.

And I never rode the bike again.

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I have a bike, but I probably shouldn’t have a bike – Part One

I’ve had trouble with bikes. I mean literally, I’ve physically had trouble with them. It hasn’t been that I’m too tall, too short, too heavy, or have balance problems – I have had bad luck with bikes in the sense that it has resulted in physical trouble to me. Let me explain.

Sometime during my teens, my parents bought me a mountain bike. I was pretty excited about a fancy new mountain bike, so I took it out for a ride, which turned out to be no normal ride at all.

I was in the woodsy-hillsy part of town on a summer’s day, minding my own business whilst riding my fancy new bike.

I stopped for a rest and to take in nature. I looked down and saw specs of dirt on my white socks. I looked closer, and they were moving.

I focused the best I could – and found the specs were red and had legs, many legs actually, and they were all over my shoes, legs, and shorts.

And then I saw them on my arms and shirt.

And then I realized they were baby ticks.

And that’s when I freakedthefuckout.

Because I was covered in BABYFUCKINGTICKS! from HEADTOFUCKINGTOE!

Which resulted in my parents hosing me down, in the backyard, wearing nothing but underwear, after driving home nearly naked since I tied my clothes to the bike rack on the back of the car so not to bring any more ticks inside than were already on my skin.

Needless to say, I didn’t ride my fancy new bike for quite some time after that.

But when I did? Nope – didn’t go well that time either.

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Dear, Cheechmosk: Go away.

Someone left a thoughtful (probably not) comment on one of my posts. Let’s dissect:
---
ceheomsk (http://ceheomsk.wordpress.com/) has left a new comment on your post "Face threading – wtf.":

Sorry for my bad english. Thank you so much for your good post. Your post helped me in my college assignment, If you can provide me more details please email me.

cheap clomid (<--this was a link to some other realm)
---

First off, “ceheomsk” makes no sense whatsoever. It neither elicits a name, meaning, or any other type of identification. It does, however, give off the impression that you’re a douche, and I shall refer to you as ‘Cheechmosk’.

Next, my post on face threading in no way helped with any college assignment anywhere on Earth. Have you read that post? (Clearly not.) It has no value to any college assignment whatsoever, anywhere, ever. Ok?

Thirdly, what additional detail do you think I can provide on the subject? Haven’t I said enough about face threading already? If you actually read the post, you’d know that I have nothing to offer on the subject, but thank you for considering me to be a thought leader on the topic. (You’re clearly disassociated from reality. That, or dumb. Take your pick.)

Finally, what the fuck is “cheap clomid.” I did some research, and this is what I found from Google: “Clomiphene (clomid) is used to induce ovulation (egg production) in women who do not produce ova (eggs) but wish to become pregnant (infertility).”

…At what point, dear Cheechmosk, did you think I A) was a woman, B) do not produce ova, or C) wish to become pregnant?

Cheechmosk? Maybe go back to school. Maybe learn “good” English while you’re there. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll understand what you’re doing is irrelevant, and that I’m not your target audience, and also no thank you.

Good day, sir. (Cheechmosk is masculine, right?)

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A random note from drunkenness

I went to enter a note into my phone and found this:

“I don't know how to put this, but, a small person came briskly walking by, tripped, recovered, and a following individual exclaimed to me: safety first!”

“I slowly turned around to write this.”


…I can only assume that by ‘small person’ I meant ‘midget’, and by ‘tripped’ I meant ‘fell the fuck down’.

...I can also only assume that by ‘slowly turned around to write this’ I meant ‘I couldn’t help myself from laughing and had to make a note of the hilarity I’ve just witnessed because I’m alone and have no one else to verbally express myself to’, and, ‘I’m also probably drunk at the moment’.

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Eff you, shirt collar!

I think I might be allergic to shirt collars, and I think it’s getting worse each day.

Some days all I want is to rip off my shirt, throw it in the air, kick it down, pick it up, throw it down, stomp on it, rip it, tear it, and move on with my life, happy that I no longer have a shirt collar around my neck.

Some days I think of how this must be some sort of sign that I’m meant to wear other clothing with less restrictive collars and be in a profession where it is suitable to have other options for shirt collars.

I bet you never thought you’d read a blog post about shirt collars – or maybe you have – or maybe you’ve even written your own – or thought the same… either way.

Just thought you should know.

