Me & The Horse I Rode In On

La Luna

2010-11-19T10:39:00.000-08:00

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.

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 all four paws. Robin and I chatted for a time and on the car ride home, realized that Luna was going to be our kitty.

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.

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.

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.

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 bad. 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, shoved my hand out of the way, 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.

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 pawing at his pizza. "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.

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 not her favorite. From then on, the most she would try to do was bolt onto our front landing and sniff around.

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 did have the best cat ever. Luna was like no cat we've ever known, both in appearance and personality.

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.

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.

I love you so much, my little Luna. Rest peacefully.

Until our souls meet again...

Everybody Poops

2010-09-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

1) 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.

2) The Hasty: You have no time. You're already late for work. There is no way 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]. That's IT?! Where's the rest? THAT'S what you're late for?? AHHHHHHH!!

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.

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.

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.

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? YES! OH MY, THE WATER IS LOVELY TODAY! AREN'T YOU JEALOUS OF YOUR EXCREMENT? THEY LOOK TO BE HAVING A LOVELY REUNION DOWN THERE! A JOYOUS REUNION OF POOPERY!!" 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".

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.

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. Are 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 sure of it!... Right?

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.

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.

Sarah Palin

2010-09-02T15:07:00.001-07:00

For 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:

(Don't stare directly into its eyes)

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.

In Sarah's case, the 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 will steal your breath) landscape.

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.

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 she 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.

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 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.

Why, Hello There

2010-08-24T16:18:00.000-07:00

It 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!

I turned 30 in June. Like most birthdays, I didn't actually feel 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:

(You almost killed yourself turning 30! Great job.)

One of my very favorite new games is called Russian Roulette. No, not that 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:

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 must do it.

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:

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.

(The Good Sir Reginald as Angelo, The Pegasus Who Fell. NOT A TRUE UNICORN.)

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.

Meet Claudette!

2009-04-02T13:58:00.001-07:00

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 anywhere 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.

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 only 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 far and you know that!

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.

How dare you, Claudette. How.... DARE you.

Des Choses Intéressantes

2009-04-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

(Translation: "interesting things")

(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.)

People are going ape shit 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 department store clothes 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 not look like the slightly more dressed-up version of a Fly Girl backup dancer, you won.

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, that 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.

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.

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.

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.

FOOOOOOORE!!!

2009-03-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

I have never enjoyed the game of golf. Some may bristle at my use of the word game when, according to them, it is in fact a sport. 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.

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 so great, in fact, that the makers of Uroclub invented a giant pee stick disguised as a nine iron.

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 brag, 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?

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.

But... But Why?

2009-03-03T09:29:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

Cake, in the phrase, is of course a metaphor. "Cake" refers to that which you want 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.

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 monster 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 can't eat it. But it is yours. I'm giving it to you." 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 can't eat it." You know what? Fuck you. I baked this cake.

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 your. It's yours. Or mine. You gave it to me, or I created it myself, in either case... MINE.

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.

I Farted, and Other Current Events

2009-03-02T08:42:00.000-08:00

Flowers 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 not 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... efficient. I'd much rather wait until I'm bed-ridden and destitute.

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.

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.

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 winter plants, but the one arguing such is clearly being argumentative.

Grammatical learning of the day: "It's" is never 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, "it's flying buttresses." Yes. You are correct that it "has" flying buttresses. Though tempting, the correct usage is its: The neo-Gothic cathedral and its 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 cathedral's flying buttresses are totally giving me the shits.

I've been wanting to use the word fecund 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.

Hooray for Child Labor!

2009-02-19T08:37:00.000-08:00

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:

Baby Mop from Chris Milk on Vimeo.

First You Can Shave the Baby, now this! What do the Japanese think babies are? 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 real baby instead of what I'm convinced was a jacked up robot baby, here's how it would play out:

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 and a quiet, lifeless young one!

Dark Sided

2009-02-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

As 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.

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:

You Can What the WHAT?!

2009-02-06T08:40:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

Babycakes!

2009-01-27T15:13:00.000-08:00

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.

THIS, on the other hand, does not qualify as a doll in a cake. OK, OK, I know it technically 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 look at it. 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.

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.

That's pretty much all I can say.

What $27.20 in Can/Bottle Returns Looks Like

2009-01-26T09:07:00.001-08:00

It 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:

Junk in the Trunk (four rows, two or three six packs high)

Backseat Barrage

Full-Frontal Front

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.

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.

Awwww! Cheer up!

2009-01-21T11:09:00.000-08:00

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 am 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:

2008 Redux

2009-01-06T13:27:00.000-08:00

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!

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.

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.

I awoke Sunday morning to Robin's voice. "Oh my GOD," he said while leaning off the bed and looking outside. Something about the white glow bathing our room suggested to me that a monumental 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 dumping. 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.

And can I just ask? Who the hell answers their phone while dropping a load? Who? 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 going 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!

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.

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**.

*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.

**I get 20% if you do.

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.

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 most perfect neighborhood ever fell on top of me.

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!"

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!

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:

The Efficient German Moving Model:

1. Find place to move
2. Mach schnell!
3. Lay out time line and indicate when things must be ready to move.
4. Arrange for change of mail and cable.
5. SCHNELL!
6. Call bank, loan companies, family, friends and others who need your new address.
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!
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!
9. Box absolutely everything possible in the weeks that precede the move. The night before, box up everything else.
10. MACH. SCHNELL.
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!
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!

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 try 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."

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.

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.

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.

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 should 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 objectively 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.

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.

18. Have you ever hit a parked car and failed to leave a note?

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.

22. Do you believe in the death sentence?

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.

23. Do you believe in Santa?

You mean that bloated, half-drunk, red-nosed dude who wears a ridiculous outfit and talks to reindeer? We just call him Grandpa.

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.

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!

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 never 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 wearable 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.

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 holiday 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.

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.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Need a Little Help Here

2008-12-19T09:06:00.001-08:00

Just what in the bajeezus is happening? Is she alright? What is up with her face? Is this what ladies do when they reach a certain age? What, exactly, is she exercising?

Winter Sparkle

2008-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

It 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.

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 tried 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.

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 was 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.

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.

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.

It was a good thing I didn't rely on the shuttle system as on my entire walk I didn't see one, 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.

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.

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.

ADDENDUM: 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!!

I Am Not a Crook

2008-12-06T09:57:00.000-08:00

Nobody told me a side effect of having one's impacted wisdom teeth removed was turning into Richard Nixon.

My Assumption, Three Weeks Ago

2008-12-01T15:22:00.001-08:00

Here's exactly the precise thing I was thinking three weeks ago in the movie theater:

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

A Body, Perturbed

2008-12-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

Three 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.

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.

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.

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 Meckel's Diverticulum. Rather than a large incision wound to deal with, I was extremely greatful to hear that they could perform laparoscopic surgery.

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.

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?'"

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.

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.

Happy 4th of Ju... CHRISTMAS!!!

2008-11-12T19:21:00.000-08:00

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 after Thanksgiving. How times have changed.

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 holiday 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.

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

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.

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.

Spockolantern

2008-10-29T08:44:00.000-07:00

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 just a knife 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?

Things, The Copout Post

2008-10-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

Fall 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.

Here's a picture of a baby hedgehog!

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.

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!

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.)

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!

And now, a deep thought for the day:
If a kid ever asks how Santa Claus lives forever, I think a good answer is that he drinks blood.

Mah Teefs

2008-10-13T09:31:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

However.

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 that 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, egomaniacal "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.

"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."

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.

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.

Yeah. Gay Friend. Right.

2008-10-08T15:14:00.000-07:00

OK, now she's just pissing me off:

She's not going to judge, but thinks it's a choice. For people like Sarah Palin, choices are relatively simple to understand; either they are "good" or "bad." Choices, at their core, involve judgment. Her supposed "friend" therefore has bad judgment, as the choice she made clearly isn't "good." So Sarah Palin and her ilk do judge every time they say being a homosexual person is a choice. Of course, you couldn't convince them of this because they have all sorts of bat shit crazy stuffed in their brains.

Glamour

2008-10-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

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 never 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 wearable 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.

Cheers to you, Queen Elizabeth! Forever making the future of fashion pale by comparison.

Reason 305,664,712 That I Love Sam Harris

2008-09-29T12:58:00.000-07:00

"Ask yourself: how has "elitism" become a bad word in American politics? There is simply no other walk of life in which extraordinary talent and rigorous training are denigrated. We want elite pilots to fly our planes, elite troops to undertake our most critical missions, elite athletes to represent us in competition and elite scientists to devote the most productive years of their lives to curing our diseases. And yet, when it comes time to vest people with even greater responsibilities, we consider it a virtue to shun any and all standards of excellence. When it comes to choosing the people whose thoughts and actions will decide the fates of millions, then we suddenly want someone just like us, someone fit to have a beer with, someone down-to-earth—in fact, almost anyone, provided that he or she doesn't seem too intelligent or well educated."

-Sam Harris for Newsweek

Don't Cancel on Letterman

2008-09-25T08:39:00.001-07:00

Would You Quit Calendering Me???

2008-09-19T10:10:00.001-07:00

Robin saw a sign at our new hospital in the cafeteria. Bewildered by its creative use of a noun as a verb, he took April to see it. Above the beverage section is a sign that reads:

"Please lid your beverage"

We'll start with the obvious that it is clear what the sign means; they want you to put a lid on your drink. However, I cannot abide this gross abuse and misuse of a noun as a verb. It irritates me that there is lacking "put a," "place a," "massage a," or slap a," in front of the lid. The lid is just hanging there as though it were caught red handed in a theft. It's like the lid sneaked into a jewelry store, grabbed some gems, the alarms started going off, and rather than trying to flee the scene, it tried to pose as a jewelry case. Hopefully the grammar police won't notice but I certainly did!

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.

What's next? Adjectives as nouns?

Why, that's quite the egregious you have there!

Adverbs as pronouns?

I gave it to expertly.

Pronouns as adjectives?

That dress looks hecious on you!

Adverbs as adjectives?

I saw them huddled together and talking leastily.

Nouns as pronouns?

The Cliffs of Dover said I looked great.

Nouns as adverbs?

They treated her Washington Monumentally.

But now that I think about it, my computer has been brush rather stapily lately. I tried to us the hard drive and it told me to cup my sunglasses. I didn't quite understand, so I junk "humorous" and tried useage to potted plant the thing into Waning Gibbous. The computer flower for a toilet before finally rhododendroning and when I got hug up and lately, my French walked in. Usury stood there and pyramided, "PostIt! Where the greatly is my she?" It took a most for me to Max Headroom out kiboshily to what French was referring. Then it punultimated to me, "Mannerisms! Gorgeously was just here itting for she too! Let's see, I earphoned it somewhere... here brusquely is!" I Californiaed the she and yelled it up to French. Her pencils lit yellowing. "Aplomb alive! You had she all ago!" My feverishly finally legged. French bereft my office and I hilt back to the computer. The lastly was going off. Verbeage! I was book for a lovely! I rubber band in a ruler and got the themselves outta there.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!!!!!!!

