tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81761332024-03-06T23:01:54.166-08:00Me & The Horse I Rode In OnThe relentless diatribe of a confused individual.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-55829624245403573122010-11-19T10:39:00.000-08:002010-11-19T15:56:48.544-08:00La Luna<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVw7WpZ67IZVpbIXycqJ2-5DViFmzKKLqBJTzBUWGnkv4RSrmlMX55PDq0AWGOBZUC2CWMsNxs13yeOzsNE2s97GLydAGn4VILtKe78bZH0j1iBca6jIOLn94Fck7Gn6rbHE8hg/s1600/luna.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVw7WpZ67IZVpbIXycqJ2-5DViFmzKKLqBJTzBUWGnkv4RSrmlMX55PDq0AWGOBZUC2CWMsNxs13yeOzsNE2s97GLydAGn4VILtKe78bZH0j1iBca6jIOLn94Fck7Gn6rbHE8hg/s320/luna.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541411143353839602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It was a gray spring afternoon. We received a call from Evan's friend who said that she wanted us over to meet the cat she needed to give away. She had three cats and had to downsize. Robin and I reached this point after much deliberation and careful planning. If we were going to get a cat, we needed to factor in vet bills, food, toys, and anything else that might come up. We had to make sure she was cared for if we went out of town. I was working full-time, but would go back to college in the fall, during which time Robin and I both would be students until he graduated a year later. It was a lot to consider, but we knew we were ready.<br /><br />The cats were all sitting on her bed. She pointed out Luna, who perked up when she heard her name. Out of the three, I couldn't believe Luna was the one she wanted to give away. Her reason was that she had the other two first, but Luna was so beautiful and vocal. She chirped a few times, said "hi" to the soon-to-be owners, and generally acted like a normal cat. I pet her luxurious coat and scratched her face. Her loveliness continued to unfold as I met her ice blue eyes, her little pink nose, and her enormous feet. Unlike most polydactyl cats, she had an extra toe on <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> four paws. Robin and I chatted for a time and on the car ride home, realized that Luna was going to be our kitty.<br /><br />Her first few days were, predictably, cautious. After all, she was in a new place with new smells, people, and sights. She didn't want to be held, at least for very long, and was reticent to show any of us very much affection. One of her immediate comforts came in the form of a majestic palm we had in a corner of the living room. Placing one paw on the adjacent wall for balance, she arched up and snagged a frond in her mouth, nearly pulling the entire pot over as she munched on the delicious greenery. Robin hollered, I laughed, and no matter what we tried to do with the plant, Luna would get to it. It was this first glimpse of her determined mindset that let us know we weren't dealing with some stupid cat. Our cat was intelligent, resourceful, and could get what she wanted.<br /><br />A month later, and in the same apartment, rainy spring clouds were giving way to the first sunny warmth of the season. We were on the second floor and had a small balcony attached to the living room. Luna positioned herself directly in front of the screen door to lay belly-up in the beaming sunshine. She purred and stretched as we pet her, now content with her new surroundings and owners. On one such day, we opened the sliding glass door to let the outside in. Luna sat up and wanted out. We debated what could happen if she had a full-on melt down and tried to escape. Measuring the distance between gaps of the fence on the balcony and factoring in Luna's girth, we realized that even if she wanted to, she couldn't slither underneath. Even so, we accompanied her outside. She took a couple timid steps out, sniffed the air, and went immediately for a drain cap, located in the center of the balcony. She stared at it. She stared some more. We pet her, asked what she was doing, but she couldn't be bothered. We eventually left her to stare as long as she wanted. From that point forward, it was referred to as Luna's Drain, and we always knew what she wanted if she meowed from inside the glass door on a nice day. With our roommate, we all decided for a change of venue and trade up to a larger apartment, located in the same complex. We had a beautiful corner unit but unfortunately for Luna, one that did not come with an outside drain. I tried to interest her in the bathtub drain, but I should have realized how different they were. Though not scared of bathtubs, Luna wasn't into bathtub drains thank you very much.<br /><br />Robin's dad is a man of many talents, and he offered to build Luna her very first kitty tower. We enthusiastically said yes, and a couple weeks later, he knocked at the door with the newly built kitty condo. We helped him carry it upstairs and set it outside our apartment door. In typical Luna fashion, she waited by the door when we left, and opened it to see her sitting there. She caught a glimpse of the tower, chirped excitedly, and immediately jumped into it. "Mine!," she clearly said as she purred, scratched, and rubbed her new tower. We brought it inside and put it in the living room, from the top of which Luna could survey her domain, sleep, and stretch over the side.<br /><br />Robin graduated college and got a great full-time job. We knew it was time to move out on our own, so we amicably parted ways with our roommate. After helping E & C move out of their duplex, we were very interested in the other side that was becoming available. After a few chats with the owners, we were in and settled. By this point, Luna had moved four times, so she adjusted quickly. She enjoyed the new space, as there was ample room to run and play. More than the space, however, was a certain variety of tree located just outside our back door. The sliding door in the duplex opened onto a small porch, covered by two large Japanese Maples. In the fall, they loosed their canopy onto the ground which became littered with brightly colored foliage. Luna was beside herself. She sat in front of the glass and pressed her nose to it. Her tail flicked quickly from side to side as her gaze widened. Soon we heard her chattering... at the leaves. I asked her what was going on. She quickly met my gaze and made a sound I had never before heard. It was somewhere in between a chirp, a click, and a growl. She kept doing it as her stare returned to the leaves. She wanted them. She wanted them <span style="font-style: italic;">bad</span>. Knowing by now that Luna was not the type to run if she got outside, we opened the door. She darted out and became even more excited. She chirped and clicked and purred and didn't know what to do. She had found herself the Ultimate Treasure, she was crazed with joy and looked up at me as if for some kind of clue. "What the hell NOW? What do I do with all of it??," she pleaded. I crouched down, pointed to a single dried leaf and said, "Luna! Look! This one!" She bolted over, <span style="font-style: italic;">shoved my hand out of the way</span>, and devoured the leaf in pure, ecstatic bliss. A few chomps later, she looked up again for guidance. "Here!," I exclaimed as I pointed to another. She pounced on it and did the same thing. We continued this game for quite awhile, with each crunched leaf becoming a more amusing and adorable experience. When it was time to go back inside, Luna could not be stopped. She struggled against me like a druggie being pulled away from its stash. Once inside, she turned right around and pressed her nose against the glass. Fortunately for her, the amount of leaves lasted well into the following spring, when we decided it was finally time to clear off the deck for the warm weather.<br /><br />It was in the duplex that we discovered Luna's favorite food. Until this point, Luna had been a very polite kitty when we were eating. Occasionally she would meow and show interest, but would give it a rest if we told her no. That is, until Eric was eating a slice of the most delicious pizza the world has ever known. I don't remember what kind it was, or even where it was from. What I do remember, vividly, is Eric in mid-bite and Luna jumping directly onto his chest and <span style="font-style: italic;">pawing at his pizza</span>. "Luna!," Robin yelled, but the most she did was stop pawing. She sat on Eric's lap and waited for another chance. She didn't get one as Robin pulled her onto the floor, but from that point on if we had pizza, Luna would go out of her way to get some.<br /><br />When we purchased our first home, Luna again did well with the move. This was her biggest house yet; it included a long stretch of carpet from the end of the hallway, across the living room. One night, we had Evan over for drinks and merriment. We were watching TV when we heard a loud knocking on the screen door. BANG! BANG! BANG! It startled us and we wondered who it could have been. I opened the door and there sat Luna, her paws dirty and cold with a terrified look on her face. She leaped into the house and ran for cover. We didn't know exactly when she made it outside or how long she had been out there, but it couldn't have been very long. What we did know was that Luna had decided, once and for all, that outside was definitely <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> her favorite. From then on, the most she would try to do was bolt onto our front landing and sniff around.<br /><br />At the end of each day, all she wanted to do was curl up on my chest and purr herself to sleep. I could be upset, happy, anxious, timid, embarrassed, vulnerable, but none of that mattered to her. When I was sick, she was so excited to spend all day resting with me. When I cried, she would sit on my lap and knead my legs until I felt better. She would excitedly chirp in the morning with half-open blinking eyes as I fed her breakfast. She greeted me at the door each evening. What I miss most about Luna, more than anything else, is her unique personality. She was so good in so many ways, but it's her unending sweetness and warmth I miss terribly. Every pet owner will tell you they have the best animal. Call it hyperbole if you like, but we really <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> have the best cat ever. Luna was like no cat we've ever known, both in appearance and personality.<br /><br />I still listen for her. I glance down as I open doors and am mindful of the space around me. If I hear a creak, my head darts in the direction of the sound and waits for Luna to come trotting around a corner. Every time I come home now, I have to whisper, "She isn't here," to remind myself of the bitter fact. I sometimes take breaks at work just to go and cry. I think that overall I'm doing as well as I can, but this truly is the worst loss I have experienced in my life.<br /><br />When I reflect on our shared lives, I refuse to let Luna slip into the void. She was not simply some animal that we took care of. She was a member of our family; a being with which we shared a very close bond. Like any being that has passed and had a deep connection with you, the loss is devastating. While she is no longer here physically, her memory will live on as long as I do. In that time, I can allow her wonderful life to influence mine. She taught me that being sweet and caring go a long way to improve another person's mood. She taught me to be myself, an independent, and not just shower someone with affection because they're there. She taught me not to put up with those who don't understand and respect you. She taught me that taking a nap in the sun is the best possible activity on a lazy Saturday afternoon.<br /><br />I love you so much, my little Luna. Rest peacefully.<br /><br />Until our souls meet again...Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-8185734257711186962010-09-16T14:02:00.000-07:002010-09-17T14:44:26.108-07:00Everybody Poops1) The Perfect Poop: You have all the time in the world. There is nothing stopping you from taking as long as you like. In fact, you just might read several chapters in your book because you rather like the cool toilet seat cradling your buttocks. Very little effort is required, aside from the occasional sigh of gratitude for this lovely experience.<br /><br />2) The Hasty: You have no time. You're already late for work. There is no <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> you're going to shit your pants in the car (again), so you've got to get this thing done. Dropping trow, your end lurches for the toilet bowl, only to be met with stubborn intestinal resistance. What the hell? You're supposed to be Niagra Falls back there, but nothing? Nothing?? OK, relax. You just have to relax. Relaxing makes everybody poop. Ahhhh. You're so relaxed. You're middle name is Relaxington. Nobody will care if you're late for the meeting. OH CRAP, THE MEETING!! No, relax remember? You're fine! It'll be fine. Ok, ok, here it comes! Heeeere we go now. It's... almost.... [plink, plink]. <span style="font-style: italic;">That's IT</span>?! Where's the rest? THAT'S what you're late for?? AHHHHHHH!!