Welcome to my life.

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Annoying 21st century communication

So I’m thinking about trying to stop using “haha” in typed conversation because it’s starting to annoy me. We need to come up with a more better way to express a laugh which does not include the dreaded LOL. (Yes, I said more better. Move on.)

I type “haha” like the rest of you when I laugh at something or find it mildly amusing. The problem is that when I read someone else’s “haha” I actually read it “Ha. Ha.”, meaning, it doesn’t read like a laugh actually sounds. And drawing out a “haha” into “hahahahahahaha” just seems misguided and annoying.

Since all this bothers me, maybe I’ll start a movement onto something better.

How about… “H”… or… {laughing}… or… hmm… you know what? No. No, this isn’t going to work. At all. Fuck.

Way to save the world from annoying parts of 21st century communication, me. Good job.

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Thanks in advance for the Russian Banyas

Dear, Russia –

I hear you have some Banyas. I would like to purchase two (2) of your Banyas for good time at home. Please deliver and install.

Or… please provide Banyas on days 1, 3, 4, 7, and 10 of my trip to your land if and when you provide me with said trip.

Let me know if you need dimensions of my available space.

Thanks in advance,
Me

PS – Still waiting to hear back from you about the open letter I wrote weeks ago. I sure hope you’re not ignoring me on purpose because that’s not cool.

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Will somebody stop the boredom? Please?

Lately it seems I spend my days mostly trying not to stab myself in the eye. Not because of my work environment, annoying coworkers, stupid people, or too much work; no, that would make too much sense.

It’s mostly due to my growing boredom with life. Work’s boring, after-work’s boring, hell… even sleep is boring since I don’t dream very much (that I can remember at least).

Running off to Africa, Europe, or Australia (or all three) seems to be the only option for excitement these days.

Or maybe I should become a carpenter…

Or join a circus…

Or buy a horse and ride across America. Alongside the interstates. With dog trotting beside.

Whatever it is, it better make haste because I’m growing impatient.

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1 Year! (aka: How in the…)

It’s been 1 year to the day that I started Workspace Writings. I’ve had other blogs in the past that never kept up as the days went by, and plenty of other things that have come and gone in shorter periods of time – turning out to be mere whims of the moment. I’m impressed with myself for sticking with this, and I don’t see an end in sight.

Over the past year I have ranted and raved, I wrote poetry and prose, and made many attempts at some form of humor (most of which probably fell flat after publishing). I posted a couple “highlights” in March to build up to this day, so read back for good measure and reminisce the past: The non-painting hairs kind of highlights, and, The tunes.


So this day calls for a big THANK YOU to everyone old and new! THANK YOU to everyone out there who has stuck around! And THANK YOU to everyone who’s new to WW (I’ll do my best to not let you down (...hopefully)).

To be honest, I like that you like my writings (some of the time at least) enough to keep on reading for yet another day. I seriously do appreciate it, and you should know that your continued interest keeps me engaged and interested in writing more. Thank you for that.


Now what kind of party would this be without a couple more links for you to check out? As is good form, here are the posts that started it all, 1 year ago today. Enjoy!

The preface: Writings from a workspace

The beginning: Motion-sensing faucets

Fruit on the bottom? NO ON THE BOTTOM!

I don’t see the appeal of fruit on the bottom. I just don’t get it. Why would fruit on the bottom yogurt be better than pre-mixed yogurt?

If you ask me, pre-mixed is better. Why? Because you can open and begin eating right away. Which means no fussing with stirring 37 times to get an even consistency.

What? You don’t stir 37 times like I do?

Oh…

Well…

If it were pre-mixed, the only fuss you have is getting the lid off, which, I admit, I’ve had many-a-trouble with in my time, but I’d rather deal with that alone than adding a 20-second stirring session into the mix (no pun intended) before being able to consume said yogurt.


…I think I’ve said enough about yogurt for one day.

Goodbye.

Detox and the Grid: The Revisiting

I might as well start a new mini-series here around the whole detox thing. If you missed Detox Night 1, here you go. Now, on with the show.

Actually, I’m not sure what to say about Detox Night 2. I spent it sleeping, on the couch, all night actually. So… probably not a lot to say.

Except I ate half a pizza. Though, that wasn’t the reason I slept all night on the couch.