2008-09-12T09:33:00.001-07:00

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Halo 3, The Online Experience

2008-09-09T08:40:00.000-07:00

Being a casual video gamer, I am quite content to play games as my life permits. I have neither the time nor the social calendar that lends itself to lengthy sessions of blood-splattered carnage or numerous hours of magic-casting fantasy. Lately, I have found myself hooked on Grand Theft Auto IV (by far my favorite of the GTA series) but after an hour or two of play, I'm ready for something else. Last weekend, however, we had Sami and my brother over for whatever suited us, which turned out to be Halo 3.

Sami is an absolute pro at this game. Her rank is something like "Three Star General Ass Kicker, Bitches" so I wasn't too keen on playing her face-to-face. It had been so long since I even thought of Halo and I only vaguely remembered the online feature. The thing is, if you want to play with one of your friends, you can. You make a team and go in together. It doesn't even matter where, in proximity to you, they are. As long as they own an XBOX360, are on XBOX Live and semi-conscious, you can make it happen. Sami is all about the online feature, as she and her husband Tim are known to play for hours with people from all over the world, bound together in matches called things like Crazy King, VIP and Slayer.

After the initial "hello how was your week" talk that evening, Sami suggested a round of Halo 3. And so it began. Since Robin and I hadn't played in months, we were a bit worried as to our experience level and the almost assured finger-pointing and "hoot, hoot, hoot" that would follow a badly sucked round. Much to my surprise and merriment, those taunts never came. Or at least if they did, we couldn't hear them because we muted the other player's microphones.

We started playing around 9:30, Chris left at 10:15, leaving Sami, Robin and me. Two of us would play a round while the other watched and when the round ended, we passed the controllers along. It was so much fun. We cracked out until 12:30 when Sami finally relented to her sleepiness. It wasn't that we were the best or even won all the time, but when we did it was incredibly satisfying. As I mentioned before, there are all sorts of ways to play a round. There is the typical slaughter-or-be-slaughtered, king of the hill, hold the human skull without getting killed, kill only the VIPs for points, you only get a sword to kill people, and on and on. The setting we had made it so whoever was hosting a room (or "killing floor" as I like to call it) could decide on the kind of game. Before the game started, the other players were allowed to veto the game choice which if successful (majority rules) would default to good 'ol Slayer.

I went home yesterday after a busy day at work. I was excited at the prospect of zoning out on Halo for a little bit before Robin got home. Popping in the disk, I thought I might as well try plugging in my headset so I could talk to my teammate, whoever they turned out to be. The first few rounds were chatless because the other player didn't have a headset. When someone finally did have a microphone, they were obviously asking me a question - in Portugese.

I said, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Portugese." My teammate became very excited. He exclaimed, "Good for you! You did not think I was speaking Italian or Spanish! I'm Fausto, what is your name?" Since he knew English, we chatted it up and developed some kick ass strategy for the following round. His English was very good and his accent absolutely beautiful. When a round concludes, you have the option of playing with your partner again, which we did a couple more times. It turned out that Fausto was relaxing after his shift at a local tavern (it was 1am in Lisbon). He said that he had to throw out three drunks that night who were Greek. "Greek men," he said agitatedly, "they always fuck up your bar." I laughed, "Oh? I wouldn't know, we don't get very many of the Aegean types over here." He sounded surprised, "You know where the Aegean is? You are not like many Americans I meet." I was puzzled, "And what kind might that be?," to which he replied, "The drunk kind, of course!" I laughed so hard. His friend with whom he usually plays showed up, so he bid me a nice evening. I did the same and turned off the XBOX; Robin was about to be home soon anyway.

So for those of you who think video games are all self-indulgent, time-wasting, hermit-creating abominations, why not try some online Halo? You never know who you'll meet or what time zone they'll be in!

Just try not to suck. HOOT HOOT HOOT!

I'm Leavin'... On a Jetplane... Don't Know if This'll Be Intersting...

2008-08-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

Actually I'm not. I'm staying right here. I was trying to think of something clever as a title and all I came up with was "Drinking Water Will Kill You," and "I'm Ready For Insertion," neither of which conveys my true feelings. So instead, I'll do what I always do in such circumstances - channel John Denver. I find that his mellow yet refined yet alluring voice often calms the storm that is the hurricane that is my thoughts. Or it aggravates them. I'm not too sure right now, seeing as I've got no time for decisions. I do, however, have time for a blog post!

I attended an EMS game two weekends ago. I was given a ticket by some good friends and while I waited for them to meet me at the front gate, a woman started talking to me. She seemed very pleasant, hadn't been to an EMS game before, and was taken with the actual stadium itself. "Do ya know when this was built?," she pondered, gazing at the support beams. I said, "I think in the 30s or 40s at least. It's pretty old for a stadium like this." She gave a "hmm" face and said, "Well, it's just too bad. I heard they're moving the team next year, did you know that?" I replied yes and before I could ask a time-killing question about the weather or her place of residency, she said flatly, "I just hope it has bathrooms." She continued to look around and my eyes went immediately to the line of Honey Buckets a few yards away from us. Instead of point them out, or say that the hint of sour air wafting through wasn't from the food, I thought a nice joke would be appropriate. "Actually," I replied, "There are chamberpots under your seat. We just use those." She regarded me with absolute disgust. I thought the smile on my face would surely tell her I was kidding, but she moved away and started walking down the stairs without a word. Eh, whatever. I suppose I should have told her the bit about slaughtering your own pig if you want a hot dog (a firm and deep slice does the piggy in nice!), but she'll find that out for herself.

I have begun work at the main branch of our library processing borrowing requests from patrons. Our library system essentially runs on no money whatsoever, so when positions are vacated (even vital ones), they are not immediately refilled. The main library is desperate for people to help with this position, as borrowing requests obviously need to be processed. Depending on the patron (faculty, staff, student, community member, etc.), the level of service our library provides is actually astounding given our resources. We're part of such an enormous network of academic libraries, that should Professor Smith want pages 2-16 of the ABC Journal, Volume 1 published in 1922, s/he will get it photocopied, PDF'd and emailed to them. This, of course, is for our faculty to whom we provide the highest level of service including, but not limited to, fulfilling certain "other" requests. Interpret as you will. Unfortunately, the same level of attention cannot realistically be paid to every patron, but that doesn't stop them from acting like the center of the universe. I have been emailing one of our community patrons back and forth who doesn't understand why we cannot obtain a very old, very obscure volume written in the late 1600s. The only library that owns it is in England and like every other rare book in the world, they do not lend it to other institutions. Simple enough. Once I got that through his head, he said it was OK to get a copy of only the chapters he needed. Well, that's going to cost you. This isn't some journal that's easily obtained through any university. It's so rare that the lending institution has to use archival processes to get it photocopied, for the price of $150 (believe me, that's actually quite reasonable given this guy's request). Of course the patron came unglued. His emails went from slightly rude to blatantly offensive, the last being simply: "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CRAPPY LIBRARY." His request was deleted.

Our Lost viewing crew began to do dinner once a week. Thanks to Erin who thought it pathetic that the only time we saw each other was during the Lost season, we've been gathering for about two weeks now. After dinner on the first night, Bryan suggested that we play Telephone Pictionary. Sit in a circle. You have small individual pieces of paper equal to the number of people playing. On the top piece of paper, you write a phrase. Each person then passes their entire pile of paper to the person on their right, who reads the phrase and on the following piece of paper, tries to draw it. Then, moving the phrase to the back of the pile, they pass their pile, drawing on top, to the person on their right. Now, based on the drawing, the next person interprets and writes a phrase they think the picture is describing. The game continues until you receive your pile back. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard for so long from playing a game. The best part is that there are no winners or losers. The point of the game is in its absurdity and receiving something back so far from what you originally wrote down. Case in point: five of us were at the cabin this weekend. I was two people down from Robin, whose phrase was "it puts the lotion on its skin." He handed his stack to Shannon, who drew what we eventually saw looked like a robot with some hair and a dark blotch on a human arm. She would later explain that the squareness of the jaw was supposed to be Hannibal Lecter. Well, Eric was next to receive the stack and based on Shannon's drawing, Eric wrote "heroin robot needs heroin." He was wiping tears from his face when he passed the stack to me, and it took me a good three minutes to get it together after reading it. Heroin robot needs heroin? WTF?!?! My stomach was aching from laughing so hard but I couldn't stop. I could barely draw and as I did, I kept breaking into hysterical fits. When I finally got the drawing done, I handed it to Chandra. My drawing consisted of a stick-figure robot with outstretched clamp hands and next to it, a spoon with something cooking in it and a syringe. Heroin robot needs heroin. Chandra did an excellent interpretation saying something like "heroin addicted robot." Robin received his stack from Chandra and a long bout of side-splitting laughter ensued. From "it puts the lotion on its skin" to "heroin addicted robot." I give you Telephone Pictionary.

Sanest. Person. Ever.

2008-08-22T15:02:00.000-07:00

... THE FUCK?!

So Many Questions, So Little Crack to Smoke

2008-08-21T16:16:00.000-07:00

April is probably the only person to realize that I haven't posted in a long time, including me. She forwarded a list of questions to fill out so here I go:

1. Your full name:

Patrick Aaron Thelonius Kevin Shaneefa Moore

2. What your Native American name would have been if you were in Dances With Wolves:

Carl

3. Your birthday:

Outta control fun

4. Name of a famous person who shares your birthday:

Paula Abdul a.k.a. Oxy McVicodin

5. What is the best thing you can do with your hands?

HOLLA PANDA!! (thud)

6. What is the worst thing you’ve done to someone?

Promised to donate my kidney but when the time came and they needed it, didn't return their calls. I mean, it was their fault for believing me!

7. What is an evil thing you’d like to do to someone (enemy, Tom Cruise, Accounting Dept., etc.)?

Make them sit through one of our all-staff meetings.

8. What is the stupidest movie you’ve ever seen?

Spiderman 3

9. Have you ever cheated?

Oh god yes. I didn't get a 15,305 on my SATs because I played fair.

10. Have you ever been cheated on?

Yes. It was totally great when I caught him and he tried to tell me that I didn't see what I just saw. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia.

11. Have you ever discovered a dead body while hiking?

Yes. Yes I have.

12. If you ever did discover a dead body while hiking, would you take anything off the body (jewelry, loose change, sunglasses, etc)?

Uhhhh.... do penises count? I mean like if it was a really really nice one.

13. Do you ever talk to the TV?

Try to watch one of those design shows where a prospective home buyer walks into a room and says, "Well now I just don't like this color they painted on the walls," and not scream, "IT'S CALLED PAINT YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!!"

14. Does the TV ever reply?

No. The idiots continue being pathetically stupid. Such is my life.

15. What is your marital status?

About to do a barrel roll and roundhouse kick to this chick's dome... oh wait... maRItal status. Let's see... we own a house together and will be celebrating our six year anniversary in October... so I'd say barely together. If only we could get married like straight people! Then our relationship would be solid for sure!

16. Would you recommend that status to a friend?

Yeah sure, what the hell.

17. How about to an enemy?

Oh no. My enemies (you know who you are, Evan) will have much, much worse befall them.

18. Have you ever hit a parked car and failed to leave a note?

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.