<br /><br />3) The Pasty: You sit down, pull out your People magazine for some light reading, and begin. An unpleasant gurgle is soon followed by the grotesque sensation of aerated cake batter working its way out of you. It smells. It smells really bad. You try to seal the bowl with more thigh skin, but can't quite cut off the stench. You would breath through your mouth, except for the nauseating thought of poop particles filling your throat. When you're finally done, you pull off several squares of toilet paper and quiver thinking about what awaits in the darkness. Sure enough, you're going to need more TP. Then more. Half the roll and several flushes pass, and you're still only barely clean. Deciding that a slightly unclean rear is better than a bloody scab, you pull up your pants in defeat.<br /><br />4) The Troublemaker: You go. And go. And go and go and go. Nothing is coming out anymore, but for some reason, you're not done. You've been there for 40 minutes. You've ruptured a blood vessel in your eye. Still not done. It's up there, taunting you. Hiding far away, tucked deep within, causing you to feel bloated and in need of release, but it won't budge. It's the troublemaker, and it's not coming down anytime soon.<br /><br />5) The Ninja: Hmmmm. Why hasn't anything happened? You've been there for five minutes. Well, it'll happen soon enough, you just have to sit there. You tap your fingers in anticipation, bored since you forgot something to entertain you. A little more time passes. You're growing impatient. Geez, what's the deal? Lifting a thigh to check, there's gotta be at least a.... WOAH. Where did that come from? Were you even there? When did it happen? You pause to recount the past several minutes and know that 1) You never left and 2) What's left is distinctly yours. Enter the Ninja.<br /><br />6) The Loudmouth: You're at work and it's time for an afternoon visit to the bathroom. You look forward to a nice afternoon bathroom break, if nothing else but to have an excuse to leave that claustrophobic cube for a bit. Several other people have the same idea, and you're not alone. You nod to a few of them and even chat with Steve from Accounting in the hallway. You find an open stall and take a seat. You suddenly realize what's coming, but it's too late to stop now. "WHY HELLLLLOOOO THERE!! I'M YOUR BUTT! FANCY A CHAT? A LOVELY CHAT?? LET'S HAVE A CHAT! I SHALL SEND YOUR EXCREMENT INTO THIS POOL. BELLY FLOPS FOR EVERYONE, YES? <span style="font-style: italic;">YES!</span> OH MY, THE WATER IS LOVELY TODAY! AREN'T YOU JEALOUS OF YOUR EXCREMENT? THEY LOOK TO BE HAVING A LOVELY REUNION DOWN THERE! <span style="font-weight: bold;">A JOYOUS REUNION OF POOPERY!!</span>" You try to tell yourself that you're a grownup, and so are your coworkers. Everyone has, from time to time, a bathroom experience that's a bit louder than usual, but surely they'd understand, right? You can count on their sense of decency and the human experience and know that they'll understand. No. Of course they won't. You know they won't. They're going to laugh at you behind your back, and there's nothing you can do about it. You'll probably receive a Christmas card this year signed by everyone that reads, "Merry POOPmas".<br /><br />7) The Firestorm: Extra jalapenos on your nachos. Too much sriracha sauce in your curry. Habanero-infused burger with pepper jack cheese. Whatever it was, it's too late to go back now. You know what's coming, and you've made the appropriate arrangements. Your will and last testament are secure. You've written your loved ones. When the inevitable knock comes, you step timidly into the bathroom. Another knock; a bit louder this time. A bead of sweat forms on your temple and slides down your cheek. No more delaying. No more excuses. You're either going to emerge scarred and close to death, or you won't emerge at all. You bear down and convince yourself that it will be a quick one. "I'll get this done in less than two minutes!," you say nervously, but you know the truth. Time and space have no meaning in hell, and that's where you're about to be. Delirious with pain, your body lurches, saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, and you know, you KNOW, that your insides are melting into the bowl. By this point, you may not even have insides left; just a gaping cavity of woeful regret. Hallucinations and fits of rage set in. You tear at the walls and beat yourself in the head with a towel bar; anything to distract from your burning insides. When you're done, you pick up what's left of your entrails, which sizzle and hiss in your frail hands. You may still be alive, but you'll never be the same.<br /><br />8) The Tsunami (a.k.a. The Doubting Thomas): You sit and await what you think will be an easy ride. You stare off into the distance and remember that bouquet of flowers you passed at the market but didn't pick up. You wonder if cherry tomatoes would go well with... suddenly you're interrupted. The tide washed out too quickly. You grip the seat and press your thighs hard. The deluge practically blows you off your seat. A few seconds of rest before the second wave. Then the third, fourth, and fifth. You didn't even see it coming. You had exerted absolutely zero effort, yet here you sit, filling the bowl at breakneck speed. The waves subside, and you flush. Happy to be finished, you reach for the toilet paper. Then, a shiver. And another. <span style="font-style: italic;">Are</span> you done? You didn't feel it the first time, so how can you be sure? You decide that you've not yet reached the end and place your hand back on your lap. You squeeze, but nothing. You push, but nothing. Apprehensive, you again reach for the TP... and.... nothing. Nothing! You're done. You pull up your skivvies, zip your pants, and take a step. A shiver. A chance that... maybe? No, surely not. You're done. You're <span style="font-style: italic;">sure</span> of it!... Right?<br /><br />9) The Carpet Bomb: Accuracy is of little concern, only forceful devastation. You don't remember loading yourself with gunpowder, but apparently you did. BOOM! BOOM BOOM!!!! BA-BOOOOOM!!! You cringe at each blast, cowering a little closer to the ground. You end up with more water on your legs than in the bowl.<br /><br />10) The Stubborn Debutante: What should have been a joyous celebration has turned sour. You've been waiting for the debutante to descend the staircase, to see her in her full glory, resplendent; a woman entering the world. Instead, you hear grumbling and crying upstairs. A shoe is thrown from the bedroom and slaps the adjacent wall. Mother and father have tried everything, to no avail. You even toyed with the idea of sticking your head in there to give her a piece of your mind, but quickly recoil at the thought. It's better to wait than to get a face full of angry debutante. It's a good thing you're not in a hurry, because this is going to be one loooong party.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-4238965038474852352010-09-02T15:07:00.001-07:002010-09-03T09:19:18.676-07:00Sarah PalinFor those of you who have been living under miles of earth, alone in a dark, silent cave, subsisting on a diet of misery and your own hair, you won't know the putrescence of which I speak. For everyone else, here's a perky reminder:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKfYPj-dotcNrHrb8nEUD1h1v2DZZJsu8DzBmMzvOnNkVkEJ6tCh2HAnFvsMYOI7Klbl_48UzOjLJpJ0r1gvE-R2llL5_beEXMFoCQYCrbqCERjPkXS_wNZADw7opz-uRHGKyLg/s1600/palin.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKfYPj-dotcNrHrb8nEUD1h1v2DZZJsu8DzBmMzvOnNkVkEJ6tCh2HAnFvsMYOI7Klbl_48UzOjLJpJ0r1gvE-R2llL5_beEXMFoCQYCrbqCERjPkXS_wNZADw7opz-uRHGKyLg/s320/palin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512441729506563170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">(Don't stare directly into its eyes)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Sarah Palin is a creature that congealed in Alaska from bits of a regurgitated animal carcass, bullet shells, Newt Gingrich's taint sweat, and pure, unfiltered narcissism. I don't fault Alaska for its creation, though I do fault them for not having dealt with this nuisance long before now. "She" is currently my most hated political figure. Her near constant verbal discharges are a visceral reminder of just how stupid some Americans can be given the right factors.<br /><br />In Sarah's case, <span style="font-style: italic;">the</span> factor was one Senator John McCain. Before him, she was the governor of Alaska. Until McCain used his rotting talon to pluck Palin from total obscurity, if you were to ask the average American to point out Alaska on a map, they would most likely tilt their head to one side, squint their eyes, and point to their crotch. They wouldn't be far off. Look, it's not that I have anything against Alaska. If I enjoyed the sports of hockey, snowmobiling, and ballfreezing, I would visit. Consider the combined factors that our dear Mrs. Palin developed there, that it's totally dark from November 18th to January 24th, and it rarely gets above 60 degrees. In my research, this evidence provides irrefutable proof that at least six gates to Hell are actively open and scattered across Alaska's vast, inspiring (I've heard), beautiful (I'm told), breathtaking (no seriously, the demons <span style="font-style: italic;">will steal your breath</span>) landscape.<br /><br />Now, you might be saying aloud to your monitor, "Oh gee, you just hate conservatives and the conservative movement! Sarah Palin happens to be at the forefront of this, so she's an easy target!" I'll give you that she's an easy target, but the fact that she's a conservative has nothing to do with it. There are plenty of conservatives with whom I disagree, but with whom I can have a civil, reasoned conversation. Sarah Palin is not one of them. Palin may anchor her rhetoric in political dialogue, but the ground is loose and her ship is adrift. No, the problem with Sarah isn't right v. left or conservative v. liberal. She is, simply, an unhinged fame whore. One that must be dealt with. It doesn't matter what she says now. She will use the conservative argument because it's convenient, simple and there are a lot of people in our fair nation that love red meat.<br /><br />The thing I can stand least about Palin isn't her political message. It's not her "traditional Ahmurrican values" bullshit. It is, in fact, that she's a huge pussy. Under the general category of pussy, you have those who are simply afraid of everything, and those who talk a big game but couldn't fight their way out of a Neiman Marcus. Our lovely Sarah falls squarely into the latter. When I was first learning about her (like the rest of our nation), I didn't know what to think. She was obnoxious, rude, snarky, and everything else a campaigning politician should be, but there was something extra, something hidden, something that I knew, given enough time, would reveal itself. And then it did. For sport, or what <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> calls sport, Sarah Palin shoots wolves from helicopters. She rents a helicopter, gets her rifle, and flies about the skies fixing her hair, applying her makeup, and zeroing in on a lone, starving wolf. If there is a better definition of pussy, I would like to know what it is.<br /><br />A lot of people can fire guns. Firing a gun doesn't make you tough. It doesn't make you terrifying. To me, all it signifies is that you're a pussy who can't scrap. You might "win" the fight, but you're still a pussy. You'll get to heaven and be all, "I killed FIFTEEN DEMONS, lord! You be praised!," and god will regard you with a sour expression and scoff, "Yeah, with a gun. Pussy. Have fun in Hell." Sometimes I have a dream and wake up with saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth in lustful anticipation. I'm excited, the sheets are wet, and my mind is racing. This dream is Sarah Palin hunting wolves<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>on the ground, with a knife, in the Alaskan winter on the, what's it called... tundra. She has her provisions: tent, food, makeup, hairspray, etc., but no guns. I want to be there, to see the expression on her face as she closes in on an alpha male. I want to see the alpha keep her attention as the pack circles around and boxes her in, trapping The Palin from escape. I don't want to see the grisly end, just for the camera to pan away upon a gorgeous Alaskan sunrise. The dawn of a new day for America. An America without Sarah Fucking Palin.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-91850132517202270842010-08-24T16:18:00.000-07:002010-08-27T15:33:23.868-07:00Why, Hello ThereIt has been some time. According to my calculations, one year and several months to be precise-ish. In any case, I'm here now aching to write; to unleash my wordtastic fury unto the universe!<br /><br />I turned 30 in June. Like most birthdays, I didn't actually <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> anything when it happened. It just sorta... happened. Since 30 is considered to be a milestone (from what I'm told), I expected an event to occur within; something inside exploding or tingling or at least humming. Instead, I was quite happily in Michigan at S's parent's cottage (house on a lake), drinking a bottle of tequila with she and R. I didn't get bombed out of my mind, nor did spankings or other shenanigans occur. It was an incredibly beautiful day; warm, sunny, and spent in the company of true friends. We ate, laughed, and played games. This is in stark contrast to some of my other friends who are turning 30 this year, and on whose birthdays end up looking like this:<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/pmoore1/Desktop/drunk.jpg" alt="" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdC7eOsbT4tIFh2Fa3PaWDtXiXCQ8tP1td9yoCMEZCHcf84FEryhXSg0Lzjl5pc_tMU0jA4gSpLJDFKyveos_i5d5Z0bjY8S9eaUx3z-_paJ0QkniR_4Yu5nC0uJnDwVBFyBqrJw/s1600/drunk.