Sometimes I like sleeping on the couch. Changing it up once in a while is good, plus, my couch is comfy.


Ok, so here’s night 3: Slept on couch again because my dog asked nicely. Sleep sucked. Overslept.


Detox Night 4? Fell off the wagon.

Detox Night 5? TV after a night out to dinner. And Night 6 onward? Totally off the wagon. In fact, I can’t even see the wagon.

Clearly this hasn’t worked for me the way I had expected. However, my mind is still working out the details for going off the grid.

More to come about the grid ...someday.

So much for the new series.

Wtfisthat. Andwhyisitthere.

There’s something strange wrapped in a paper towel hanging out in the basket that holds the paper coffee cups at work.

Upon first look I thought it was an English muffin or a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a paper towel and placed there to keep warm. Then I thought how odd it was for a breakfast sandwich to be wedged between a stack of cups and the side of a basket.

Then I thought how putting a breakfast sandwich there wouldn’t keep it warm and totally makes no sense at all.

And then I poked it and realized it was not a breakfast sandwich but couldn’t determine exactly what it was and then continued with my coffee pouring because I wanted nothing to do with it after that. I promptly left and went back to my desk. And then returned to take a picture for you.

Here. Here’s the picture.

Whatthefuckisthat. Andwhyisitthere.

Extending whoopee

So we went out for dinner and drinks. I had the worst Mexican food I’ve ever had. This post will not be about that.

This post is about what happened after dinner, after the half-pitcher of margaritas, and after a few drinks at the next place.

Perhaps it was too loud… Perhaps there was too much alcohol... Or perhaps we’re just hard of hearing…

The old man who was clearly drunk decided to stop and say to us as he walked by:

“I don’t know either of you, but he’s extending you whoopee.”

Now, I don’t know how one extends whoopee exactly, and in all honesty I really don’t even know what that means. I’m still pretty confused about it actually.

What I do know is that it’s very odd for a stranger, and old man stranger especially, to approach a couple and say something about extending whoopee in one direction or another. I mean, is “extending whoopee” a common phrase that I’ve somehow missed my entire life?

Can you take back this whoopee once it’s extended?

Can you adjust how far you extend your whoopee?

Is whoopee something you can eat?

Or is it purely ornamental?

I didn’t see any of this so-called whoopee extending anywhere, so I’m definitely lost here.

So v. S – The battle within

Actually no, there should be no “battle within” around whether or not to use ‘So’ or ‘S’ when abbreviating ‘South’ in an address or any other case of short-handing “South”.

None-what-so-ever.

In fact, I can’t think of one time I thought to myself: “gee, I’m troubled because I don’t know which to use: So or S?“

Nor has there been even one instance of me thinking: “yes, I shall put ‘So’ instead of ‘S’ because that is the correct thing to do.”

Not. Once.

In fact, after an extensive search of the internet, I can’t find one good reason for ‘So’ other than it was used sometime in the past. I don’t know how long in the past, but it wasn’t yesterday. Or 5 years ago. Maybe not even 10.

I have two words for everyone who still uses ‘So’:

Time to move on, folks.           Time… to move on.

Face threading – wtf.

I received one of those deal emails recently, for “face threading”. And of course I was all, “wtf, mate?”

My first thought went to some strange Frankenstein action with stitching. Maybe even needles and thread. Or even face transplants. I don’t know.

And then it went to: why would people do something like that? What the hell are they stitching their face to? Is it legal to do such a thing? And why is there a deal for this?

I clearly had no idea what this “face threading” was about, so I looked it up. And what I have to say now is:

Whatthefuckisgoingonintheworld!

You females seriously do this? You have someone tangle up your hairs in a string, get it all nice and knotted… and then yank away???

OVER AND OVER AGAIN?!?!

Fjasdnioqwenio[vnasdjk;faf’spspspsfffth

From detox to off the grid in 3… 2… 1…

I recently decided to undergo detox (detox of the TV to be exact). Of course, this means only the type of TV where you plop down on the couch to aimlessly watch whatever’s on at the time and surf the channels when there’s nothing of interest.

This does not include, however, Netflix or DVR items. That’s just plain crazy…

At the time of writing, it has been exactly one night of detox. It wasn’t too hard, even though I was more or less bored. But probably no more bored had I been watching TV for hours on end.

There are things I’d like to accomplish, and these things take time, time that the TV is eating up, time that I seemingly don’t have. Hence the detox.