19. Has someone done it to you?

I've woken up unconscious in a trunk more times than I can remember. That I wasn't stuffed in a trunk as a child is absolutely unfathomable.

20. Have you ever consumed an entire pie in one sitting?

And how!

21. Name a fictional Olympic sport that you would win:

Simultaneous Hand Jobs to Jilted Construction Workers Whose Wives Haven't Touched Them in Over Six Months. Gold medal, hands down. And up. And down. And up and down and up and down.

22. Do you believe in the death sentence?

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.

23. Do you believe in Santa?

You mean that bloated, half-drunk, red-nosed dude who wears a ridiculous outfit and talks to reindeer? We just call him Grandpa.

24. Do you believe in God?

I believe that others believe in god. By logical extension, that makes their belief in god a waste of time because anything I believe in is by definition fictitious because reality is what I say it is. If I have to take the effort to believe in it, it has no basis in reality. It's called Patrick's Law of Awesomeness.

25. Do you have neighbors you can’t stand?

No, they're all really nice so far!

26. Are you the neighbor people can’t stand?

I'm certain of it!

27. In your opinion, what’s the best thing to make out of leather?
A) Furniture, B) pants, C) purses, D) “toys.”

I'm going to assume that "toys" means a nice leather football for my nephew, so I'll go with D.

28. Have you ever been arrested?

Nope, my record is squeaky clean! Meth lab, cocaine processing plant, and moonshine distillery notwithstanding.

29. If yes, did the charges stick?

Right to mah balls!

30. If you are in a public bathroom with five stalls and someone is in stall #1 and someone else is in stall #5, which is the correct stall for you to use?

Stall #1. The whole "foot tapping" thing wastes too much time. Trust me, people. Just walk into that stall and get busy. Life's too short!

Quote of the Year

2008-08-07T12:49:00.000-07:00

"I'm such a work in progress at the moment, it's crazy, and life wants me on edge, I swear to you. But as long as I don't forget the past, I'm cool. One must always be mindful, just like you might forget that old girlfriend who tried to slit your throat, but she's really still hot. If you remember the stitches more than you remember the pussy, you're going to be just fine."

-Robert Downey, Jr.

It Hurts, Oh God, It Hurts

2008-08-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was absolutely fantastic. The Second Annual Sausage Fest did not disappoint at any time, in any way. So much fun was had. We ate delicious food, drank fabulous beer, took an incredible hike to Blue Pool and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Once I get some pictures, I'll be sure to post them.

We left at noon yesterday. I was riding in the back seat of Tim's truck and as we were merrily recounting our weekend, my stomach seized. I wasn't sick and it wasn't acid reflux. It felt as though a balloon was inside my upper abdomen and inflating; pushing all my muscles and bones outward. It hurt really, really bad. While in the car, it happened several other times, but I chalked it up to heavy food, drink and forgetting my Prilosec. I had forgotten my Prilosec for a weekend some time ago, but nothing like this happened. When we got home, I took a couple of Pepsid to calm what I thought was just a bad case of indigestion.

The TV was on and I was writing in pain. The "inflating" feeling never went away, rather, it undulated between a 3 on the pain scale and a 9 (out of 10). Keep in mind that I've had some bad pain before, but only considered it a 7. In my view, a 10 on the medical pain scale is basically passing out and being non-responsive because you're in so much pain. It felt like I wasn't too far away from that.

I needed a distraction, so I decided to give WebMD a whirl. Fully expecting it to diagnose me with something like Skin Failure or Alien About to Burst From Chest Disease, I was surprised when it told me I was having an esophageal spasm. It sure felt like that. Once I had a name to give to my pain, it made a lot of sense. The base of my esophagus was seizing over and over; sometimes horribly, sometimes dully, but never stopping.

Not only did the Pepsid have no effect, but nothing was having any effect. I tried drinking water, stretching, standing and moving around. It just kept getting worse to the point where I was crying when it reached a peak. For about thirty seconds, tears would stream down my cheeks because it hurt so bad. Robin was at my side immediately. "What is it?," he would ask, "Do you need to see someone?" I tried to a couple of hours to let it be, but at around 5 o'clock, I couldn't take it anymore.

We drove to Urgent Care only to find that Urgent Care isn't open on Sundays. This meant my only option was the emergency room. Joy.

I always imagine the ER to be stuffed with craziness, overflowing and spilling into the nearby streets. It was relatively calm, but it still took two hours to be seen. The woman in line before me was an absolute hypochondriac, seeking the heaviest of pain medications (she requested Methadone by name) for what she called a "back ache." I realize that it's not appropriate to listen on other people's medical problems, but I knew this person was in for drugs and it was making me raging mad. I had a real problem, one that was causing my right eye to twitch from pain, and here this woman was, saying things like, "(SIGH) I just... can't seem to get it any better...(SIGH)." When the nurse asked her if she was on any other medication, the list was out of control. I had no idea people could take so many heavy medications. She was on anti-anxiety, pain medication, anti-inflammatory and on and on. I focused my anger solely on her and her trumped up excuses for further medication which helped distract me for ten minutes or so.

The doctor walked in and when I explained the weekend, the forgetting of the Prilosec and the food involved, she didn't seem too surprised. She said, "I'll have the nurse bring in a nice coctail and we'll do some blood work." The nurse returned a few minutes later with a concoction I can only describe as, "Minty; robust textures of chalk and asbestos with an instant numbing sensation and a narcotic finish." It certainly did the trick. They took my blood and said it would take another 30 to 45 minutes to get the results, so out came our iPhones and games we did play.

All my levels were fine. The doctor wanted to make sure the spasms weren't coming from something irregular (read: far worse) and it was just a weekend of heavy food. She gave me a few Vicodin in case anything else happened and off I went.

Today my muscles are really, really sore from a 9-hour bout of seizing and all I want to do is go home and sleep. I'm cranky, my fuse is short, but at least I don't have a baby alien trying to smash through my sternum.

One. Word. Answers.

2008-07-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

I'm ripping this off my friend's blog. Stop laughing! I totally have friends!

You. Can. Only. Type. One. Word.

1. Where is your cell phone? Home
2. Describe your boyfriend/girlfriend? Amazing
3. Your hair? Brown
4. Your mother? Adorable
5. Your father? Quirky
6. Your favorite item? Piano
7. Your dream last night? Strange
8. Your favorite drink? Bourbon
9. Your dream car? Flyable
10. The room you are in? Office
11. Your ex? CRAZY
12. Your fear? Cheerleaders
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? Worldlier
14. Who did you hang out with last night? Robin
15. What you’re not? Highfalutin'
19. The last thing you did? Biked
20. What are you wearing? Awesomeness
22. Your favorite book? Intense
23. The last thing you ate? Almonds
24. Your life? Excellent
25. Your mood? Happy
26. Your friends? Incredible
27. What are you thinking about right now? FESTING!
28. Your car? Nonexistent
29. What are you doing at the moment? Rapping
30. Your summer? Loving
31. Your relationship status? Devoted
32. What is on your tv? Stuff
33. When is the last time you laughed? HA!!!!
34. Last time you cried? Saturday
35. School? Graduated

Copy. Paste. Answer. Questions.

It Annoys Me When... [Murderer's Edition]

2008-07-16T09:22:00.001-07:00

I'm enjoying a nice cocktail and all I can think about is how difficult it is to find a good alcohol to mix with blood.

People don't let me hold their children simply because I ask if I can abduct their children.

I eat my lunch in public and the person I'm sitting next to acts like raw flesh smells so fucking bad.

I'm trying to read on the bus and the person across from me keeps staring at my blood-splattered clothes.

I'm sitting in a fine restaurant and they won't serve me simply because I chose to bring my ax that day.

I try to care about someone's conversation only to have them ask me why I'm not looking at them and picking at my scabs.

People get all high and mighty when I ask what butcher shop is their favorite and I say mine is my garage.

I ask what movie someone suggests going to see and they can't respond because they're bound and gagged and possibly unconscious.

I go for a walk in the park and there are no good people to eat.

I forget to wear my black clothes at night thus becoming visible to people I have been trying so hard to follow into an empty alleyway.

When I tell my date what my hobbies are and they get this horrified look on their face as if they don't have sacrificial alters.

I try to pay for a new sweater and the clerk tells me that human fingers have never been a form of currency.

When I get fired from my job because I keep telling my coworkers that I hate it when people stab me in the back but I love to stab people in the back because of all the screaming.

The bank denies my loan because I put down "exotic skin collection" as collateral.

My car stops running and when I take it to the mechanic, they seem confused when I tell them it doesn't need oil because it runs on harvested souls.

Kali doesn't accept my offering because I forgot to wash the goat in virgin blood. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a virgin in this day and age?

Things

2008-07-09T08:55:00.000-07:00

The upcoming family reunion this weekend has me sleeping poorly and anxious as all hell. I am torn between my innate desire to please people and the absolute knowledge that family I am supposed to care about don't give a damn about me and it's likely they never will. I'll just do what I always do: eat well, drink often and remind myself that everyone's family reunions are awkward and screaming with quiet disapproval.

On the bus today, I was reading the new David Sedaris and couldn't help but stop and listen to a conversation directly behind me. Two University staff members were talking about the warm weather, the summer term and the now (thankfully) over Olympic Trials. "Did you make it to any of the events?," asked one. The other replied, "Oh yes, Steve and I scored tickets on Friday right on the finish line in the third row! It was so loud, I could have sworn I was in Autzen stadium!" The first one then paused before saying, "Yeah, I went on Saturday and it was so loud I couldn't hear myself breathe!" I'm sure they didn't see me, but my eyes squinted and head went straight up. Did I hear that right? I'm sure I had. So loud I couldn't hear myself breathe? I found myself listening to my own breath, completely drowned out by the bus and all its noise. I started breathing louder, louder, and louder until I'm certain I looked like I was having a mild heart attack. A quick grip to the chest and one of the people now staring at me would leap into action. Even after all that, I still couldn't hear myself breathe, and I was only on the bus; not in a crowded stadium. But I know how she feels. Why, it was so loud in this morning's meeting, I couldn't even hear the blood in my veins!

I've been riding my bike to work a lot. Robin gave it to me for my birthday. It's a city cruiser, in that it's a 21-speed cruiser with shock absorbers. I love it. Riding to and from work provides and extra kick in my workout. This paragraph reads like a first grader describing something. I like candy. The weather is nice. Yesterday I made a pee pee and a doody.

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.

While camping, I did my first burn of the year! You should have seen those Doug Firs; they went up like tinder! Oh, that's not what I mean. The forest and its inhabitants are perfectly fine, delicious Spotted Owl hatchlings notwithstanding. I was out of lamp oil, so I just used plain old white gas and boy did those poi light up! Burns with pure white gas are quicker but more intense, to be sure. All this working out the past six months has really paid off, as I was able to do two sets while only breaking a mild sweat.