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdC7eOsbT4tIFh2Fa3PaWDtXiXCQ8tP1td9yoCMEZCHcf84FEryhXSg0Lzjl5pc_tMU0jA4gSpLJDFKyveos_i5d5Z0bjY8S9eaUx3z-_paJ0QkniR_4Yu5nC0uJnDwVBFyBqrJw/s320/drunk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510196717884869202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">(You almost killed yourself turning 30! Great job.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One of my very favorite new games is called Russian Roulette. No, not <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> Russian Roulette. This game was told to me by E, and since we share the exact same birthday, we share the same morbid sense of humor. We also share our kidneys, but that's another story. OUR (way better) version of RR is played thusly:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">With your significant other, take a word or phrase and type it into Urban Dictionary. If, in the definition, there is a depraved sexual act associated with said word or phrase, you <span style="font-weight: bold;">must</span> do it.</span><br /><br />Some of my favorites thus far include: peeled onion, pasta special, everlasting gobstopper, Rutiger, kitten pile, chocolate cheese, flea beard, spring release, ape call, special circus, foot pedal, bag of holding, yogurt cup, and The Rutherford. After playing Russian Roulette, you might get a terminal case of Face Freeze. If you do, simply look at this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PQvRUt24fwDCpXfluMlBjnUm1MPVnDZuHpD2efQ5uv8WjITbXQMS8uJywDl74K1dT4e_8jz3zWYkcg4gUPZ3fKTw6MRwsPIY9v0zOEhNc4IKNWhL6YHOOEUH88eQqi7uLUPPAw/s1600/beagle.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PQvRUt24fwDCpXfluMlBjnUm1MPVnDZuHpD2efQ5uv8WjITbXQMS8uJywDl74K1dT4e_8jz3zWYkcg4gUPZ3fKTw6MRwsPIY9v0zOEhNc4IKNWhL6YHOOEUH88eQqi7uLUPPAw/s320/beagle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510211821413429810" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I need to take a moment and clear up a misconception that I find appearing with more frequency. Unicorns do not have wings. They never have. They never will. As Earth's Ambassador to Unicornia, and with my very own unicorn BFF, The Good Sir Reginald, I'll have you know that there has never once been a unicorn born with wings. Why, you might ask? Why deprive a unicorn of wings? It's really quite simple: THEY DON'T NEED WINGS, YOU IDIOT. They have the power of flight, teleportation, and instakill from infancy. As they grow, their powers develop and multiply. The only time you will see a unicorn with wings is in the famous unicorn opera, The Pegasus Who Fell.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5ZZVR9DAkLrmeI_x_lv20Ah1qLrLfzCsIpqMRMFaN3ahsYqegsiUQBQfbbweDFlpbTXrHsahBsPJbkGlYumDIGuXY0X_kDAtUQ6gw2pTlgQIKBvbrPS6wJpIpESwtt22fXobBQ/s1600/fakeunicorn.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5ZZVR9DAkLrmeI_x_lv20Ah1qLrLfzCsIpqMRMFaN3ahsYqegsiUQBQfbbweDFlpbTXrHsahBsPJbkGlYumDIGuXY0X_kDAtUQ6gw2pTlgQIKBvbrPS6wJpIpESwtt22fXobBQ/s320/fakeunicorn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510217294581039282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">(The Good Sir Reginald as Angelo, The Pegasus Who Fell. NOT A TRUE UNICORN.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Of course, you might say, "Why, if unicorns are so powerful, wouldn't they just hide their horn while portraying a Pegasus? Surely as we have prosthetic makeup to change the shape of our faces, they have something comparable?" You might be right, were it not for the fact that as I said before, YOU ARE A COMPLETE IDIOT. If you had a unicorn's horn, would you hide it? Ever? For any reason? No, you wouldn't, and neither do they. So just shut up and stop spreading ridiculous lies about bastard hybrid unicorn-Pegasus creatures.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-10318648914098188382009-04-02T13:58:00.001-07:002009-04-02T15:33:22.268-07:00Meet Claudette!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipsLBx1645WNrVTP9blqlU9XyuZSPIWhY-j2EKqKJ5tuRhamiyTIcORpgWdmh_XUXcS2QHSMMOntNEYlDpQsuYXbxxpjTnTerU5brd8yn7_J9NeAdX8OXvwreP7xRLIGTWPuLCXw/s1600-h/dress-up-cow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipsLBx1645WNrVTP9blqlU9XyuZSPIWhY-j2EKqKJ5tuRhamiyTIcORpgWdmh_XUXcS2QHSMMOntNEYlDpQsuYXbxxpjTnTerU5brd8yn7_J9NeAdX8OXvwreP7xRLIGTWPuLCXw/s320/dress-up-cow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320201514300070338" border="0" /></a><br />Why is "dress up" in quotes? How does one MILK a spirit, particularly a holiday one? What is polyresin? Since when is Spring the only season? If I put Claudette in my toilet after I take a dump, does that qualify as <span style="font-style: italic;">anywhere</span> she would look charming in my home? I have questions, Claudette, questions that need answers if your existence is indeed pure and not, as I highly suspect, a malignant incarnation painfully aborted from a gaping soulless abyss.<br /><br />Aside from those questions which are based purely on the ad itself, could you please explain your religiously-biased and seasonalist tendencies? The holidays you celebrate are all Christian, and the <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> season you celebrate is Spring. Why not just come out and say that your Spring outfit was originally going to be Easter? What are you trying to pull? You think you're appealing to a broader base of consumers simply because you throw in a neon flower mumu and claim to celebrate the pagan season of Spring? Please. You don't fool me! Summer and Fall are better seasons by <span style="font-style: italic;">far </span>and you know that!<br /><br />And also, you're lazy Claudette. There, I said it. To celebrate an entire holiday (or that ONE season), all you do is put on a different hat and cape? If you're going to pull out the same tired outfit year after year for the same holiday, at least have the decency to change the pattern! Your lack of imagination is staggering and only fuels my theory that you come from place of eternal blackness. What? Prove me wrong! ZOMBIES have more originality than you.<br /><br />How <span style="font-style: italic;">dare</span> you, Claudette. How.... <span style="font-style: italic;">DARE</span> you.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-52801510547578138522009-04-01T09:32:00.000-07:002009-04-01T14:13:10.462-07:00Des Choses Intéressantes(Translation: "interesting things")<br /><br />(You may not find them interesting in the slightest. On the other hand, you may find them right droll, I daresay. I hereby claim you pugnacious if you discover them to be the former and delightfully whimsical should you conclude the latter.)<br /><br />People are going <span style="font-style: italic;">ape shit</span> over Michelle Obama's clothes. Ape. Shit. I cannot for the life of me understand it. She's an incredibly beautiful, wealthy woman who (GASP) wears <span style="font-style: italic;">department store clothes</span> and manages (SOMEHOW!) to look elegant and put-together. She of course wears designer duds to fancy shindigs; state dinners, G-20 Summit galas, et cetera. But the hilarious thing is that people keep comparing her fashion sensibilities to that of Hillary Clinton, whose tenure as First Lady was during the 90s. The 90s which, at its best, was a decade of ill-fitting, shoulder-pad-sporting hell. If you managed walk outside and <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> look like the slightly more dressed-up version of a Fly Girl backup dancer, you won.<br /><br />Speaking of the Obamas. I was watching a brief news bit this morning and our very own, U.S.A.-blooded Brian Williams was interviewing some Brits about their thoughts on the Obamas. Hard hitting stuff! Journalistic fluff aside, he walked up to a lady who began speaking about her excitement at the Obama's arrival. Her name was Trudy Cogdell. I burst out laughing because that, <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> is the most British-sounding name in the English language. Go ahead - say it with a really bad cockney accent. TruuuDEE COGdewwl. Oh sure, you can think of something like Sir Archibald Flufferbottomshirington, but that's just silly. At most, his last name is simply Fluffer. Trudy Cogdell, however, is someone I expect to show up on my doorstop and offer me sweetbreads with mum's puddin'. She's a woman of the people, salt of the British earth, someone who can scrub your dingy whites until they're clean and bright.<br /><br />Our "friend" Scott will be heading down this weekend for revelry and shenanigans. We haven't seen him since New Year's, which means that it has been far too long. We will probably also hang out with our other "friend" Evan, a gentleman of leisure (pronounced LEH-zure) and pleasure. Together, they become the formidable ScEvan 2.0.1, a dense humanoid hybrid comprised of massive probability and protracted alcohol ingestion. I expect some kind of singularity at their joining, something to do with Earth's magnetosphere and heightened boson levels. I've told NASA to scan for loose ScEvan particles in the stratosphere, should they escape the singularity. They are easy to spot because they're usually wasted drunk and hollering Tenacious D songs at passing cumulus clouds.<br /><br />My office is on the second floor overlooking a basketball court. A red-haired college kid was pacing back and forth. I recognized him as one who worked in the downstairs café. I couldn't yet tell he was perturbed until out of nowhere, he picked up a clump of sawdust, hurled it at the entrance to the café and screamed, "FUUUUUUUUUUCK! FUCK IT! FUUUUUUUCK!," and stormed off. When I inquired about the incident at the café a bit later, the barista told me that he had been asked to not do his homework when customers were in line waiting for him. Rather than simply say OK, he quit on the spot. Thank goodness we have a robust job economy for him to fall back on! Oh wait.<br /><br />April has become, unsurprisingly to me, the darling of my Twitter group following. Everyone wants a piece of her. Everyone says how snarky and funny she is. Her wit is legendary. Her literary flourish, unmistakable. They wish they could meet April, shake her hand and take her on a play date. I have made excuse after excuse as to why April has something or another preventing her physical self from manifesting physically. What they don't know, but are soon to find out from reading the following, is that April isn't a human at all. Rather, A.P.R.I.L. stands for The Assembled Party of Really Intelligent Lemurs. "She" is actually a gathering of adorable monkeys whose sole purpose is to spread joy and laughter through Twitter. Oh, and to fling poo. It's all covered in The A.P.R.I.L. Bills of Laughter and Poo Flingage.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-57557117255730615092009-03-19T08:42:00.000-07:002009-03-19T09:46:50.688-07:00FOOOOOOORE!!!<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/M3yGCE8Tfp4&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/M3yGCE8Tfp4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I have never enjoyed the game of golf. Some may bristle at my use of the word <span style="font-style: italic;">game</span> when, according to them, it is in fact a <span style="font-style: italic;">sport</span>. Since I have no personal experience with the game, I can only speak to that of my friends, for whom golf is an activity that involves hitting balls across long distances, drinking, ferrying oneself to said balls in a golf cart, drinking, and walking around on some grass. And drinking. Sorry golf snobs, but to me that series of activities describes a game.<br /><br />Having never played the game, I never considered the possibility that one might need to take a bathroom break while on the tenth green and having no resources to do so. I assumed there would be bathrooms along the course at certain points, but my assumption appears to be incorrect. I had no idea that the desire to relieve oneself while playing golf was so profound. It is <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> great, in fact, that the makers of Uroclub invented a giant pee stick disguised as a nine iron.<br /><br />I'm going to guess that most golfers wouldn't want their friends knowing exactly what their "new club" actually is. Telling someone that they aren't practicing a shot at all, but rather peeing into a giant pee stick is a delication situation at best. Furthermore, how does one disguise the fact that they have a piping-hot hollow plastic handle of urine? Wouldn't it smell? When one is using the green crotch bib, wouldn't it be obvious what they're up to as they are sighing relief and shaking the stick three times? Or is this something you would tell, nay <span style="font-style: italic;">brag</span>, to your golf buddies about? Would they all get giant pee sticks and have a giant pee stick bag disguised as a regular golf bag?<br /><br />Move over, Japan. You might have cornered the market on ridiculous baby things, but the U.S.A.'s got a steaming river of golf handle piss headed your way.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-13674222804448834762009-03-03T09:29:00.000-08:002009-03-03T11:12:46.623-08:00But... But Why?In an early morning meeting, one of my coworkers used the phrase, "You can't have your cake and eat it too," speaking about an aspect of our user database. Being one that has on many occasions had this phrase directed at me, I understand the meaning. Another synonymous phrase would be, "You can't have it both ways." I went back to my office and began to think about the cake phrase and the more I thought about it, I kept arriving at the same conclusion: it sucks.