Hopefully detox will allow me to do these things. Hopefully I won’t go so far off the reservation that it becomes a slippery slope and next thing you know I’m trying to go off the grid, which, by the way, most definitely crossed my mind during Detox Night 1.

Or maybe that would be fun…

…But not so far off that there’s no internet access, because that also is just plain crazy.

Nor do I want to hunt daily for all my food needs. Or live in a tent fashioned of twigs and leaves for that matter.

While that does sound to be a fun and engaging week-long adventure, it surely isn’t a viable option as far as long-term living arrangements go.


...Clearly I need to think this through before detox is over.

WW’s Weekly Items of Note – V.1, I.8

Welcome to

WW’s Weekly Items of Note

Don’t forget to Share with a friend!

From the interwebs:

I removed my beard and cut my hair; the world kinda freaked out for a minute. (<-- Not really from the interwebs, but I thought you should  know.)

MySpace is dying, but you knew that.

OMG, muffin top!

phriday filosophy

The week’s blogging:

I had a thought that fish & chips might be to England and Ireland what Tex-Mex is to America and Mexico.

Why is everything so super?

I have trouble here.

Herps vs. Orns? Yup.

And

Don’t be left out!
 

 

---End weekly transmission---

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The Highlights (The Tunes)

Not too long ago, I posed The Highlights (not the painting hairs kind). In it, I highlighted several posts from the early days (because many of you haven't been around for the entire year, and you wouldn't want to be left out on the early stuff, would you?).

This post is the follow-up to that post, and highlights some of the writings around bands, concerts, and music I've encountered over the past year.

For some of you, this will be like a stroll down memory lane. For others, you may find new love... or something like that... or nothing like that at all.

In fact, it's quite likely you've already given up and moved on to something else by now. But I'm going to continue anyway. I'm a survivor like that.

So, here it is - enjoy!


-- In 30STM and The Moment, I wrote about how music can be liberating, how it soothes the soul, and how it can create what I call 'The Moment' - a time when you realize that man is good, and that all is alright. Read more about it here.

-- I wrote a follow-up piece a few days later, which actually was written on my phone shortly after the show, and talks about how the music that night inspired a new generation of musicians. It's kind of inspiring (at least I think so). Read on.

-- Here's a piece detailing how I (possibly) saved someone's life at a concert.

-- I wrote how Shinedown and vanilla (the flavor) are an unfortunate combination in this one.

-- I wrote about an unlikely experience with FaceMan here, and then another time about FaceMan's First Waltz here.

-- Somehow hula hoops and Jesus ponies made their way into a post about a music festival here.

-- And here's one about Peter Steele from Type O Negative and Ozzy Osbourne (and how Ozzy's continued existence may be due to some type of artificial life... because somehow he's still alive).

Herpetology v. Ornithology: The Calling

I recently read a cartoon where on one side was an ornithologist talking how reptiles should be included in ornithology instead of being included within herpetology, because reptiles are more closely related to birds and mammals than they are to amphibians.

On the other side of the cartoon was a herpetologist saying how ornithologist are assholes.

It’s clear that ornithologists just want some cool eat-your-arm-off reptile action, what with their lack of excitement within the bird zone these days (seeing how pterodactyls are fully extinct now), and after seeing how cool Komodo dragons can be.

I guess it comes down to this: Reptiles are cool. Birds? Not so much. Unless it’s an eagle. Or vulture. Or other hawk-like creature.

Is it possible that ornithologists feel somewhat left out from attention and just want to be cool?

Perhaps they see their specialty as dwindling since children find reptiles (clearly) more appealing than birds, and end up becoming reptile experts, and in order to revive their specialty they want reptiles included within their area of studies.

I think that’s plausible.


On a side note, when and why did they add a ‘p’ to terodactyl? Change it back, please. No one likes a silent ‘p’, especially when talking about dinosaurs.

Scheduling the goods (or lack of goods)

I have trouble here. I mean, it’s difficult for me to write something and not post it, but rather schedule it for a later date, which is likely to be the next day.

I’m one of those impatient people who want to hit “publish” as soon as I’m done writing. I’m not one to wait.

However, there are plenty of days when I don’t have anything to write. This poses a problem.

I see the benefit in posting once a day and saving any additional content for the following day(s), but again, I’m the impatient type.