Robin and April have been chattering away nonstop about the new X-Files movie (no really, call one of them right now and they'll be yammering on). I'm looking forward to it as well, but I'm glad I don't have to deal with the unsightly foam that develops at the edges of my lips when someone says, "file(s)," "David," "movie," "FBI," or "aliens." We're hosting an X-Files marathon at our place on Sunday. We're supposed to pick our favorite episode and I still haven't come up with mine. Not that I don't really enjoy the idea, it's just that I'm indecisive and can't choose one episode in particular. Perhaps by Sunday I'll have it figured out. Otherwise, I'll just drive April and Robin crazy by saying, "It's the one with the aliens," and when they try to narrow it down, arrive at a decision and pop it in, I'll say within the first twenty seconds, "Oh, it's not this one, it's the other one with aliens."

I Normally Hate Forwards and Don't Read Them, But...

2008-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

Here you go. I think this one is fantastic:

Every year, English teachers from across the country can submit their collections of actual analogies and metaphors found in high school essays.

These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country.

Here are last year's winners.....

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. Instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. Traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. At a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River .

18 Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20 The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

AWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

2008-06-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the Aerosmith track. But who cares! AWWWWWWW!!!!!!

Music

2008-06-16T14:24:00.001-07:00

I was sitting at the computer last week reorganizing the music in my iPhone. Going over my music folder with a fine toothed comb, I took out stuff that I rarely listened to and replaced it with selections I haven't heard in a while. I added a bunch of classical music, the complete master tracks of Billie Holiday, Esquivel and OK Computer by Radiohead.

Growing up in a very conservative, very Christian home, we weren't allowed to listen to "secular" music until I was in high school. There wasn't an age limit for "such music," that's just when I decided to tell religion to fuck off. But in my formative years, the only music I had exposure to was the very linear, very predictable, very repetitive genre of Christian rock. Regardless of the actual sound, I discovered it all to be extremely formulaic and in a word, boring. The saving grace for me was piano, which opened my world to classical music and the understanding of music in general. At least I'm able to appreciate good music regardless of the message.

That said, when I came of musical age and started listening to popular music, I was dismayed to find that it was complete shit. Keep in mind that during this "secular awakening," the popular music to which I am referring are such timeless groups as Bush, TLC, The Spice Girls and most importantly, Chumbawamba. However, since I didn't have a history with "secular music," I didn't know where to turn. Through the years, I have lazily picked up music from people who recommended it to me.

To me, Radiohead was always, "that band that did Creep." I wasn't particularly turned on by that song, so I wasn't particularly interested in buying their music. Oh, and they were British and I try to buy American whenever possible. The Jeep Patriot that I totally own is a testament to my heartland values. Actually, when I put OK Computer on my iPhone, it was a sort of lame attempt to culture myself in new and different music. I was certain that I would only like a song or two and be done with it.

The opening measures of "Airbag" didn't just have me hooked - something inside me exploded and for once, it wasn't my liver. Because of my training on the piano, I rarely listen to the words of a song before the music. One of the main reasons I am turned off by modern musical groups is the simple fact that their music leaves nothing to be digested and their lyrics even less. They find their hook, repeat it several times, layer the hell out of it, and I'm left taking out my earbuds half way through the song. In the case of OK Computer, I found myself on the bus covering my ears to drown out the ambient noise. I wanted every drop, every eighth note, every reverberation to be mine.

There were complex rhythm sections, influences of eastern and African music, and everything fit perfectly. Thom Yorke's voice by itself could sound a bit whiny but with their music, Radiohead was unlike anything I had ever heard. Every song powerfully conveyed its message. It was readily apparent that these were incredibly talented musicians and writers doing an album that made them happy; screw you if you don't like it, but hopefully you do.

I haven't spent my birthday money yet, but you can rest assured that Kid A, Amnesiac, Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows will be on my iPhone before you can say "Thom Yorke."

Obesity Epidemic? Why, What Ever Do You Mean?

2008-06-03T12:46:00.001-07:00

Doesn't it say in the apocalypse section of Revelation that one of the Four Horsemen would be pushing a lawnmower from the cushy seat of their Hoverround? Oh, and that the Horseman was insanely obese? And wore a pretty red hat with a pretty bow? I think it said that in like Chapter 13 or something...

I Know, Right?

2008-06-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

When I put on my 'Lil Thinker Cap, the above statement/question doesn't really make sense to me, but I use it all the time. I blame Robin, who started using it before anyone else that I can think of, so thanks hon for giving me a conundrum! Let's work on this one together by me talking through it myself:

Now that I'm hearing "I know, right?," pretty much everywhere, I'm going to assume it has officially entered our commonly used phrases, OMG. Like any language, ours will evolve to resemble nothing close to what it grew from (English majors? I'm looking at you and your stupid Middle English which makes zero sense and nobody goddam cares anymore so shut up). That said, I still think it's important to examine what sense our newly-found phrases make, if any.

The way I sees it, "I know, right," is actually two distinct affirmations; "I know," and "right." "I know" simply affirms the validity of what was said based on the available data from one's Personal Data Warehouse. "Right?," as a question confirms validity, but only kinda. It does the same thing as "I know," only with less words (efficient German language!). However, since the emphasis is on the ? and said with a questioning tone, it softens that confirmation. This is not to say that one isn't confirming what they're hearing, but the normal oomph of "right" isn't there. Were it not for the ?, the phrase would be redundantly redundant; I know, right. With the ?, the actual words in the phrase are doubly confirming something, but really only 3/4 of the way. I know (1/2), right? (1/4).

Now let us take it one. Step. Further! While it is true that "I know" and "right" affirm validity, there is a subtle nuance (and grace?) to be explored. In my view, "I know" would most likely be stated in regards to something you wouldn't assume is objectively known. "OMG, that game was fantastic!," says my imaginary friend, to whom I reply, "I know." The game isn't something that most or all people would know about. A few days later, my imaginary friend and I are in a heated debate about the temperature of the sun when s/he says, "Solar flares are totally bitchin'!," to which I say, "Right!," because it is objectively known that solar flares are totally bitchin'.

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 should 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 objectively 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.

"Dude. This blog post was totally pointless. I want those three minutes of my life back."

"I know, right?"

The 200th Post

2008-05-28T10:14:00.000-07:00

My dear loyal and true readers, this is the 200th post. I'm not sure what significance that holds, if any, but it's fun to think about (thinking about it..........) okay I'm done.

Memorial Day weekend was spent camping with some friends in the Fall Creek wilderness. We came prepared for the rain and Mother Nature didn't disappoint. Thankfully, the only time it rained was on Saturday but it really came down. Within a 1/2 hour, however, we had Tarp Universe constructed and the entire campfire was covered on all sides so we could stay dry and enjoy the warmth of a raging fire. We also managed to vault a tarp over the kitchen area, so food and drink making could happen without soakege.

I could recount all the shenanigans during our three day extravaganza (all-terrain bocce ball was a highlight), but I keep dwelling on a situation one of my friends is dealing with in her school. She teaches in a middle school and last week was, in a word, hell.

A very out, very proud, very gay middle schooler tried to commit suicide. There were many factors contributing to his attempt, from administrators finding pot in an abandoned locker that he kept, to his suicide note talking about his boyfriend and their relationship issues. What got me, however, was the fact that while in questioning for the pot, one of the administrators was speaking to him about another issue - his public displays of affection with the boyfriend - and said something like, "Look, you can be gay. You just can't act gay."

As my friend said those words, very real and very painful memories began to surface. I was enraged at this administrator, someone who is supposed to uphold the values of our local school district; a school district that prides itself on inclusion and diversity and in fact has very harsh disciplinary measures for students or staff who violate them. I thought about the blatant dig at this kid's identity, an attack on his very self. Why didn't the administrator simply say, "You know that public displays of affection aren't allowed." There is no reason to bring someone's sexuality into play when the school policy is simply "No PDAs" (which it is). From deep within, I started shaking in anger. I wanted to lay into this administrator. I wanted him to feel what it's like to be told that you cannot exist; that somehow, you are supposed to live your life split from yourself to make your actions more "appetizing" for others.

Look, you can be a man. You just can't act mannish. Look, you can be a woman. You just can't act womanly. Look, you can be a person. You just can't act like yourself.

The one place I heard such language thrown at me, time and again, was the church. I'm going to guess that's where this guy heard it too. Or if not, from another ignorant person/body that proudly values segregation over tolerance. My coming out was a tortuous, years-long process that, at its worst, had me absolutely suicidal and at its best, I would forget that people didn't want me for a few minutes. When people who you look up to and respect tell you that you are essentially living to displease others by being yourself, the effects are beyond painful; you are utterly devastated. I remember days where I would barely eat, where I was so mad at myself that I could have "turned out this way." Suffice to say, my heart goes out to this kid and I wish there were an opportunity to educate this administrator in a way he would understand. Maybe the inquiry (which is going on now) will be a way he can understand how ignorant, painful and insidious his words were.

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.

Vote Today!

2008-05-20T08:13:00.001-07:00

That is all. If you haven't yet turned in your ballot, today's the day fellow Oregonians. Make yours count!!

Soul Harvester

2008-05-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

Everyone is born with a special talent. In Star Jones' case, her talent is scaring the living shit out of me. I'm pretty sure this is what evil people see right before they die. You can almost hear it screaming, "GEEVE ME YOUR SOOOOOOOOUUUUULLLLLL!!!"

Bill O'Reilly Can't Read; Doesn't Understand Phrases

2008-05-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

Before Bill O'Reilly was granted his very own show, he was just another shill reading entertainment news off a teleprompter. That is, if he could read the words. Based on the following clip, I'm not surprised that Fox gobbled him up. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if anyone on TV can get a Fox executive to say, "Holy shit! That guy/chick is an insane asshole who can't read!," s/he gets a job as a Fox political pundit. This made my Monday morning worth getting up:

CLICK ME

Words

2008-05-08T08:46:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I am a man of many words. More often than not, the necessary information you require of me will be buried in a lavish tapestry of breath-taking narrative. Sometimes, the necessary information will get lost completely, which means that I will again have to weave a story of mystery and excitement for you. When I'm on a roll, words often pop into my head that do not, according to modern English, exist. Those of you who keep up with my ramblings have seen these words in action! For some reason, lately I have become inundated with new creations and would like to share them with you. I would like to ask, dear readers, that we take it one step further. I know how I would define the words, but I'm curious as to how you would define any or all of my brilliant creations. Enjoy!

Delivarious
Lustonomous
Retarious
Kruptonic
Jymonic
Zirantic
Pugously
Camously
Varinaciously

The Oregon Colonels

2008-05-01T08:53:00.000-07:00

Eric and Chandra are hosting a party this weekend to celebrate the most important horse racing event of the year, the Kentucky Derby. The theme of the party is "Decadent and Depraved" (in the vein of Hunter S. Thompson), so we were encouraged to wear our finest seersucker suits, hats and other appropriate accoutrement. We will of course be drinking mint juleps made of the finest bourbon, or if you're an alcoholic like me, just the bourbon on a drip.

In preparation for the pending party, Robin became intrigued with the idea of a colonel. A colonel, for those of you who aren't aware, is a southern gentleman of stature and leisure. He is one of good humor and flushed visage, one who at any given time will refer to anyone as "suh," regardless of gender. He is often found in a rocking chair on his veranda, cigar in mouth, bourbon bottle on a table next to him and perusing the latest property offerings. His mustache is thick and distinguished, fully covering his upper lip, beads of liquor clinging to it and glistening in the afternoon sun.