<br /><br />Let's start with the cake. Mmmm... delicious cake. My preferred cake is white with fruit filling [insert gay joke here]. I don't often eat cake, with the exception of mine and other people's birthdays. When I go to a local patisserie, my usual choice is something delightful and small, say a truffle or petite tart. That said, I don't turn down cake, in either the proverbial or literal sense.<br /><br />Cake, in the phrase, is of course a metaphor. "Cake" refers to that which you <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> but cannot realistically have. In today's meeting, for instance, we wanted our database to perform in a certain way, but there was no realistic means to make this happen. The realistic piece being the money with which to pay a programmer. So there we sat, bitching about the extra steps in work we have to take, while in the same breath refusing the cost to make the necessary changes to assuage the aforementioned work.<br /><br />So back to reality. Let's say you set a cake in front of me. Let's say it's not even my preferred white with fruit filling, but one that is nonetheless something I would devour in an instant (e.g. chocolate ganache). What kind of <span style="font-style: italic;">monster</span> would give YOU a cake and then say you can't eat it? [Setting cake down], "You can have this, but you can't eat it. Ah ah ah! I said you <span style="font-style: italic;">can't </span>eat it. But it <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>yours. I'm giving it to <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>." Now let's make it personal. Forget that someone bequeathed it unto you. You slaved away in your kitchen, carefully measuring ingredient after ingredient. The oven warms to bake a perfect sugary confection while you whisk together a cream cheese frosting befitting a queen. Then what? "Ah ah ah! You <span style="font-style: italic;">can't</span> eat it." You know what? Fuck you. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> baked this cake.<br /><br />If you hadn't picked up on it, the crux of my frustration is the possessive "your" in the phrase. If it's MY cake, I can do with it as I please. I can eat it. I can lick it. I can serve it to my imaginary friends. I can throw it in your face. I am willing to bend the literal collection of words to make phrases work ("don't throw the baby out with the bathwater!,"... uh... OK). But there is no metaphoric use of <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span>. It's yours. Or mine. You gave it to me, or I created it myself, in either case... MINE.<br /><br />I submit to you that we throw the baby AND the bathwater out when it comes to, "You can't have your cake and eat it too." Because you know what? If you get between me and my cake, something is getting torn off and I don't mean that in the figurative sense.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-28257416535934372342009-03-02T08:42:00.000-08:002009-03-02T13:49:28.100-08:00I Farted, and Other Current EventsFlowers are blooming, my nose is revolting. I wake up each morning and dutifully squirt Flonase into my nasal cavities. A light floral aroma and tasteless fluid make Flonase quite pleasant to take. But despite what I am certain are well-aimed squirts and well-crafted chemical compounds, my allergies persist. The Flonase is trying as best it can. I feel absolutely fine except for the fact that my nose will <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>stop running. I can work out, go running, and do whatever other physical activity I want. My lungs and throat are clean and clear. Something in the air is causing this ruckus and I have no idea what it might be. I could go in for testing, but that's so... I dunno... <span style="font-style: italic;">efficient</span>. I'd much rather wait until I'm bed-ridden and destitute.<br /><br />One of our dear friends is preggers and ready to pop. We're hosting a baby shower this Saturday. Rather than make it one of those "girlz only" kind of things, the soon-to-be mom wanted it to be a coed event. I think this is a fantastic idea, if nothing else for the fact that we won't be the only men present. You see, being gay embiggens one with all kinds of special qualities. Chief among them is the inclusion to all gatherings feminine: baby showers, candle parties, Tupperware parties, knitting parties, gossip parties, sex parties and tampon parties. Robin and I have been invited to all sorts of these things. I would be lying if I said I didn't appreciate some of them. My first Pampered Chef party had me in such a state that I was squealing at each little gadget and stone pizza slab. We were in college at the time, had no extra money to speak of, yet walked away with a food chopper, thermometer and dry/liquid combo measure.<br /><br />We went to a local Moroccan restaurant last Friday. It specializes in spice-filled Mediterranean cuisine and is absolutely delicious. Their dedication to authenticity is apparent when they bring you warm, damp towels and ask if you would like silverware or not. I ate with my bare hands until the hot goat meatballs came at which point I decided to revert to my Western sensibilities. The main reason for going, however, was not just to sample their foodstuffs, it was to see one of Robin's coworkers belly dance. Regina is, without a doubt, the best belly dancer I have ever seen. Her self-made outfit was bedecked with shiny baubles and stamped pieces of metal. She wafted around the room with a remarkable balance of delicacy and hot ass sex goddess. Every part of her body was dedicated to the performance, her fingers being one of my favorite parts. Rather than keeping them straight and posed in different directions, she allowed them to slither and wave, further enhancing her misty aura. My jaw officially fell on the floor when she took a sabre, turned it so the blade balanced on her head, and continued to move about. Her arms stretched and flowed, her hips jangled, her shoulders rotated, all the while the sabre remained absolutely still. I plan on going again sometime. It's great that the food was yummy and all, but Regina was the highlight.<br /><br />The last month of winter in Oregon sets me on edge. Sick of the dreary weather, I just want to see buds on the trees and color return to the landscape. We are fortunate to live in a place where the diverse array of flora makes the spring season start early. One could argue that crocuses and daffodil are actually late <span style="font-style: italic;">winter</span> plants, but the one arguing such is clearly being argumentative.<br /><br />Grammatical learning of the day: "It's" is <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> a possessive. Ever. OK? "It's" is always used to signify the highly successful and lavish marriage of the words "it" and "is." You might think to yourself, "But I'm describing a quality that 'it' possesses." Something like, "<span style="font-style: italic;">it's</span> flying buttresses." Yes. You are correct that it "has" flying buttresses. Though tempting, the correct usage is <span style="font-style: italic;"> its</span>: The neo-Gothic cathedral and<span style="font-weight: bold;"> its</span> flying buttresses are bitchin' to the max. But if this causes the brain hurts (because in every other case, one uses 's or s' to signify a possessive!) simply circumvent the "its" all together and make possessive the flying buttresses like this: The neo-Gothic <span style="font-style: italic;">cathedral's</span> flying buttresses are totally giving me the shits.<br /><br />I've been wanting to use the word <span style="font-style: italic;">fecund</span> in a sentence so badly! It means a couple of things: 1) Capable of producing offspring, in abundance, prolific, fruitful and 2) Very productive or creative intellectually. It seems forced to do it here, so I'll try to use it in a sentence with one of my coworkers today. Something like, "I rather appreciate the fecund effort you put into this email," or, "The fecund law professor worries less about the quality of his work and more about the rate at which he produced it," or, "My, for a woman in her fifties, you're fecundity is astounding!" I'll let you know how it goes.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-21403990603987836072009-02-19T08:37:00.000-08:002009-02-19T09:11:50.391-08:00Hooray for Child Labor!Ok, ok. I know that my blog has of late been nothing more than pithy commentary with the occasional side dish of snark. It's not my fault! Japan is clearly out of control:<br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=3263721&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=3263721&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/3263721">Baby Mop</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user422681">Chris Milk</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br /><br />First You Can Shave the Baby, now this! What do the Japanese think babies <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span>? Certainly not smaller versions of themselves. This complete de-personification of their young baffles me. The gorier aspect of floor cleaning, namely the use of soap and water, is totally circumvented in the ad. Were this to be a real depiction of Baby Mop, and using a <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> baby instead of what I'm convinced was a jacked up robot baby, here's how it would play out:<br /><br />A young Japanese woman purchases Baby Mop once her child reaches the working-age of three months. After running a bucket of warm, soapy water, she puts the baby in Baby Mop, dunks the child and places the soaking tyke on a dingy floor. The baby begins to wail in protest, not crawling about and not squealing with happiness. The woman scratches her head, rereads the directions and regards the now furious baby. Faced with the decision of a clean floor or a contented baby, the woman fashiones a stick and digs it into the back of her child. Twenty minutes later, she has a clean floor <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a quiet, lifeless young one!Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-56164011133361929492009-02-13T13:39:00.000-08:002009-02-13T13:55:39.960-08:00Dark SidedAs all of you are well aware, I have been sick the last few days. The flu decided to skip an overture and head right into Act II (of VI). My pleas for mercy rang through the halls, but the flu would hear none of them. In my darkest hours, sweat coating the bedsheets and kitty cautiously sniffing and poking my bloated carcass, I needed a savior. I called upon our dear lord to send me an angel, one whom could rid my body of this taint, this putrescence, this unholy contamination. After hearing my prayers, cooking a pancake and watching Gossip Girl, god answered my prayer and placed within me the only being (besides himself, naturally) capable of banishing the evil for good. <br /><br />Thank the holy lord for Marguerite Perrin. I couldn't record what took place within my bowels, but I found footage of Marguerite when she happened upon a show called Trading Spouses. If you simply replace the envelope she mauls with my sickness, the house with my body, and her family with, uh, some bewildered organs, I think you'll understand her powers:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/sA52_bJxcJ4&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/sA52_bJxcJ4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-57267815254017101952009-02-06T08:40:00.001-08:002009-02-06T09:09:02.511-08:00You Can What the WHAT?!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtKuXCOGS3CXH9iwSZxIp2vAsqjXqdb6CiWC3hluDJlk-VMETznCQg2kaKR8GG6PQRUeYP0SRu5TkuVsj1vA3uuxm2edv8Ohn06cmR0Bgu0q6vw2sz3ofPRkUAZAKQm4xJ1Ba4MQ/s1600-h/Shavebaby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtKuXCOGS3CXH9iwSZxIp2vAsqjXqdb6CiWC3hluDJlk-VMETznCQg2kaKR8GG6PQRUeYP0SRu5TkuVsj1vA3uuxm2edv8Ohn06cmR0Bgu0q6vw2sz3ofPRkUAZAKQm4xJ1Ba4MQ/s320/Shavebaby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299725293550999362" border="0" /></a><br />There are so many problems in the world today. Whether it's international terrorism, crumbling economies or civil rights abuse, it seems like everywhere you turn, another devastating event is trying to ruin your day. Right now, somewhere in - oh, let's say Japan - this lovely creature is gracing the shelves of toy stores. Not quite human, not quite satyr, the "you can shave the baby" doll is, in my opinion, a monument to our collective global issues. When the weight of the world presses upon us, we deal with it each in our own way. Some people take vacations. Some people see their therapist. Some take comfort in the kinship of friends and family. For this particular toy maker, s/he thought to deal with it by creating a suckling "human" baby covered in fine, red hair.<br /><br />I keep having to recheck the picture to make sure I'm actually seeing 1) Hair "suspenders" 2) Baby crotch bush the likes of which not even 1970s porn has seen and 3) Round-the-calf hair leg warmer cuff thingys.<br /><br />Just checked again. And again. One more time. OK, so I'm not hallucinating but I'm still pretty sure that thing has evil powers and is poised to attack.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-69474404892857907192009-01-27T15:13:00.000-08:002009-01-27T16:06:35.073-08:00Babycakes!