I need to wrangle that in. (Did I just use the word wrangle? Wtf? That’s not even the right word. Let’s go with… suppress. Yes, I need to suppress that. Much better.)

*Ahem*

Where was I? Ah yes: scheduling.

So, as I write this I realize that I’ve already posted today and this talk we’re having will serve as a future post. (How does it feel to be reading what I’m saying in the past? Probably much like a history book or something, but only less boring, huh. Or maybe just as boring… but you’re still reading, so… just sayin’.)

In fact, I already have another post scheduled which I wrote today. Look at that! I’m on a roll here!

Alright. That’s probably enough of your time wasted on me for one day.

Goodbye from the past.

(Let me know how the future turns out.) (Thanks.)

Super what? (Aka: why is everything so super?)

In honor of the recent super moon, I would like to list a few things that are ‘super’ by today’s standards, which, apparently, are a lot of things – few of which are warranted to be ‘super’. Enjoy.

Super moon – Did you happen to see it? Did you notice how much closer it was? Me neither…

Suberbad – I’m still not sure why this is the title of the movie.

Superman – The only alien accepted in today’s society, other than those from The Event.

Super-size – I wish this option would go away.

Super-duper – Yessssssssssss!

Supercharger – Nothing to say here. Move along.

Super Bowl – Too bad the rest of the world doesn’t have football teams American style.

Super Shuttle – Nothing to say here. Move along.

Super 8 – Sometimes this is a good idea. Sometimes it is not.

Supercuts – Sometimes this is a good idea. Sometimes it is not.

Super foods – Gimmick? Perhaps.

Super glue – Tasty. But I don’t remember how tasty, exactly.

Superhero – Is there an supernonhero classification for a super-human-thing-character?

Superintendent – Super guy/gal in charge of stuff.

Super Mario – What happened to you…

Super Nintendo – Too bad you didn’t make it.

Supernova – Awesomeness. (Apparently Word agrees that ‘awesomeness’ a real word. Good.)

Super volcano – Shitguys! We’re all in trouble if this thing goes off.


In conclusion: please, if you’re going to name something, name it something other than ‘super’ – we have enough of those. Thanks.

Is ‘fish & chips’ the ‘Tex-Mex’ of the British Isles?

At some point during dinner on St. Patrick’s Day, I had a thought that fish & chips might be to England and Ireland what Tex-Mex is to America and Mexico.

After a quick search of the internet, my suspicion was validated: fish & chips can be associated with both the UK and Ireland (along with anyplace else the Brits were in the 19th century).

For some reason, up until recently I thought it was purely a British thing. After paying attention to several Irish pub menus, however, I began to think otherwise, and my confidence in its origins began to diminish.

What I had absolutely no inkling of prior to my search of the internet was that ‘fish & chips’ is slightly Jewish as well:

As it turns out (aka: so says The Great Internet), the first fish & chips shop was opened by a Jewish guy way back in the day (1860 in London to be exact, per Wikipedia…).

So, unlike poor Saint Patrick (who was captured by the Irish from his homeland of Britain, enslaved, escaped, and returned to Ireland as a bishop later in life), ‘fish & chips’ had more favorable travels from Britain to Ireland and the rest of the area, and even made it to America.


And what can we learn from this (other than learning this information in and of itself)?

A) It’s easier to enslave food than people?

B) You can’t enslave food at all?

3) It’s more acceptable and moral to enslave a food than it is a person?

9) It ain’t easy being a saint?

x) Don’t let ‘the man’ put you down?

Or

Z) It’s easier for food to emigrate/immigrate than it is for people?

WW’s Weekly Items of Note – V.1, I.7

Welcome to

WW’s Weekly Items of Note

Don’t forget to Share with a friend!

From the interwebs:

St. Patrick's Day happened

Inspiring current events

Giant feral cats are eating people and small animals

phriday filosophy

The week’s blogging:

I'm definitely not alone

Seeking NWM(P), and strange sheep

What can you learn after 3 hours at the mall?

Highlights - not painting hairs

Oh, good time, I had you. Again.

Two Pound! (And a bit about water)

American sake, not Japanese sake.

Oh, Saint Patrick - patron saint of amateur night.

And

Something about corned beef.
 

 

---End weekly transmission---

Don’t forget to Share with a friend!