At least, this is our idea of a Kentucky Colonel. In reality, the Honorable Order of the Kentucky Colonel is a charity organization that does many good things for their community. Famous Colonels include Bob Hope, Elvis Presley, Marie Osmond, Tiger Woods and Pope John Paul II. Their mission now, as stated on their web site, is "The Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels, utilizing contributions from individual Colonels from all over the world, provides financial support to Kentucky charitable and educational institutions and organizations."

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.

And I'm not alone. Robin, Evan, Eric and everyone else will be stammering around with their mint juleps, inciting duels, inappropriately grabbing others and everything else the grand colonels used to do. When asked what I think about the derby, I will say, "Why suh, I do declaya this the best duhby in the land, suh!" My genteel demeanor will not doubt impress the ladies, one of whom I plan to court by the end of the evening. "Why, my deeyah, why don' we take a little stroll in tha gahden?" Taking her arm in mine, we will stroll amidst the blooming apple trees and speak of the good life, the only life, the Kentucky life. I will no doubt have to defend her honor, a task I am more than willing to see through. I can hear that pesky Evan Burns right now, "Suh! I say, suh! I do believe you are courtin' my one true love, suh!" I will ask my lovely to stand aside for a moment while Evan and I duel with pistols in the orchard. It will be a gentlemanly affair, of course, and all proper etiquette will be observed. If he somehow misses me but hits my glass of bourbon, I assure you he won't live to tell of it.

I am confident that our shenanigans will be a bawdy mess of southern stereotypes. But when you think about it, "suh" is the only proper way to refer to someone while drinking bourbon and watching the derby. And what better way to celebrate the derby than how Hunter S. Thompson would have wanted us to? There is much shopping left to do. Eric and Chandra have a front porch, er, veranda, so I'm off to find us some rocking chairs...

You're A Dirty Little Keyboard...

2008-04-25T12:12:00.001-07:00

April and I got into a very profound conversation about the inherent sexiness that is your computer keyboard. It looks pretty benign, right? I mean, it's just there to serve a function. You type commands and your CPU responds accordingly, right? No. Your keyboard is much more than that. It is, purely and simply, a sex-laden collection of commands that await your every fantasy. Allow me to elaborate.

We'll start with the painfully obvious. Look at the letters "S," "E," and "X." Notice anything in particular? Maybe that they're right next each other? It's not a coincidence. A little history lesson: The first keyboard layouts were designed for typewriters. As many grandparents know, if you type too fast on a typewriter, the metal letter thingys leap together and become entangled. Olde tyme mechanics couldn't account for the blindingly fast human fingers. Therefore, they redesigned a layout that would restrict us from typing too fast. This effectively stopped the metal letter thingys in our modern computers from leaping together and slowing down the already slow enough CPU. It's no small coincidence that the person in charge of the modern letter layout was none other than Mike "Show Me Your Privates" Evanston. Mike, or "that disgusting pervert" as his friends called him, submitted many designs to the Congressional Committee for Letter Reassignment. They debated long and hard over the final layout. The one eventually chosen barely beat a design of which the Committee Chair, Senator Octavius McGrabbypants, was particularly fond. For those easily offended, just be glad the home row isn't VAGP-ENIS.

Of course, the highly factual account above only accounts for letters. Much more was to be added in the coming years by a group of socially awkward, cave-dwelling, horny men, or as they are more commonly known, nerds.

Despite what modern historians may tell you about the evolution of the keyboard, it had much less to do with functional computer language than it did sexual acts and how they could be "watered down" for the public. Does this * look like anything in particular? But wait, it's just an asterisk, right? Yes, that is correct - an ASSterisk. All they did was take away one simple letter and the general public went unaware as to the true nature of the ASSterisk. Go ahead - keep making bullet points and footnotes with it. All I can see is tiny puckers littering your document. And another thing - just how does one type an ASSterisk? Well, it's not by a simple press of the 8 button, now is it? No. One must SHIFT their way to the ASSterisk. Shift it to the left, perhaps? Or maybe the right? Well look at that - you're covered on both sides, aren't you?

The arrow keys may look innocent enough, but think of them in relation to where the "cursor" is on the "screen." I know that when I want the "cursor" to move up, I need only hit the up arrow. But wait, I changed my mind. Now I want it to go back down. Now up. Now down again. Would you like the "cursor" to go right? Left? Yeah - those "directional arrows" aren't so innocent now, are they?

Below the SHIFT keys are two other keys designed by a panel of dominatrices. They are, as I'm sure you are now seeing for yourself, the "Control" buttons. For those of you who have ever worked on Word or Excel documents, you know the value in keyboard shortcuts. By holding "Ctrl" and pressing "C," you copy a selected area. By then moving to another section and holding "Ctrl" while pressing "V," your copied data is then pasted. Do you think it's any coincidence that the CONTROL button is used so violently? It can shortcut the tedious point and click mouse interface and force a desired function. It controls the keyboard and reduces the letter "C," "V," "P" and a host of others to mere puppets of its will. Can you hear the whips cracking?

Are you into dressing up? Do you like to change your look? Why not use the "Alt" keys? If you and your partner like role-playing, this function is absolutely necessary and I am no doubt telling you what you already know. If you're looking for a little spice in the boudoir, look no farther than your keyboard and explore what the Alt keys can do for you.

You must be wondering why I haven't touched on perhaps the most glaring examples of the modern sexual keyboard. One is a simple invitation: Enter; The other is a command: Insert. Together, the Enter and Insert buttons have sustained vibrant sexual lives since the dawn of time, possibly before. But once a relationship has reached the point where Enter and Insert by themselves have become routine, the couple must branch out and use more of the keyboard functions. The possibilities are limitless!

My account is by no means exhaustive. This is just a taste of what a modern keyboard has in store for you... sexually. I encourage you to take some time and reacquaint yourself with it. If you wind up disappointed, you have only yourself to blame.

Things

2008-04-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was off the hook. My dear friend from middle school is back from her Peace Corps tour of doody. We spent the weekend eating delicious food, visiting the Deschutes Brewery, and generally trying to stay warm in the freezing Redmond weather. In Peace Corps, she was stationed in Guatemala and I could go on and on about how amazing she is, how her service did so much for her community and how no matter what, she always kicks ass. Allow me to convince you: she decided to apply for the graduate teaching program at Columbia University. She really only liked that program so it was the only one she applied for. Her acceptance letter came a couple of weeks ago.

We're hosting Lost this week. People are coming over for tasty burgers, socializing and drinking. Robin and I were excited not only because our friends are pretty cool for the most part, but also because the impending party gave us the impetus to finish painting the downstairs! Woo hoo!

It's Administrative Professionals Day tomorrow. When I got back from lunch today, my boss was standing near my office and had a smirk on her face. She told me I was in big trouble. "Oh yeah?," I asked smiling. "Yep," she continued, "You have to decide what restaurant you would like to eat at this week." I immediately chose El Vaquero. Then, as if lunch at EV wasn't good enough, she said, "And don't come in tomorrow. We don't want you here." I laughed, "Oh, right. As if I enjoy coming to work." But she wasn't kidding. They gave me the day off - paid.

Our friend John stayed with us last night. He's back from Hawaii and will be staying in Oregon until next month when he flies to Ireland to work for the summer. It turns out that Paul Newman is one busy ass rich dude and sets up nature camps all over the world for kids recovering from cancer. So John is off to teach these kids about nature and their impact upon it. Why can't Paul Newman have a camp for people who are me and my friends?

This coming weekend will be an exciting move for our dearest "friend" Evan (whoops! How did those scare quotes get in there?). His new appointment as the Regent Executive Chancelloric Provost of Public Relations has him working in Corvallis. Some of you may remember, but our dear Evan was recently stationed in a tiny, distant coastal town for his previous employer. I'm only guessing, but the thought of living far away from friends and family in another small community (Corvallis, sure, but still small) didn't sit all that well. So he's moving to Eugene! We're helping him move his thousands of extremely valuable and irreplaceable personal items. No seriously, you should see this guy's fabergé egg collection. Oh, and to make Evan that much more intimidating (as if the fabergé eggs weren't enough!), he's buying a motorcycle. That means he'll soon be kicking peoples faces on the side of their face while riding his motorcycle!

WebMD Says I Have Lymphoma!!!

2008-04-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

I was bored during a morning break, so I decided to check out WebMD. I know plenty of people who have described its hypochondriac-inducing tendencies; why not give it a whirl? The first page is absolutely covered in crap and after uncrossing my eyes several times, I became focused on the box called Symptom Checker.

The Symptom Checker is an interactive picture of the human body. By holding the mouse over a certain area, you are shown a litany of possible aches, pains, protrusions or other items to further describe what ails you. I clicked on the upper chest. Under possible symptoms, I selected cough.

WebMD asked me what kind of cough it is. Then it asked several more cough-related questions and I answered as though I have a common cold (which, coincidentally, I do). When the questions are over, WebMD gives you a list of possible ailments. After four questions of giving answers to describe the common cold, this is what it gave me:

Common cold
Bronchitis
Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease
Aortic aneurysm
Viral pharyngitis
Chronic sinusitis
Bronchial adenoma
Cryptococcosis
Asbestosis

Part of the problem is the fact that medical terminology sounds so damn scary. Viral pharyngitis? Are you kidding me? Why can't they just call it "Hurty Chest Disease?" Viral pharyngitis makes it sound like my body is being ravaged by a government-created bio weapon that will dissolve my lungs from the inside out!

Another problem: all of these horrific viruses/bacterial infections/diseases are included under the caption Conditions Associated With the Selected Symptoms. There is no partitioning of ones that have more in common with your answers than others. Because there is no such division, it looks visually like you could have the common cold or maybe Asbestosis; WebMD can't be sure. Asbestosis! What?? And I've heard of an aortic aneurysm, but after describing common cold symptoms, what in the hell does your heart exploding have to do with the common cold?

My pulse quickened. What if I do have Cryptococcosis? What if it's a combination of Chronic sinusitis and Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease?? I mean, WebMD says I have the symptoms of those two. Can they work together to kill me? Would they work together to kill me? Yes. They are viruses and diseases; most certainly they would enter a pact to destroy me. That's it. I'm going to my doctor. I'm telling her that I need all the medication necessary to fight the Common Cold, Bronchitis, Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, an Aortic aneurysm, Viral pharyngitis, Chronic sinusitis, Bronchial adenoma, Cryptococcosis and Asbestosis. Ha ha ha! Game on, diseases! Game on!!

It's Here!

2008-04-14T09:37:00.000-07:00

It took the board months to settle on a packaging design for the OK queer aid. I'm also relieved that they decided on mint. The other options were catty, diva, and those shoes don't go with that belt, and I was all, "You guys, those aren't even flavors!" I'm glad they took my critique seriously.

The full medical benefits of the OK Queer Aid have not yet been released, but I can give you an insider's scoop! The deluxe package comes with heightened snarkiness and the ability to sense paisley through three layers of clothing. Get yours today!