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwcbwPL3Ta37GAdMyo1Q8Uz4Rnvw2rOeRZT6DL2FguKxRnSmJDZbM4ZEvUr-IHs5MTAzTETu4F6BG7BE0xkwXpXqAxCfs7p-H8qUYbyWQtsgF799h2vQrgNOgJQY0FqAjECSJIw/s1600-h/baby+cake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwcbwPL3Ta37GAdMyo1Q8Uz4Rnvw2rOeRZT6DL2FguKxRnSmJDZbM4ZEvUr-IHs5MTAzTETu4F6BG7BE0xkwXpXqAxCfs7p-H8qUYbyWQtsgF799h2vQrgNOgJQY0FqAjECSJIw/s320/baby+cake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296124138555970226" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is not what my mother had in mind when she called my little sister "babycakes." Speaking of little sister, for her 6th birthday she wanted a barbie doll cake. It was just a barbie doll standing through a cake dome decorated to resemble an insanely large and disproportionate-to-barbie's-frame dress. Oh well, at least it was good eats and little sis got to keep the doll.<br /><br />THIS, on the other hand, does not qualify as a doll in a cake. OK, OK, I know it <span style="font-style: italic;">technically</span> qualifies seeing as it is a plastic doll that is baked on its back (WTF, right?) into a pastry. But look at it! I mean, really <span style="font-style: italic;">look at it</span>. It's reaching for freedom only to have its cries of pain go unheard from within the bowels of an industrial refrigerator! Baby-on-back cake is the most sinister and malevolent pastry I have ever seen. And I have seen some evil pastries, people. This abomination is neither cake nor plastic child, rather, a creation from the 9th circle of hell most foul.<br /><br />And can we talk about what it means to serve (or should I say "unearth?") the Baby-on-back cake? The careful and meticulous carving-around-plastic-doll would be entrancing and ritualistic. One would hear ominus latin phrases chanted over and over by "people" in dark robes and veiled faces. The feasting activities revolved around this kind of medieval cruciation would probably best be studied through the eyes of vampires or modern-day Evangelicals. And the ostensible purpose of eating the cake is to reveal the inert, hollow plastic body of a nude baby.<br /><br />That's pretty much all I can say.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-51846761990734735922009-01-26T09:07:00.001-08:002009-01-26T09:26:34.780-08:00What $27.20 in Can/Bottle Returns Looks LikeIt was a very productive weekend on Ventura Avenue. Robin and I spent a considerable amount of time prepping, painting, cleaning and shopping. Our master bath is now fully cleaned, caulked and painted, the hallway is sparkling white and amongst other various cleaning projects, I returned $27.20 worth of cans and bottles to Safeway. Just how many items is that, you ask? Allow me to show you:<br /><br /><br />Junk in the Trunk (four rows, two or three six packs high)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqNDIbWI2580FZtKA64_IHnl2WEOBGopwOZ6zSPmhUHcj4yyzu6O-DcIIk0HMAcP3y8OpYHUvi6ExnYGO2dmFKHaeWtwBEtklavu0vPrFMYzG7WJd70Q9WTPq-eLYwAMmER-JYA/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqNDIbWI2580FZtKA64_IHnl2WEOBGopwOZ6zSPmhUHcj4yyzu6O-DcIIk0HMAcP3y8OpYHUvi6ExnYGO2dmFKHaeWtwBEtklavu0vPrFMYzG7WJd70Q9WTPq-eLYwAMmER-JYA/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295651676887213826" border="0" /><iframe style="display: block;" id="richeditorframe"></iframe></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Backseat Barrage<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2z8ffnQN67qL-YyN5ma7pVb53RjV7lY1a6UP8B7ieOg6r9wBmK1o0t-W9Yxp0wLq94k3DNkgV4btk1kS6fECBfDT-b2zuWjRC7AvSkxoFdtTIIU0VHjM8geXtsbrLNPpOGc4cA/s1600-h/photo(3).jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2z8ffnQN67qL-YyN5ma7pVb53RjV7lY1a6UP8B7ieOg6r9wBmK1o0t-W9Yxp0wLq94k3DNkgV4btk1kS6fECBfDT-b2zuWjRC7AvSkxoFdtTIIU0VHjM8geXtsbrLNPpOGc4cA/s320/photo(3).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295651814230506530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Full-Frontal Front<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4yytMu3c5lqBaIFZwx2bouVEBpNXXqf8f8z1JObvvkV8jy_Hg-YC_Quep9vIczsHJBpfSSoACVGA63DL0G7OK6SXBkcpzQ79pc8-WhcyLg9l1S8iKel6SUielfiTVPBXh3IKDw/s1600-h/photo(2).jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4yytMu3c5lqBaIFZwx2bouVEBpNXXqf8f8z1JObvvkV8jy_Hg-YC_Quep9vIczsHJBpfSSoACVGA63DL0G7OK6SXBkcpzQ79pc8-WhcyLg9l1S8iKel6SUielfiTVPBXh3IKDw/s320/photo(2).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295652407177239154" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Basking in a profound sense of home improvement accomplishery, I wanted to decompress with a Pinot Noir. With my $27, I went to Safeway where they had a terrific wine sale. I saw a row of Benton Lane '07s on sale for $18 (from $28). I didn't want to pay that much for an '07 necessarily, so I wondered if there were any '06s hiding in the back. The Holy Unicorn must have heard my plea because three bottles back sat a sparkling, velvety, luscious Benton Lane '06 Pinot Noir.<br /><br />I returned home, decanted the wine and waited for Robin to finish the final coat of paint in our bathroom. We ended the night laughing at the Fox Sunday lineup, sipping a very fine Pinot and enjoying the visible reward of hard work.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-39768237947455408362009-01-21T11:09:00.000-08:002009-01-21T11:12:58.294-08:00Awwww! Cheer up!I have long been searching for a way to cheer myself up after a rough day. Sometimes I pretend I'm talking to a unicorn, sometimes I pretend I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> a unicorn, and sometimes I pretend to pretend to be being a unicorn. Unfortunately, if I come home with a slew of bad days behind me, the unicorns tire of my mopey attitude. They are, after all, the happiest and most bestest creatures ever. After years of searching, I finally found a way to happy myself up without bothering the unicorns so much:<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ETN1px7i4KY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ETN1px7i4KY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-76502381844112067272009-01-06T13:27:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:28:51.340-08:002008 Redux<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbqOsIbeWE5mWTufL7n1axK7DQ0ApqJKg4e0HxhbolqBG6TaQvA43QBf9VQBOvF2oY5aoAKkaLXt-Jr5PuwjfJSCChAwvPmAGAkXO7M2GJ_5azyzOQERMChDfOTxH3jWRCKO84g/s1600-h/3085290797_237b0bee0b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbqOsIbeWE5mWTufL7n1axK7DQ0ApqJKg4e0HxhbolqBG6TaQvA43QBf9VQBOvF2oY5aoAKkaLXt-Jr5PuwjfJSCChAwvPmAGAkXO7M2GJ_5azyzOQERMChDfOTxH3jWRCKO84g/s320/3085290797_237b0bee0b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288309338366706178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">2009 has crested the horizon and is currently burying us with its 2009-ness. Rather than look forward like everyone else seems to be doing, I will instead heave backwards and rekindle blog posts from 2008. The following will be a melange of paragraphs, a cacophony of sentences, a collage of wit that will surely stun and amaze you. Or if not, you can at least waste a few minutes of your life. Enjoy!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Dr. Lushington proceeded to take off his stethoscope and touch the cold tip to Mrs. Pennywell's blouse. When she shrieked and pushed the good doctor off of her breast, Dr. Lushington tried his best to calm her down, "Mishus Penwel, I'm a profeshnul and I need to take ur breth rate". Mrs. Pennywell was unconvinced that Dr. Lushington's firm grab on her breast with his other hand was an attempt to get anything other than a cheap thrill, so she stormed out of the room.<br /><br />As irritated as I can be, I take comfort (yes, comfort!) in the fact that this is a really good learning process for me. As someone who has a tendency to get emotionally invested and reactive to stimuli ("I love and want THAT house, NOW"), I know that no matter how emotionally invested I get will guarantee anything other than heartburn and indigestion. And so far, science hasn't invented the super strength Pepto that can quell House Hunting Indigestion. I am uncharacteristically calm today. In most cases, even when I know there is nothing I can do, I'm still hacked off and want something to blame. But in hunting for houses, that attitude will only take me down a spiral of irritation, ending in my eventual insanity. The best we can do is keep looking, keep offering, and someday, someway, our huge pile of money will transform into our first home.<br /><br />I awoke Sunday morning to Robin's voice. "Oh my <span style="font-style: italic;">GOD,</span>" he said while leaning off the bed and looking outside. Something about the white glow bathing our room suggested to me that a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">monumental</span> event had occurred. What could it be? A new billboard sign constructed overnight? A unicorn? A nuclear holocaust? (GASP!!) It must be SNOW!!! I peered over the window ledge to see that my suspicions were confirmed. It wasn't just snowing; it was <span style="font-style: italic;">dumping</span>. I consider myself to be up on the latest weather affecting our lovely state, so you can imagine my surprise when I leaned out to see this unbelievable sight when just the night before, the forecast foretold of 37 degrees and rain. It was nowhere near 37 degrees. I was so dumbfounded that I went to our trusty computer to take a look at what the reports were saying (after the tubes warmed up of course). It was actually 27 degrees and the snow had no plans on letting up.<br /><br />And can I just ask? Who the hell answers their phone <span style="font-style: italic;">while</span> dropping a load? <span style="font-style: italic;">Who? </span>Unless you have spectacular ass muscles that could pinch off Niagra Falls like me, you should not be picking up your phone. The doody is <span style="font-style: italic;">going</span> to come out. If you know these people, please inform them that the worst time to answer your phone is in times like these. Other times to be included: during a symphony, during a wedding, or during a funeral. There are probably other inappropriate times but all I have to say is that if I call you and I hear the distinct splashes of your waste plunging into a toilet bowl, you can bet I'm going to hang up. Send me to voice mail and call me back when you're done taking your nasty shit! Dude!<br /><br />Just what makes a country great? And a stretch further, what makes one the greatest? In my opinion, it is not economic might or the powerful war machine. It is that country's ability to uphold each of its citizens' rights and encourage individual freedom. It is that country's ability to adhere to founding principles of justice and equality, regardless of differences in race or culture. I think that in times such as these, when all a minority group wants is equal treatment under the law, the problem doesn't lie with their request. The problem lies in the fact that their basic request exposes the blatant and abhorrent discrimination people take for granted. It is much easier to fight for the way something "has always been" than to open oneself to change. A country stagnated by popular opinion and bloated on a false sense of security is not a great one, it is a deluded one.<br /><br />The barrage of invitations overwhelms me every day. Each morning, my mailbox is absolutely quivering with a slew of new pointless Facebook activities I could add. Every time one of my "friends" adds something super life-changing, the application demands that they invite their "friends" which means me. I repeatedly and seziurously* click "ignore" like a blind man searching for the meaning in his life, but they just keep coming. Eager programmers with far too much time on their hands and a thirst for money are cranking out the applications every day. What's next? The Hunter S. Thompson application where subscribers recruit unsuspecting victims with swarms of bats and ether? The Gravedigger application where new members are tasked with routine cemetery maintenance? The Captain Planet application where subscribers win points for empowering others with the five elements (yes I said five; Heart is totally an element). I'm over this. If I keep going on, no doubt one of you is going to put on your filthy programmer hat and make serious money off one of these suggestions**.<br /><br />*Word I think should exist but doesn't due to the constraints of syntax and the demise of our society brought on by alcoholism and hot gay sex.<br /><br />**I get 20% if you do.<br /><br />For those of you who still keep up with my ramblings, you may have noticed a newcomer in the comments section. Rest assured that April does indeed exist and is in no way a desperate fabrication of mine created to make you think more people read this blog. April is a delicate flower of poise and grace but I wouldn't get into a fight with her because of a certain "colored" history.<br /><br />I feel like the Wicked Witch of the East. I was just minding my own business, lording over hoards of frightened munchkins, contemplating how many I would eat for lunch, when KA-BAM!!! A giant, 1300+ square foot house off 50th and Donald surrounded by gorgeous oak trees and located in the <span style="font-style: italic;">most perfect</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">neighborhood ever</span> fell on top of me.<br /><br />Of course, the above fantasy is not at all how this will shake down (crazy, I know!); It'll be much nastier. Because you see, a proxy fight just isn't a proxy fight without some blood-thirsty, $600/hour attorneys on your side. It just isn't! How sexy is this going to be?! Microsoft attorneys will be like, "Yeah. Yeah we wanna take you over. You like that don't ya?" and the Yahoo sluts will be all, "Ooh, but you're so big Microsoft! We don't think we can take it!" Then Microsoft will flex and be like, "You like my buyout options don't ya? You like it when I give you stock options, don't ya?", and Yahoo will bend over and be all, "Oh yeah! Buy me out! BUY IT ALL OUT!"<br /><br />So if plagiarism exists on a level as fundamental as DNA, how can we even begin to deal with the written word? All the words in this blog and all the words I have ever used weren't invented by me. They were invented by someone else long ago. It's just fortunate that the creator of English didn't have the good sense to copyright all their words. Otherwise we wouldn't speak at all for fear of being sued for copyright infringement. Even though I sat for countless hours at my computer typing paper after paper in college, each one was plagiarized. I borrowed words, used thesauruses, even copied whole sections of a draft and moved them to where they would fit more appropriately!<br /><br />There is a measure of beauty, a standard if you will, to which all other art is compared. I call this standard "Absolute Beauty." If you remember back to 7th Grade science class, Absolute Zero is the temperature at which all molecular movement stops. Similarly, Absolute Beauty is the measure of a piece so profound that no other work will ever be able to compare. The experience of Absolute Beauty is marked by a loss of time, as though everything were standing still, and a deep sense of connectedness and oneness with the universe. So far, science has failed in achieving the modest task of reaching Absolute Zero, but art has not. Art has found its Absolute and words cannot do justice to what you will surely agree is the most stunning display of artistic genius ever in the history of time. As with all great discoveries, these great works of art were found unexpectedly and in an unlikely place - Jerry's Home Improvement Center. Eat your heart out, Louvre:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItAvizzACfs1Gnz3r6NlOnROqfp33ozACFNLtD69dPl87UViIIA3geNKHfyiRmlTReQ06j7TwR0rwKTopZoTaVtjsWVOtMWEcqetEfwjA6DneWmgxT4C7_R6Bp7cNdg0qh9q_6w/s1600-h/photo(3).jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItAvizzACfs1Gnz3r6NlOnROqfp33ozACFNLtD69dPl87UViIIA3geNKHfyiRmlTReQ06j7TwR0rwKTopZoTaVtjsWVOtMWEcqetEfwjA6DneWmgxT4C7_R6Bp7cNdg0qh9q_6w/s320/photo(3).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288301554295866946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Efficient German Moving Model:<br /><br />1. Find place to move<br />2. Mach schnell!<br />3. Lay out time line and indicate when things must be ready to move.<br />4. Arrange for change of mail and cable.<br />5. SCHNELL!<br />6. Call bank, loan companies, family, friends and others who need your new address.<br />7. Email and call your friends to help on moving day. Promise pizza and beer even if there won't be any. Reward those who wonder where their pizza and beer is with a quick kick in the gut. No time for sympathy!<br />8. Goodwill everything you don't need. This is not the time for sentimentality or remorse! If you do not use it any longer, it is of no use to you! Mach schnell!<br />9. Box absolutely everything possible in the weeks that precede the move. The night before, box up everything else.<br />10. MACH. SCHNELL.<br />11. On moving day, have your boxes properly labeled with what area of the new house you want them in along with "light" or "heavy." Anything not labeled with a weight is to be considered of medium weight that the average human can carry! If you cannot carry it, you are not average and therefore may be disposed of!<br />12. Listen to your commanding officers! If they request your help moving or unpacking something, do not hesitate! The system will collapse if you take ONE SECOND to contemplate your action!<span style=""><b><b></b></b></span><br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I understand what the student was trying to say. But if you're going to call yourself a graduate student, at least <span style="font-style: italic;">try</span> and use words correctly. Or if not, go big and use a word that has absolutely no relevance but sounds cool. For instance, they could have said, "I am confident the agenda will be reviewed with laconic mellifluousness."<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AC0sR5_NTFo&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AC0sR5_NTFo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />When mom and dad arrived, they found Satan reading The Hardy Boys: The Search for the Snow Leopard silently in his room. Noticing the new walls, mom said quizzically, "Honey? Why do you have newspaper on your walls?" Satan brightened up and walked excitedly to the nearest wall. "Waddya think? Cool, huh? I thought my walls could use an extra kick!" Satan waited for the inevitable line of questions, the probing, and the eventual persecution once he tearfully explained the real reason for the papered wall. Instead, his parents just gave each other a look and didn't seem to mind. His dad shrugged, "Well, it's something, I'll give you that," and they walked out of the room.<br /><br /><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://widgets.nbc.com/o/4727a250e66f9723/4963d3c6b4bbc7ce/47fbec483e9054a/b2d9626b/-cpid/a7514430ef5664ce" id="W4727a250e66f97234963d3c6b4bbc7ce" width="384" height="283"><param name="movie" value="http://widgets.nbc.com/o/4727a250e66f9723/4963d3c6b4bbc7ce/47fbec483e9054a/b2d9626b/-cpid/a7514430ef5664ce"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="allowNetworking" value="all"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></object><br /><br />But enough with all that. It's great that the Kentucky Colonels have broadened their organization to include women, black people and popes, but let's cut the shit. The real purpose of being a colonel is to behave in the manner I described above - to watch people tend my crops and say "suh" to everyone. For this weekend, that is the stereotype from which I will draw my mannerisms and verbiage.<br /><br />Maybe the 200th post is about something after all. If I stand for anything, it is the wish that each person can freely express themselves, THEIR LOVE INCLUDED, provided such expression doesn't bring harm to others. And don't try to play the "mental harm" card when you see two dudes necking. If you're mentally hurt by two people in love, you have way, waaaaayyyy more issues than I can even go into. It's called therapy and it totally works.<br /><br />So, when someone says, "I know, right?," what they are doing is validating with personal knowledge and adding a half-assed objective validation based on what they think <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> be objective knowledge. "Dude. Croissants are the best invention ever!," says a well-informed gentleman to his friend who replies, "I know, right?" Both of them agree that croissants are the best invention ever, but frankly, it should be objective FACT that croissants are the best invention ever. However, croissants have not yet been <span style="font-style: italic;">objectively</span> proven to be the best invention ever, and because the well-informed gentlemen and his friend wouldn't want to come off as pretentiously all-knowing (right though they are), they use "I know, right?," to soften the blow.<br /><br />This past weekend, we celebrated our nation's liberation from those sissy Brits by camping, drinking, swimming and overall shenanniganing in the woods. We were joined by Eric, Chandra and Bryan on Friday afternoon and they stayed through Saturday afternoon. Saturday night, however, was when the party really got started. And by "really got started," I mean we all got naked around the fire and played a rousing game of Slap Ass and had what was indeed a Sexy Party. Both Sara and I forgot our cribbage board, which could have ended in a vicious smiting by the hands of the Cribbage Gods, but instead we drew a nice board in the CLOG and thus appeased their unbridled aggression.<br /><br /><span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua;">18. Have you ever hit a parked car and failed to leave a note?<br /><br />If by "parked car" you mean "child" and by "leave a note" you mean "stuffed their lifeless body into my trunk with considerable difficulty," then no I haven't failed.<br /><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua;">22. Do you believe in the death sentence?<br /><br />Well, plenty of people have said "I'm gonna KILL YOU," and so far it hasn't happened, so no. I don't believe in it.<br /><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua;">23. Do you believe in Santa?<br /><br />You mean that bloated, half-drunk, red-nosed dude who wears a ridiculous outfit and talks to reindeer? We just call him Grandpa.<br /><br /></span></span>I've all but given up hope that the world will ever care about grammar as much as I do. It's all I can do to keep from flipping out every time someone uses "too" instead of "to." But this, THIS is just blatant disregard for everything sane and pure in this world.<br /><br />Our dear friend and his roommate had a housewarming party last weekend. I celebrated by taking a burning log out of the fire and setting it on the couch to see what would happen. When all it did was melt the polyester material and create an unbearable odor, I grated my teeth in frustration. I grabbed another flaming log to set on the couch, but first I doused the couch in lighter fluid and ammonia. The results were much more entertaining. The hazmat teams had to fumigate the surrounding five blocks!<br /><br />Sadly, another week passed and seen the close of Paris Fashion Week. I don't know why I like fashion as much as I do, particularly considering the fact that I'll <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> pay that much for clothing, but I find it fascinating as an art form. It is therefore no wonder that I'm drawn to artists whose clothes are completely unwearable, impractical and outrageous. I enjoy the artists who aren't trying to actually sell their clothes, but rather present some kind of experience. Of course, there are all sorts of art and all sorts of <span style="font-style: italic;">wearable</span> collections that one can easily argue are presenting an experience. For me, however, if I'm not shocked, I get bored very quickly. But for all the glamour and colour and loveliness that are the European designers best offerings, none of them can compare to the one true fashion icon: Queen Elizabeth. 'Cuz bitch knew how to rock a collar.<br /><br />Robin and I were on one of our excursions to Costco in the end of August this year. We walked through the entrance, past the electronics and my eyes set upon a sight so horrifying, so inappropriate, so vile that I immediately gagged. Gleaming before me, fifty feet away, was a display of LED Christmas trees, er <span style="font-style: italic;">holiday</span> trees, blinking and gyrating atop metal shelves. One was all white while the others were various colors. Each more offensive than the last, they all had their own special way of evoking from me cringes of disgust.<br /><br />So there you have it. Three weeks ago I'm in surgery for Meckel's Diverticulum and this Thursday, I'll be getting all four of my wisdom teeth out. I'm very thankful to be working in a flexible environment and have enough time off saved up to deal with all this craziness. I'll even have enough vacation time to take the last two weeks of December off. So wish me luck and sacrifice a goat in the hopes that the rest of my body parts decide to stick around for a bit longer.<br /><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1" width="480" height="360"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value="true"><param name="movie" quality="best" value="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" allowscriptaccess="always" width="480" height="360"></embed></object><div style="padding: 5px 0pt; text-align: center; width: 480px;">See more <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/videos">funny videos</a> and <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/pictures">funny pictures</a> at <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/">CollegeHumor</a>.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua;"><br /><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua;"><br /><br /></span></span>Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-44014382950219295102008-12-19T09:06:00.001-08:002008-12-19T09:16:07.060-08:00Need a Little Help HereJust what in the bajeezus is happening? Is she alright? What is <span style="font-style: italic;">up </span>with her face? Is this what ladies do when they reach a certain age? What, exactly, is she exercising?<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pvy_uJxJ_-g&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pvy_uJxJ_-g&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-32332284607164228372008-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:002008-12-17T09:21:57.435-08:00Winter SparkleIt is a rare thing indeed to receive snow in the Willamette Valley. However, on Sunday night we were treated to several hefty inches and sub-zero high temperatures. Those temperatures are lasting which means the snow and ice is too.