Kristen Wiig

2008-04-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

For a long time now I have secretly admired Kristen Wiig. Below is just one of the many reasons (oh yeah, and she's Sue in the sketch):

The Fridge

2008-04-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

With the returned deposit from our last rental (EVER!), Robin and I set out to buy a new fridge. The fridge that came with our house had one saving grace - it worked. Other than that, it was very old, very loud, and was basically on all the time. No seriously, it was always clunking and whirring; talk about a power suck.

It turned out that Costco had a Samsung fridge on sale. Scratch that - they were practically giving it away. I was at first apprehensive, because I didn't know Samsung had made a foray into refrigeration. I thought they were still stuck on HDTVs and mobile phones. Turns out, like their LG competitors, they make everything. If it has a circuit board, Samsung built a device around it. Even better is the fact that the fridge came with rave customer reviews; Robin researched the heck out of it. With a little help from our friends, we got it home and into the garage safely and soundly. That was on Sunday.

For those of you that don't know, Robin is a gentleman of quick wit, jolly spirit, and determination. He wanted to put the new fridge in right away, but after a bit of wise counsel (read: protest) on my part, we decided to wait for more help rather than move the two fridges around. Each day after Sunday, I could see the tension welling inside him. Robin was losing control over the fact that we had a gorgeous, way-better fridge just sitting in our garage not being used. It was positively burning him each time he opened the old fridge that rather than smell the musty odor of 70s plastic, he could be bathing in the cool glow of Samsung's brightest new star. Yesterday was when the pot boiled over.

If you think I'm about to air some dirty laundry here, I assure you I am not. Believe me, I was just as irritated as Robin was, but being a man of determination (remember?), Robin had set his mind on the new fridge and was not going to let a little thing like "not enough people to move the fridge" get in his way. So last night, we called one of our bestest friends Evan to help with the fridge ordeal. Evan would be awhile because he had to nourish his body (interpret as you will), so Robin and I were left sitting with the impending new fridge just meters away.

As I made dinner, Robin busily packed the contents of the freezer and fridge into our new cooler (thanks, REI dividends!). Now empty, Robin and I wrangled the old fridge a few feet forward and learned that though we could not pick it up, we could shuffle it around without scratching the floor. Robin pushed it against the sink counter and with a gaping hole where a fridge should be, his taste for blood was pure and insatiable. "Okay, let's go," he said to me and I knew at this point, protest would be pointless. Robin was going to lift the new fridge by himself if nobody else would. Ah, who am I kidding? I wanted it as much as him.

We took off the downstairs door to accommodate the new fridge in its packaging. Tilting it forward, we soon realized that we could actually lift it ourselves for a brief moment. This is in stark contrast to the old fridge which I'm relatively certain is made of solid titanium, cast iron, and tungsten. With the new fridge in position at the base of the staircase, I took the bottom as Robin worked the top (OF THE FRIDGE, YOU SICKOS). It was, in a word, arduous. I already went to the gym that day and blasted my upper body, so this was added punishment I was not ready for. At one point, I honestly thought the fridge was going to crush me and in fact envisioned the scenario. I had to shake the thought of what it would feel like to be crushed by a refrigerator in favor of more pleasant imagery, you know, like living. We worked it up the stairs one at a time... thunk... thunk... thunk... THUNK! After a few minutes of straining and pulling, it proudly sat at the top of our stairs, waiting to be unsheathed and released upon our foodstuffs!

As comedic timing would have it, just as we plunked the Samsung onto the top step, Evan walked through the front door and said, "Hey guys, need any help?" We laughed for a brief moment before maneuvering the new fridge into place, glaring at the old one as we passed by. I went to the liquor store for a bottle of Maker's Mark during a much needed break. Dudes - liquor (especially bourbon) is the best reward.

Upon returning from the Land of Liquid Happiness ("technically," the 29th Street Liquor Store), I came in to find that Evan and Robin had pushed the old fridge into place at the top of the stairs. We were so close! I could see it in Robin's expression. Blood had rushed to his face as he knew glory was about to be ours! No time for chit-chat! Let's do this thang! This will probably come as a huge surprise, but taking a fridge downstairs is a lot easier than carrying it upstairs. Though ridiculously heavy, we got the old fridge downstairs and into the garage in no time.

We put the downstairs door back on and walked upstairs to our beautiful new Prince of Refrigeration, the Samsung RB215LASH, resplendently poised with its platinum finish. Ahhhhhh.... glorious!

All we have to do now is take out the cabinets above so it can actually fit!

Carl's Jr. (SHUDDER)

2008-03-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

For the record, I can't even remember the last time I willfully ate Carl's Junior. I was probably 13 and drunk. I am therefore entitled to make the following post because I can always say (with Taco Bell chalupa firmly in mouth), "Dude. At least I don't eat at Carl's Jr."

Too long have I suffered through the Carl's Jr. commercials. Every time I hear the distinct sounds of slurping and gnashing, I just know that if I turn towards the monitor, I will see someone devouring one of their Buick-sized menu items with sauce oozing and dripping all over the place. It doesn't even matter what menu item is being attacked. Be it a burger, salad, taco salad, fries or a drink, every eating sound must be turned up to 11 just so they can get some kind of point across. The point, presumably, is to make us hungry by thinking, "Wow, that burger sure sounds delicious," which is actually a very clever tactic being as a Carl's Jr. burger is not, in any reality, delicious.

But there is a new menu item that I cannot abide. It is so bad, in fact, that each time the commercial comes on I have to mute the sound and turn away from the screen. For those of you who have seen it, I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that the menu item to which I am referring is Carl's Jr.'s new Chili Cheeseburger. There are so many problems with this burger that it's hard to know where to begin.

First, there is the fact that Carl's Jr. is even making a chili cheeseburger. I'm not sure how the board meeting was going or what kind of mood the powers-that-be at Carl's Jr. were in. They apparently wanted their shit-on-a-shingle burger to actually take on the physical appearance of shit leaking out of an already shitastic cheeseburger. I can only assume one of the board members had an unpleasant encounter in the restroom (after eating Carl's Jr., of course) and thought maybe if they just scooped out the bowl and slopped it on one of their "burgers," they could have a marketable new menu item. And let's be honest - there is no way the Carl's Jr. "chili" is actual chili. It may take on some of the shapes of chili but I shudder to think what is actually in that concoction.

The second problem is the photo of the new chili cheeseburger, taken in traditional Carl's Jr. style. All of their menu items are taken from a low angle with a fish-eye lens to make the item appear as though it is twenty feet high; as though when you go to your local Carl's Jr. and order it, you are going to be directed outside where a forklift will bring it to you. Hopefully you brought a truck so you can get your leftovers home. What is inexcusable with the new chili cheeseburger photo is the fact (expounding on the last paragraph) that shit is gushing out of it. It's an enormous picture of shit flowing from a cheeseburger.

The third and final problem with the commercial is the way in which the burger is being eaten by the male actor. In the beginning of the commercial, the camera angle is taken from his backside, facing the female actor with whom he is lunching. She is loudly devouring her cheese-covered bacon fries when she pauses and informs her companion that he has "a little somthin' over here" as she mimics the area on his face where the "little somethin'" is located. The camera is still at his back when he asks if he got it. She looks up from her bacon fries and says, "More in this area," as she indicates on her left jowl where he missed. The camera finally takes the male actor's face full on and what we are presented with is his lower face absolutely COVERED in the Carl's Jr. "chili." Only we know it's not really chili. So what's on his face? You guys, he has a shit-covered face. His face is literally covered in shit. Everything below his nose is a chunky melange of putrid ass juice.

The first time I saw this commercial, I was mortified but I was in such a state of shock that I couldn't look away. The second time I saw the commercial, my stomach turned and dinner threated to make a reappearance. And now, well you know how it is now. Why couldn't Carl's Jr. just stick to their "Don't Bother Me I'm Eating" slogan and have a construction worker packing away their chili cheeseburger from the top of a building frame as "chili" rained from their 20 foot high burger onto the streets below? I mean, sure it's still disgusting but at least we wouldn't have a close up of someone's face covered in shit. Ugh. Okay I have to stop typing because I'm thinking about it too much. Any more time devoted to this post and I'll be horking into my trash can for sure.

Removing Wallpaper

2008-03-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

(Quick note: Our new house is great, perfect, lovely, fun, exciting, exhausting and all those things.)

Four rooms in our new house are "decorated" with wallpaper. The previous tenant, RIP, was kind enough to only wallpaper two of the four walls in each room (with the exception of the bathroom which positively needed all four walls "decorated"). We also discovered that underneath the wallpaper is a perfectly fine textured wall.

I'm on the record as being anti-wallpaper since 1987. I hate it. I think it adds nothing to a home and in fact should be erased from existence.

PROOF THAT I'M RIGHT: You might think it looks good now. You think to yourself, "Hey! I found some beautiful wallpaper that I could slap on my walls to give this room an extra kick!" You think, "Golly gosh, wallpapering would only take a little time and effort on my part, after which I can enjoy the fruits of my labor!" But what you are not taking into consideration is the fact that wallpaper, like all of us, gets old. Not only does it get old, but it yellows and stains and rips and begins to peel. In short, it eventually looks disgusting. Which means that eventually, you will have to re-wallpaper or take it down entirely. And trust me, you will rue the day you wanted to put up wallpaper once you're scrubbing off the adhesive for countless hours. Here's why:

Long ago, in a time before time when the universe was just a little baby, Satan was sitting alone in his room. Mom and dad had gone out for dinner and drinks with friends, giving Satan the run of the house. Nothing was on TV, so he went into his room and got into his pajamas.

Being of a certain age, parts of Satan's body were beginning to develop. When he removed his clothes, Satan noticed that a certain lump between his legs got all tingly. He touched it. Then he touched it some more. He touched it so much that before he knew it, an explosion of euphoria erupted from his loins. Hot, steaming liquid exploded out of him like lava from a volcano. He doused the walls, covering them in a slick, sticky paste. When it was all over, he looked around and realized the mess he had caused. He looked at the clock and began to panic. Mom and dad would be home in a half hour!

Satan burst open the linen closet, digging for old towels or rags. The only thing he could find were perfect, fluffy new towels! "DAMMIT," Satan said aloud, "Mom must've made a trip to Goodwill!" He rushed down the hallway and into the garage, where sitting neatly by the recycling bin was a stack of newspapers. He grabbed some and headed back into his room. A quick touch revealed that the goo was still wet. He hastily placed newspaper on the wall. Obituaries, comics, community news, national news, advertisements, sports, all of it soon covered his walls.

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.

And that is the story of how wallpaper adhesive (and subsequently wallpaper) was invented.

Hey Kids, Gather 'Round! This is What a Fear Mongerer Looks Like!

2008-03-12T09:04:00.000-07:00

I realize that the past few posts have been videos. Perhaps someday my blog will return to its usual sparkling commentary full of innuendo, double entendre and a certain je ne sais quoi. In the mean time, here's another video! And might I just say, Bill O'Reilly keeps looking sexier and sexier. And by sexier I mean creepier. And by creepier I mean crazier. And by crazier I mean douchier. I could go on, but I'm sure you'll see what I mean...

Fred and Sharon

2008-03-10T12:37:00.000-07:00

Monday was totally sucking until I stumbled across this. It is completely real and all I can say is Canada 2 US 0. First national health care, now the Best TV Ad In History:

Digital Animated Music

2008-03-07T10:38:00.000-08:00

Thanks Ben!