<br /><br />On Monday, our local mass transit system basically shut down. I got up at the regular time, expecting to be met with a shuttle that would take me to the nearest station where buses could pick me up. I waited for a good ten minutes before an official looking vehicle approached, but not to pick me up. Instead, they told me that a bus had <span style="font-style: italic;">tried<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>to make it up the hill but had instead gone sideways and was completely blocking the street a ways down the road. At that point, they said not even shuttles were coming up so just go home and stay warm. I texted my boss and told her as much.<br /><br />Around 10am, my boss called and said she was able to catch a bus 15 blocks from my house (near hers). I bundled up and headed out. Working my way down the frozen street, I passed several elated children, one of whom asked whether I was having a snow day like her. I chuckled and said that I was going to work and she produced an incredible look of pity. Why <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> I trying to go to work anyway? The weather was absolutely horrible. The chances of me slipping and breaking something were quite high, but nonetheless I persevered. I made it to the point where my boss was picked up. Rather than a shuttle, I was again met with the same official vehicle who again said a bus had slid and blocked traffic. It wasn't my boss's bus, thankfully. I inquired about the shuttle and was again told that the road was blocked, but hopefully in an hour or so it would be clear. This was at 1pm. I headed back home.<br /><br />Robin and I spent the cold afternoon bundled up and watching TV. Kitty was curled and purring loudly in my lap. We watched people go for walks and take sleds down the street. It was a wonderful sight indeed.<br /><br />We didn't get any new snow overnight, so I rose early to see if the buses were running normally again. They weren't, but I was confident the shuttle system must at least be going more smoothly. I set out early with the intention of making it to the station from which buses were running. It's a good 45 minute walk from my house. This was the same station to which shuttles were ferrying riders. When I left it was 10 degrees outside. The air stung my ears and nose like it never had. I couldn't remember the last time I was in this kind of cold; including ski trips to Mt. Hood. I kept an eye out for the shuttle on my brisk morning walk. I also kept an eye for buses, on the freak chance they chained up and dared to climb the hills.<br /><br />It was a good thing I didn't rely on the shuttle system as on my entire walk I didn't see <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span>, yet I passed many people waiting for it. At one stop, a guy said, "Looking for the shuttle?," I said, "Yep, but after yesterday I'm not trusting it. I'm walking to the station." He paused for a few seconds before saying glumly, "I've been waiting for thirty minutes. How far is the station from here?" I told him it was another twenty minute walk and he stood there kicking the snow. After a few blocks I glanced behind me to see him follow suit.<br /><br />The walk out of our hills isn't treacherous at all, considering a nice path winds gently down and between the steep inclines. The only thing preventing a successful decent would be the inch thick ice under foot, but I took it easy and kept my eyes towards the ground. Many blocks from the house, the path spills into one of our local parks. I walked under ice-covered branches and into a field where the sun was just cresting a hill. The entire city was lit up and sparkling like I had never seen before. The sky was a piercing blue, almost swallowing the umber tinge of morning sunlight. I stopped for a moment, opened my mouth and breathed deeply. The breath was short-lived, as my body reacted with a hearty cough thanks to the 10 degree air. I laughed at my stupidity, as breathing that deeply should probably be done through the nose considering the temperature. I looked around and smiled at the gleaming landscape. I picked up my feet and began moving straight across a field, happily crunching through snow.<br /><br />I am very, very glad of my decision to walk through this weather and into a waiting, warm bus. Mid-western friends of mine often regale me with stories of bracing cold and unforgiving amounts of snow. But here in Oregon, when we're lucky enough to get snow, it isn't often that it sticks around. I'll settle for the cold in order to have a morning walk like that. In fact, I plan on doing it again tomorrow.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">ADDENDUM:</span> When I was dropped off at the station after work, I expected the shuttles to ferry me close to home. In fact, our local transit system had provided only two 7-person vans to accomplish this task, and there were at least twenty people waiting for them. When they pulled up, I was cut off by a young lady who pretended not to hear my protest as she buckled in. The drivers told us it would be another 30 to 45 minutes before they returned. I promptly put in my earphones and began the walk home. While I still enjoyed the icy cold weather, walking in the dark on ice isn't the best thing one should do. But hey! Maybe I could fall and shatter my elbow or something. Only two more surgeries to go before I get down to my goal weight!!Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-41145876033815711152008-12-06T09:57:00.000-08:002008-12-06T09:59:54.651-08:00I Am Not a Crook<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtPg8GLE-vi-IZrbpqY4JnbvEpjTanBvA4bIC_vZYEdoGhKRql45cEOYUcOqt9wkJ7vnyWLDXtXzlqm_JzGYua9IEhrOBD3jSDNru8V6G3nOz6mSk4iBRCXudhjlBNQmLeIld1A/s1600-h/3085290797_237b0bee0b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtPg8GLE-vi-IZrbpqY4JnbvEpjTanBvA4bIC_vZYEdoGhKRql45cEOYUcOqt9wkJ7vnyWLDXtXzlqm_JzGYua9IEhrOBD3jSDNru8V6G3nOz6mSk4iBRCXudhjlBNQmLeIld1A/s320/3085290797_237b0bee0b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276738152642069346" border="0" /></a><br />Nobody told me a side effect of having one's impacted wisdom teeth removed was turning into Richard Nixon.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-72273935483700085032008-12-01T15:22:00.001-08:002008-12-01T15:23:13.589-08:00My Assumption, Three Weeks AgoHere's exactly the precise thing I was thinking three weeks ago in the movie theater:<br /><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1" width="480" height="360" ><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value="true"/><param name="movie" quality="best" value="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1"/><embed src="http://www.collegehumor.com/moogaloop/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1791484&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="480" height="360" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object><div style="padding:5px 0; text-align:center; width:480px;">See more <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/videos">funny videos</a> and <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/pictures">funny pictures</a> at <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/">CollegeHumor</a>.</div>Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-23614760258306830852008-12-01T12:33:00.000-08:002008-12-01T13:07:38.083-08:00A Body, PerturbedThree weeks ago, Robin and I went with some friends to catch the new James Bond flick. As the movie (or should I say 25,000 hours of previews) began, I felt a rather painful rumble in my abdomen. Assuming it was just a bad case of indigestion, I went to the restroom. The sensation never went away, but I assumed it would eventually as everything turned out fine in the stall. Ten minutes later, not only was the pain worse, but I was sweating and clutching at my face trying to distract myself from my bowels which now felt as though shards of glass were making their way through me. That couldn't make sense, as I had only eaten the shards of glass fifteen minutes prior; surely they wouldn't be out of my stomach yet.<br /><br />I returned to the bathroom and when I wasn't back in a reasonable period of time, Robin came to find me doubled over and crying from the pain. I needed to go somewhere, that much was obvious. We left and sat in the car while Robin called my mom who happens to be a nurse. She listened as I described exactly what the pain felt like, where it was emanating from and cross-referenced it on the interwebs. She was stumped and during the period of leaving the bathroom stall and sitting in the car, I became very frightened. The pain "moved" from my head to my body, where I was terrified at what might be happening to me. I could no longer rationalize it, I could only try and shift around so that it didn't hurt as badly, which never really worked. Robin took me to urgent care.<br /><br />It was late at night and the place was deserted. They quickly checked me in, took my vitals and got me on pain medication. The medication they were using is called Dilaudid, ten times more powerful than morphine. It took them five doses to get me to the point where I could lay down long enough for a CT scan. It took another three to make the pain berable. It was clear that I needed to stay in the hospital while they further looked into what might be bothering me.<br /><br />I woke up the next morning in pain. They had given me control of my own medication, as calling the nurse every ten minutes for more Dilaudid wasn't exactly a good use of their time. The on-call surgeon was stumped and kept saying things like, "Well, we might just have to get in there and look around." What he meant was cutting a huge incision across my mid section and peering into my angry insides. However, the first CT scan didn't reveal much and the surgeon thought a second one would be prudent, this time with my insides color-contrasted. I drank a concoction what tasted like Maalox and Sulfur. It was putrid, but I downed it quickly. Thankfully, the second scan revealed a blockage they would soon find to be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meckel%27s_Diverticulum">Meckel's Diverticulum</a>. Rather than a large incision wound to deal with, I was extremely greatful to hear that they could perform laparoscopic surgery.<br /><br />After several days in the hospital and a week at home recovering, I returned to work last week looking forward to the Thanksgiving holiday. We went to Robin's family's house and I was cleared to eat all manner of food (which I did). The next day, on Black Friday, we had the good sense to go shopping like completely sane individuals who aren't crazy at all ever. It turned out that despite the insanely packed parking lots, the shopping centers were managable and we actually got some incredible deals. Since I had been on pain medication until earlier that week, I barely noticed my jaw pain from the wisdom teeth. After Thanksgiving, however, that started up again.<br /><br />I had run out of my pain pill prescription from the dentist and called to have it refilled. While on the phone with them, they were worried that I was still having pain and wanted me to come in to look around. Fortunately, they had an open slot while we were running around shopping. I have no cavities, infections or otherwise, so during the visit, the dentist pressed upon my gums and as I winced, said, "Yep, I can see that hurts." My scheduled appointment for the wisdom teeth removal was on the 22nd of January. The dentist reiterated that being on pain medication for that long really wasn't the best idea. That was about the 3,000th time I heard someone tell me that, and every time, my response was the same: "I realize that, but I'm not the one with the scheduling problem. YOU were the ones that scheduled me for January." This time, however, I was a bit more forceful, saying, "Look. I realize this. It is not my wish to keep taking pain medication for dental pain, but I don't know what else to say. You tell me you realize that I'm in a lot of pain, can plainly see as much from my X-Rays, yet you shrug and say, 'see you in January?'"<br /><br />The dentist paused. "Let me see what I can do," he said while standing and walking away. He came back a couple minutes later with a smile, "How is next Thursday for you?" I felt relieved and told him that would be fine. We went over pre-operation procedures and the medication I'll be taking. I explained my recent surgery and told him I had anesthesia. Since I won't be going under for the teeth extraction, that wouldn't be a problem.<br /><br />So there you have it. Three weeks ago I'm in surgery for Meckel's Diverticulum and this Thursday, I'll be getting all four of my wisdom teeth out. I'm very thankful to be working in a flexible environment and have enough time off saved up to deal with all this craziness. I'll even have enough vacation time to take the last two weeks of December off. So wish me luck and sacrifice a goat in the hopes that the rest of my body parts decide to stick around for a bit longer.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-91595347442305602142008-11-12T19:21:00.000-08:002008-11-12T20:05:17.095-08:00Happy 4th of Ju... CHRISTMAS!!!The holiday shopping season is heavily upon us. Every year, merchants of all types push the date at which they begin holiday sales, holiday advertisements and holiday ritual sacrifices back further. I, for one, was raised in a family that eschewed celebrating anything Christmas or December-related until <span style="font-style: italic;">after</span> Thanksgiving. How times have changed.