The video below will only give you a rinky-dink preview. I highly suggest following their link for the whole thing.

AtomFilms.com: Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | Comedy Central

HELLO?? CAN YOU HEAR ME?!?! HELLO?!?!

2008-03-06T14:09:00.000-08:00

There is a big national conference going on in our building this week. Over 3000 people have descended upon the school and will be attending one talk or another, participating in one workshop or another. Sequestered far away in my indescribably gorgeous office, I don't have to deal with it too much; only when I have to take the occasional bathroom trip. The interesting folks who attend include professors, students, attorneys, lawyers, mediators, lawyers and attorneys. It is by far one of the most successful and highly-anticipated conferences of the season! You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a keynote speaker.

One thing I enjoy about such gatherings is the amount of diversity they bring. Oh don't get me wrong, it's still 99.9999999% white, but at least there are different shades. You know, the California whites are olive-skinned and freshly botoxed, the Midwest whites are walking around hugging everyone because it's above -30 degrees and the East coast whites are scowling because they were summoned from their Gregorian mansions. All in all, it's an interesting bunch.

One thing I don't enjoy is that all these people have to bring their obnoxious habits with them. I mean, come on. Leave your irritating personal behaviors at the door people! Awwww, that's rude. I have plenty annoying behaviors that I wear proudly on my sleeve every day. One of them is not, however, jabbing away on my mobile phone in elevators.

[I enter the 3rd floor elevator pushing a dolly full of boxes destined for the 2nd floor. A well-dressed woman on her mobile steps out when the door opens, looks around and says, "Whoops. This isn't the ground floor," and steps back in.]

"Hello? What? WHAT?? No, I'm in the LAW SCHOOL. THE LAW SCHOOL. I'M IN THE LAW SCHOOL. HELLO?? CAN YOU... HELLO? I'M. NO! I'M.... THE LAW SCHOOL. I'M IN THE LAW SCHOOL. DID YOU.... HELLO? HELLO?!?! THE! LAW! SCHOOL! I'M ALMOST THERE! NO! I'M LEAVING RIGHT NOW!!! THE LAW SCHOOL!! HELLO??!!"

The above quote is not exaggerated in the slightest. She was yelling so loud that she would have been the perfect candidate to scream for help had the elevator failed. At least in that case, I could be thankful for her grating tone rather than suffer through it. Add to this the fact that our elevators are tortuously slow and the perfect storm of Obnoxious Lady on Her Cell Phone in an Elevator rained hell upon me.

I shivered in frustration. She didn't pay me even the slightest bit of attention. If she said, nay, gestured something like, "Sorry about this!," then I would have been less irritated. As it stood, by the time the doors finally opened, I had half a mind to rip the phone out of her hand, scream, "SHE'LL CALL YOU BACK," into the receiver and throw it back at her. I probably would have at least said something snarky were it not for the packages with my name printed largely on top. Instead, I decided to take a page from my man Gandhi and walk away. Wait, that's not right! Gandhi was all about shankin' kidneys! Too bad I left my shank in the office.

Irregardless

2008-03-04T14:16:00.000-08:00

I am usually tolerant of all types of lexicon abuse; I myself am privy to the occasional slip-up. There is one type of abuse, however, that I do not think should be tolerated and in fact should be punished (sexily). This type of abuse occurs when a self-professed erudite law student sends me emails and includes vocabulary that is misused but done in such a way as to make them sound more edumucated than s/he actually are.

Exhibit A:

"I will be unable to make this meeting today. I am confident that the agenda will be reviewed with aplomb and the goals of the meeting will be accomplished.

Please update me on any news or action items. Thank you."

My issue with the above email is the second sentence. First of all, I can't stand the way this student ingratiates themselves by a cheap attempt at stroking my ego. [Mincingly] Mmmmm, yes I'm sure my agenda will be reviewed with aplomb and the goals will be accomplished, mmmm, yes. The problem, if you haven't guessed already, is the use of the word "aplomb." I had to double-check because I had never heard "aplomb" used so poorly, but my gut was right and in fact, aplomb means "imperturbable self-possession, poised or assured." Therefore, taking the literal definition of the word and putting in context with the email doesn't make much sense. Here's what I think of when one uses the word aplomb:

Several English professors take their seats in plush, high-backed Louis XIV chairs. A sommelier pours each of them a fine cognac and lights their cigars. Lord Puffington, Regent Executor of Socksburyshire, turns to Baron von Shrewsberg with an air of petulance, "Baron, I say. You have been keeping up on the latest Trans-Atlantic property debate raging in the Colonies, have you not? You have yet to submit your report." The other professors eye each other delicately, for they realize the gross misstep in formality the Baron's oversight has caused. "My dear Lord Puffington, the report you requested cannot be completed until General Braxingly gives me his account of the native villages. Until then, it is unlikely we will make any further gains in taxable assets." Lord Puffington lazily regards the painting of his father, Lord Puffington The Great, above the mantle. "Baron. I have given you ample time to digest the situation and furthermore, you have assured me that by this time it would have been resolved. Now I find that not only is it unresolved, but you have placed the blame squarely upon General Braxlingly who coincidentally I heard from myself just this morning." The Baron shifts uncomfortably in his well-appointed Louis XIV chair. "My Lord, surely you...," but before the Baron could finish, Lord Puffington's eyes swell with rage and a pistol blast rings through the hall. The Baron's lifeless body slumps to the floor and the other professors try their best not to notice.

I hope you can see from the above example that Lord Puffington is chalk-full of aplomb.

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 try 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."

Weekend Haps

2008-03-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

Off to a bad start: The word "haps" really annoys me. I could change it but then I'd be censoring myself.

WARNING! Super sexy interesting blog post ahead! It's so sexy your genitals might EXPLODE after the first paragraph!!

We sign our closing papers on the 14th; less than two weeks away. I hear that it takes eight illegally-harvested old growth Douglas Firs to make up one stack of closing papers. At least, that's what my friend Chandra tells me. I think she only knows that because one time she chained herself to a Doug Fir and when Weyerhaeuser came and took it (and her) away, she got an insider's look at the home buying industry's illegal paper trade. Sordid!

This is the fifth time Robin and I have moved together. The first few times, we moved from a small space to a slightly larger place and therefore didn't have a lot of things to worry about. If we didn't get it all boxed up before moving day, no big deal. However, after almost six years of mind-altering bliss, we have lots of crap. When we moved into our current house, we put a bunch of old sentimental things in boxes with the intention of going through them one day. They were placed in the office closet and are still there, untouched.

One thing we learned from our last move is that when you do a little planning and put in some elbow grease before hand, moving day is actually quite smooth (cue schmaltzy Disney "work song"). We enlisted the help of several friends but made sure to have all our possessions boxed up and ready to go the day before. We rented a gigantic U-Haul which was far too big, but one trip and twenty minutes of packing/unpacking later we were moved. We were so organized, in fact, that we even had a party in our new place that night. This efficient moving model is one we will again be employing in a couple of weeks. Actually, I think it fulfills a more primordial desire on both our parts because we're of German descent. Efficient German moving! Mach schnell!

In order to achieve maximum results, the Efficient German Moving Model requires a lot of prep work. So, this weekend was partially spent going through our clothes and Goodwilling a bunch of crap we never wear which turned out to be a lot. I completely forgot how skinny I used to be and might I just say, I'm glad my breasts finally developed. A long time ago we took a stab at Goodwilling our clothes but were for one reason or another still delusional about our body size. I remember thinking, "Yeah, well if I just lose most of my muscle mass and don't eat for a year I could totally fit into this!" This time around, we were much more comfortable getting rid of pitted-out t-shirts and size 30 pants.

Our bedroom was one thing; the office is quite another. Another aspect in the EGMM is not moving junk you'll never-in-a-million-years use again. This means going through all those closet boxes and throwing out or Craigslisting old crap that at one time or another was sentimental. The thing is, I can't remember why I was holding on to most of the stuff in the first place. I mean, my Bachelor's Degree? Who the hell needs that? I gave up after one box and instead packed up the book shelves and other random items.

The final step in the EGMM is making your friends move all your crap. This can easily be accomplished with the promise of delicious pizza and a keg of Ninkasi when they're done. Oh, and a ragin' party at the new digs. Now that I think about it, this post has become more about the EGMM than anything else. So because I love redundancy love, I will now give you the step-by-step successful achievement plan of the EGMM:

1. Find place to move
2. Mach schnell!
3. Lay out time line and indicate when things must be ready to move.
4. Arrange for change of mail and cable.
5. SCHNELL!
6. Call bank, loan companies, family, friends and others who need your new address.
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!
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!
9. Box absolutely everything possible in the weeks that precede the move. The night before, box up everything else.
10. MACH. SCHNELL.
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!
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! Verstehen Sie? Mach Schnell!!

I swear I'm not crazy.

Powerthirst

2008-02-28T09:48:00.000-08:00

Thanks, April!

Absolute Beauty

2008-02-25T10:03:00.001-08:00

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:

Plagiarism!

2008-02-22T08:45:00.001-08:00

The recent mud-bombs originating from the Clinton camp have been targeting Obama's plagiarist tendencies. It is quite evident that his speeches are the exact same as Deval Patrick's. It is also quite evident that the same speech writer who worked for Patrick now works for Obama. During last night's CNN Debate, Clinton said, "I just think that if you're going to make your campaign about words, they need to be your words." ZING! But let's face it, Clinton has her own speech writers. And sorry Mrs. Clinton, but there are several instances in which you've plagiarized John Edwards and your own husband.

Which brings me laboriously to my point. Plagiarism has existed for like, billions of years. Back when the universe was forming (7,000 years ago) dwarf stars were saying to developing stars, "Whatever! I was totally fusing atomic particles before you were even a blip in the molecular cloud. COPY CAT!" The same can be said and has been said by many old people to us, the younger generation. You see, life in general is just one huge cycle of plagiarism. Had my daddy's sperm hit mommy's egg and a squirrel popped out, then something original would have happened. Instead, I was born with the same boring features as any other human being: two eyes, two arms, two ears, two legs and two tails.

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!

Given all my astounding logic, surely you must see that plagiarism is just unavoidable. It's going to happen. It's happening all around us, all the time. The next time you think you have something truly original on your hands, in actuality you don't. You don't because the words you used in your head while thinking of your invention were plagiarized from the originator of English. So when you get all super stoked because you invented something "new," you have to plagiarize even more to write about it and talk about it at your boring conferences. So there you have it. The meaning of life is to plagiarize. That is our purpose, that is our plight. You can take it or leave it, but even then you're plagiarizing the "do" or "not do" dichotomy from history. I rest my case.

Proxy Fight!!

2008-02-19T08:50:00.000-08:00

I'm sure most of you are all up on Microsoft's attempted takeover of Yahoo. If you're not, allow me to briefly sum up: Microsoft tried to bid something like $45 billion and Yahoo told them politely to go fuck their greedyass selves.