<br /><br />Robin and I were on one of our excursions to Costco in the end of August this year. We walked through the entrance, past the electronics and my eyes set upon a sight so horrifying, so inappropriate, so vile that I immediately gagged. Gleaming before me, fifty feet away, was a display of LED Christmas trees, er <span style="font-style: italic;">holiday</span> trees, blinking and gyrating atop metal shelves. One was all white while the others were various colors. Each more offensive than the last, they all had their own special way of evoking from me cringes of disgust.<br /><br />The first tree was a ridiculous attempt at a regular green plastic tree. It was ridiculous insofar as it was obviously plastic in the first place, but then they sprayed it with white, um, "stuff" to make it look even worse. The people responsible for setting this thing up didn't take the time necessary to fluff out the limbs to at least give it the illusion of reality. I've seen the process of setting up a plastic tree and it can be summed up quite easily - sucks a big fatty. Each limb has to be carefully locked on, fluffed and rubbed in order for the "spines" to stand up-ish and not look like it had been sitting in a box 345 days out of the year. It never really works, even with hours of obsessive prodding and pulling. What got me, however, was the "snow." It weighed down the limbs so the tree had this effect of being droopy and pathetic while also being plastic. I suppose I should enlighten you to the Equation of Plastic Christmas Trees: (Plastic + Droopy) x "Snow" = Fail<br /><br />The second tree was a cascading set of seven concentric rings, each a bit larger than the last. Around each ring were 3" plastic balls within which twittered a red, green, and blue LED. The sparseness of the tree was what offended me the most. In fact, it was only recognizable as a tree insofar as it was positioned next to other, more effectively-looking Christmas trees. The plastic balls were several inches away from each other, and the rings upon which they sat were connected by electric wires supplying the fabulous globes with absolutely necessary power. The visual abortion was soon joined by audible murder as the tree spewed loud electronic Christmas music, from Jingle Bells to Deck the Halls. The epileptic-inducing light display was a lawsuit waiting to happen. I could barely concentrate after looking at it and ten minutes later, blood started dripping from my nose.<br /><br />The final tree was what I imagine a 37-year old child might design. It was a painfully sappy plastic thing which twinkled and sparkled for miles. In contrast to the second tree, this one was thick with decorations. Little houses, people, snowflakes, nutcrackers, candy canes, snowmen and baubles were hot glued on, and in most cases not very well. Some were crooked, nearly upside-down, and almost all of them had expressions. I'm sorry, I'm pluralizing "expression" when indeed there was only one: shit eating grin. There was a slight variance in that some had teeth while others did not. When taking a step back, one saw that the tree radiated a severly insane aura. The person who designed this thing lives in a house/world/reality where it's Christmas every day of the year. And should you point out to them the fact that it isn't really Christmas every day of the year, they would strangle you with a string of lights and eat your still-warm body garnished with mistletoe and shards of broken ornaments.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-83375169219677159182008-10-29T08:44:00.000-07:002008-10-29T08:58:01.044-07:00Spockolantern<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiAFAoBc9Itfd7CQZpapHdH0F6QDYhBvl-TF_k7wX_Pza-VYBY6pX3uQ7x5JG-kjjdDtxnjA-Xu3oKGLm9WUQCO8ZBYd8lIO_PpbX_ksjl8r0fGBy_4DiOk_GAh9PSmiakTc9NA/s1600-h/2980637414_9e4841d1d1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiAFAoBc9Itfd7CQZpapHdH0F6QDYhBvl-TF_k7wX_Pza-VYBY6pX3uQ7x5JG-kjjdDtxnjA-Xu3oKGLm9WUQCO8ZBYd8lIO_PpbX_ksjl8r0fGBy_4DiOk_GAh9PSmiakTc9NA/s320/2980637414_9e4841d1d1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262602716287483666" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Robin and I set out to carve a pumpkin this year. Last week, Robin went with Doug and James to the pumpkin patch at one of our local farms. He picked up a really nice one, with one side almost flat to make for perfect carving. I have never done something so elaborate to a pumpkin before, not including the time I turned one into a space portal. But that required lots of enriched uranium and diodes and electrodes and yourmomatrodes so this is the most elaborate thing I've done with<span style="font-style: italic;"> just a knife</span> to a pumpkin. In fact! The "knife" Robin got is actually this very thin thing with two serrated edges; one with finer teeth than the other. It made the detail work needed to carve Spock's visage into a squash quite easy, if not a bit tedious. I did the hair, arguably the most important and hardest part to do. In fact, I think I'm going to win an award given to me by myself that has a trophy and everything for "Person Who MADE That Pumpkin Work, Y'all." We had so much fun scooping out the seeds which Robin turned into tasty roasted nibbles. Inspired by our pumpkin carving skillz, my plan for next year is to create a "pumpkinscape," like a tablescape only not so fucking lame. We'll need about $950 with which to buy the necessary pumpkins, 150+ hours of time for carving, and dozens of candles for the final product. But seriously, could there be any greater display of carved pumkinry than the entire cast of The Office, 30 Rock and Lost all together?Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-10942608251670548292008-10-23T10:04:00.000-07:002008-10-23T10:47:58.532-07:00Things, The Copout PostFall is falling in the Northwest. We have been very fortunate this year, as summer gave way to crisp, sunny days full of deep reds, yellows, greens and umber(s?). I love this time of year in Oregon, provided it doesn't rain, stays above 35 degrees, is sunny, the leaves turn slowly and fall gradually, and I get free stuff. People call me picky and I still have no idea why.<br /><br />Here's a picture of a baby hedgehog!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfVHz_DGjlRtvzb9ekuDUZl_g5NIz_YyMGcxVSkqFWH5jGivAAJEaLt1FJvaqVvxHUY1z5vXWvLjN3zg3I0bnKn14VhsZvHCh6ZEUuzdpN8lJRSaw1E6w3CDkQsF0XI0gmgBdSA/s1600-h/hedgehog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfVHz_DGjlRtvzb9ekuDUZl_g5NIz_YyMGcxVSkqFWH5jGivAAJEaLt1FJvaqVvxHUY1z5vXWvLjN3zg3I0bnKn14VhsZvHCh6ZEUuzdpN8lJRSaw1E6w3CDkQsF0XI0gmgBdSA/s320/hedgehog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260398367886436274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My sister's wedding is on Saturday. For some reason, I haven't allowed myself to soak in the reality that is my little sister getting married. It's not as if I didn't expect this day to come or that I'm not extremely happy for her. She and her fiancé are both talented, bright, wonderful individuals for whom I have a great deal of pride and respect. They have had several events leading up to their wedding (couples shower, co-bachelor/ette party, etc.), I'm a groomsman, I'm picking up my tux today and will have rehearsal tomorrow. Yet still, I can tell that my emotions are waiting until my sister turns the corner, is wearing what I know will be a gorgeous dress, is radiating intense beauty and love and I, like the sap that I truly am, lose it in front of everyone. I'm taking tomorrow off in order to help The Mommy with preparations. She is currently at DEFCON 5 and will undoubtedly make it (somehow) to DEFCON 7 by Saturday.<br /><br />After Bonnie and Bryan's wedding, Robin and I are high-tailin' it up to McMinville where one of our very best friends Angelene and her fiancé Bruce are also getting married that evening. We'll only be there for the reception/party, but we have our hotel booked and are very much looking forward to a racuous good time with all our friends. It's funny how wedding weekends seem to get booked doubly for us. Sami and Tim got married on the same day as Clint and Missy. My sister's and Angelene's weddings are the same day. What next, universe? April and Steve get non-married the same day Robin and I get gay married? I should hope not, seeing as we are people who would never seek to one-up the other by planning such a special event on the same day. But if they try, April and Steve are in for a rude awakening. I'll get gay married at 12:00am in order to best them. Yeah, I said it!<br /><br />Work has been unusually soul crushing of late. We're hiring for two positions and have a flurry of applicants in various states of hire. Early this week we had the in-person interviews for one of our positions. The other position is in the process of getting phone interviews scheduled. Added to this are the new applicants for the Law school in general, who get a personal guided tour of our library during their visit. I have to complete all my regular work while making small talk with people I don't know and who may not even be hired. But when I need a break, I shut my office door and gaze out my floor-to-ceiling windows upon the brightly lit Hendrick's Park hill in all its fall splendor. SIGH. (Life is going to repay such flagrancy with an office in the basement with four foot ceilings at my next place of work. I just know it.)<br /><br />Our dear friend and his roommate had a housewarming party last weekend. I celebrated by taking a burning log out of the fire and setting it on the couch to see what would happen. When all it did was melt the polyester material and create an unbearable odor, I grated my teeth in frustration. I grabbed another flaming log to set on the couch, but first I doused the couch in lighter fluid and ammonia. The results were much more entertaining. The hazmat teams had to fumigate the surrounding five blocks!<br /><br />And now, a deep thought for the day:<br />If a kid ever asks how Santa Claus lives forever, I think a good answer is that he drinks blood.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176133.post-5679722257727805302008-10-13T09:31:00.000-07:002008-10-13T10:30:50.194-07:00Mah TeefsI apologize in advance to all those who have already heard of my recent mouth drama. This post is intended for the billions of readers who have not been informed.<br /><br />For the past eight years, I didn't have dental insurance. Before that, I was covered on my parent's insurance and therefore didn't have to think about things like money that one has to pay for getting one's teeth attended to by professionals. Ignorance is bliss. Since I took my new job over a year ago, my dearest Robin has been urging me to see a dentist for a check-up and cleaning if nothing else. Last Monday, I went in to have a cleaning, X-Rays taken and wound up getting a clear bill of teethular health! They remarked on how fortunate it was that in those eight years I developed zero cavities and all they needed to do was re-seal the deep grooves in my molars to prevent cavities from ever occurring.<br /><br />However.<br /><br />Over the last few months, a steady but increasingly painful sensation has developed along my lower left row of teeth. It feels as though the roots of my teeth are being mashed together, but I was writing it off as growing pains. After my cleaning, it was time for the good doctor to check the dental assistant's work and discuss my X-Rays. After a thumbs up to the assistant on the cleaning, she put the X-Ray sheet up to a lit board and said immediately, "Are you alright? Are you in a lot of pain?" My view of the X-Ray was covered by a concerned look on her masked face and I said, "Well, yeah a little, but it's not <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> bad." She moved to the side in order that I could see the eerie photo. I gave a start. My wisdom tooth on the lower left was growing perpendicular to my teeth. Not only was it coming straight on like an enamel torpedo, it was already touching the farthest molar. The roots of my molars and other teeth are actually bending away from where they started, being shoved inward by a power-hungry, <span class="dicColor">egomaniacal</span> "wisdom" tooth. I looked at the rest of my mutant jaw and saw the other wisdom teeth were in similar states of tyranny. The one on my upper left was growing into my jawbone; soon to be impacted. The upper right was growing out at an angle, setting up to invade the Land of Cheek. The lower right was a mirror image of the lower left, but farther away from my back molar.<br /><br />"You need to get these out, pronto," she said with urgency, "if you're not in a lot of pain right now, you will be soon I promise you that."<br /><br />I left the appointment with a prescription for pain medication, another appointment to get my sealants done (last Wednesday; it was successful) and a consultation with the oral surgeon on November 10th. At some point next month, I will be having all of my wisdom teeth taken out at once.<br /><br />So until that time, if I happen to be eating with you and you see me rubbing my jaw occasionally, it's because of, uh, my teeth. Yes, teeth.Infused Confusionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15446313739174281857noreply@blogger.com3