So check it: Microsoft is not having this. After getting bitch slapped by Yahoo, Microsoft went home and was all pissed and shit. They were sitting around all like, "Dudes, that was so not cool. Don't they know how much money $45 billion is? Don't they know they are just delaying the inevitable?" After whining about it for a few days, Chairman Bill Gates sent a nice little letter saying, "That deal was so totally fair so we're not going to raise it because your stock just went down and stuff. Take it or leave it."

Yahoo left it. In fact, those hot bitches at Yahoo are squatting on their company like a fat kid on a toilet after an all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet. They're like, "I DARE you to come in here and take me off this toilet. You'll DIE from the stench." Perhaps my imagery is a bit grotesque, but it illustrates a point. You see, most of the aforementioned hot bitches wouldn't stand to be Microsoft employees. They'd jump ship so fast that the wreckage left would be similar to that of the fat kid's bowel movements. The growing hostility between the two companies is deep and penetrating; Mostly penetrating. Yahoo doesn't want to sell and Microsoft is totally pissed. You know what that means! AHHH YEEEA! IT'S TIME FOR A PROXY FIGHT!!!

I already know about proxy fights because my dissertation was totally about how awesome proxy fights are. In my dissertation, I quoted Wikipedia and will do so again for your edumucation: A proxy fight or proxy battle is an event that may occur when a corporation's stockholders develop opposition to some aspect of the corporate governance, often focusing on directorial and management positions. Basically what Microsoft is going to do is try and put a more compliant board of directors in the place of the current board of directors; Puppets, if you will, of Microsoft's, um, will. Microsoft will try and lure Yahoo shareholders to use their proxy votes so they can ever-so-kindly overturn their current ruling class in order that they would be replaced by... another ruling class. This sounds like about the stupidest thing a shareholder can do, especially considering the potentially-incoming managerial team is Microsoft, but there's another aspect to this proxy battle thing....

SEXY PARTIES! Oh dudes, you just know that Yahoo has some rich ass hos on their board of directors. You think a little pressure on the shareholders is going to make them step down or get voted out? Hell no! Microsoft is going to have to lick butt (and I mean LICK BUTT) to get those Yahoo suits to relent. Those shareholders are so stoked!! If I were a big Yahoo shareholder, I would be sitting in the finest 5-star French restaurant with Microsoft execs being all, "Yeah, I'm sure I could be persuaded if you buy me a Gucci suit." But then they'd buy me that gorgeous expensive suit and I'd be like, "Ooh. It sure is nice but I could really use a new yacht," and it would continue on like that until I had tons of free shit and then I still wouldn't use my proxy vote because they're MICROSOFT? HELLO?

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!"

And this is the point where I realize that my post has devolved into some kind of twisted, crappy porn. OK then. Might as well stop while I'm ahead.

An Open Letter

2008-02-13T08:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Hippies,

We have lived here for quite some time now. Over the years, much has changed in the environment, technology and culture. In the 1980s, your efforts successfully halted the rampant harvesting of our native forests. For many of you, this task will never be completed, but you have made significant headway in keeping our lands green and fertile. You have raised our awareness about whole, organic foods. I can go to practically any part of the city and have fresh, locally-raised foodstuffs available for my consumption. Your dedication to equality has also not gone unnoticed. Though you do not necessarily identify yourselves as "hippies," I can smell the patchouli at civil rights gatherings and take comfort in the fact that you are there.

That said, it is time to address a couple of issues which I find contradictory to your aims for a cleaner, greener, happier city:

Your choice of vehicles is positively, absolutely, hopelessly ironic given your values. Those of you who preach of gaseous poisons clogging our atmosphere have made a gross error in judgment when the vehicle you drive is a 60s era VW Bus. My family had one of those when I was little. It was by far the most environmentally unfriendly vehicle I have ever been in. Just this morning, I was walking to the bus stop when such a vehicle passed me. Black smoke billowed from the back end and brazenly displayed on the rear were bumper stickers reading "Mother Earth", "Nature Conservatory" and "Kill your TV."

I always enjoy when irony finds its way into my life, particularly if said irony has nothing to do with me but I can experience it from a distance. This kind of irony, however, I do not enjoy. You see, it is with a very smug sense of self-satisfaction that these kind of hippies roam about town. They would simultaneously espouse their borderline sexual love for nature while smoking their "natural" cigarette and throwing the butt on the ground. These kind of dirty hippies are absolutely disgusting as smokers in the first place. To be throwing that cancerous butt on the ground while at a rally for better salmon habitat protection is... well frankly it's terrible.

You, my co-habitants, need to check it. You are not conscientious protectors of nature, rather, you are an amalgamation of guilt, selfishness and disregard. You would accuse others of being insensitive when in fact your actions contradict what you claim to hold most dear.

And by the way, I will gladly kill my TV when you kill your festering hypocrisy.

Yours,

Infused Confusion

And Then There Was A House

2008-02-12T10:59:00.000-08:00

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 most perfect neighborhood ever fell on top of me.

No really, it happened just like that. Or at least, it feels like that. No longer trapped under the house, I am free to roam about and feel good about our purchase. My home-owning friends all told me how fast the home buying process is once it happens. Or I should say, how fast all the wheels of the Home Buying Machine are put into motion. We toured the house on Saturday and offered the same day. We low balled them pretty good and WHOOSH, they accepted. They didn't fight, nit pick, bitch, moan, yell or otherwise go back and forth with us. They just dropped the house squarely in our laps. It was over within 22 hours. We finalized the acceptance papers the following evening and just like that, it was time to get some inspections scheduled.

Many of you know this, but the house is actually an estate left from the previous owner who died in and now haunts the place as a murderous ghost. The family who is now responsible is in one of two (or both) situations: 1) They are well-off enough and don't need to squabble over minutiae regarding the price and/or 2) They just want the whole thing over with. We know this because they aren't even dealing with the property themselves; their lawyer is. They're listing it as "sight unseen" and "as is". Typically, I think of clothing when I see the words "as is". Moreover, I am highly skeptical of said clothing and take the time (if I'm interested at all) to examine every small detail to find out what went horribly wrong to make it "as is". In the housing market, if then inspection turns up something bad, the "as is" clause doesn't exempt the family from fixing it before we take possession. In fact, depending on the repair (which hopefully there will be none), they will be obligated to take care of it before we proceed to live there.

We found out that our Realtor is indeed savvy to the implications of selling a house "sight unseen" and as such, negotiated a warranty on the house with the sellers (basically: You don't want to come and check off things on your own? Fine. Then you're willing to pay for them should they break, right? Right). So far, I know of nobody who had a warranty on their house when they first moved in, especially one purchased by the sellers. There is a long list of things that if they break within the first year of our ownership, the warranty company has to pay for it. This includes the roof, plumbing, electrical system, heating, structural integrity, and on and on. Basically, Robin and I are very much covered for the first year. After that, we can continue the policy if we so choose.

We're in a very happy place right now. We were preparing for a long process of searching and debating. We were braced for negotiations and going back and forth over the price and what the inspection turns up. Not to get all mushy, but it feels as though a wave of good karma is washing over us, making this first time home buying process exciting and joyous.

Crazy

2008-02-07T08:51:00.000-08:00

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.

Anyway, April and I have been exchanging emails and she ordered me to blog about something. I have never been given a directive regarding the content of my blog. However, I was excited at the opportunity to bend over backwards for the sake of someone else's amusement. Dance, monkey!! I referred to someone as "bat shit crazy" in one of these emails to April. She then responded, "could you describe and differentiate the different levels of crazy?"

Well, I have no idea what "differentiate" is but if you shout it and point an imaginary wand, it sounds like a spell from the Harry Potter novels so I'm going with that. I do know what the rest of her sentence means so hopefully the following will do it some justice.

According to dictionary.com, "crazy" means a lot of things. Depending on the context and nuance of one's voice, "crazy" can range in meaning from "totally mental" to "totally awesome". The variance between what is intended and the literal definition of the word is further complicated by the phrase surrounding it. "That's crazy, man" could be translated as, "radical, dude", whereas "shut the fuck up you crazy bitch" would most likely mean, "I no longer wish to continue this dialogue".

The problem with a word like crazy is that the speaker is really the ultimate context from which the word gains its meaning; When I say "crazy" is not the same as when, say, your mom says "crazy". Ergo, I cannot hope to give an exhaustive account that will be applicable to all people in all situations. Thusly, the following will be examples of what I mean when I use the following phrases with "crazy":

"You're crazy"
(With chuckle): You're fun! I enjoy the zaniness of whatever it is you're stimulating me with.
(Without chuckle, eyebrows raised): Perhaps you haven't thought this through...
(Searching for closest exit): Please, let's not make this more awkward than it has to be.

"That's crazy"
(Regarding object): It is complicated and amuses me!
(Regarding self): I need to get that checked out
(Regarding other): How are you bending your legs like that??

"Crazy like a fox!"
(Same in every instance): I'm/You're/That's completely insane and it just might work!

"Crazy, dude"
(To person directly): Your predicament befuddles me.
(To person indirectly): Our predicament befuddles me.

"S/he/you/they is/are Bat. Shit. Crazy."
(Same in every instance): They have lost all sense of reality such that their brain has literally been reduced to a pile of bat shit. Frankly, nothing else would make sense given the severe level of craziness erupting from their mouth. No seriously, it is a wonder that they can remember to breathe or clothe and feed themselves.

And there you have it. I have failed in the modest task that was my charge and for that, I apologize. I tried to give "levels" to the above situations but no matter how I defined or designated (differentiated?) them, the levels seems completely random and subject to the whims of my fancy. Then again, they are levels in so far as the final expression is the ultimate embodiment of the traditional definition of crazy. If you hear me call you "bat shit crazy", I probably mean that we won't be hanging out if I can help it. You wouldn't hear me say that to your face, however, because I'm only confrontational behind people's backs. I wait for the gossip train to hit them full speed. Am I rambling? Eh, probably. This whole post is pretty strange now that I proof read it, but I assume your task (April) was just that. You wanted me to touch a bit of madness, to brush up against an impossible task? Well done.

Apply THIS

2008-02-06T12:57:00.000-08:00

I am proud to say that my Facebook page is very clean. I can't call it clean in the biblical sense because of the rampant gayness, but it is clean in the comparative sense. If you take a stroll down Facebook lane, you'll find dozens, nay, THOUSANDS (!) of Facebook pages absolutely riddled with junk. There are people who pretend to be vampires biting "chumps" thereby sending the bitee an electronic Facebook invitation to become a vampire and join their electronic vampire army that gets points and is supposedly really cool. I'm sorry, but I have far too much respect for the real vampires who work tirelessly at creating their REAL vampire army to degrade them with such trivial games. I was also recruited to be a pirate with the same kind of invitation, only rather than gnaw at my flesh like the vampire, the pirate recruiter simply asked if I would like to be on their ship in the manner real pirates do; by blasting a cannon ball at me.

Then there was this Never-Ending movie quiz thing. It is a collection of questions written by obsessive compulsive Facebookers who have apparently whittled their taste in cinema down to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and other supremely notable 90s flicks. Your ranking appears in the upper right hand corner when you play this ridiculous thing and it just goes on forever; a testament to its moniker. I was so bored one day that I answered over 800 questions in a row and I was still only ranked 94,035. I don't even want to know what it would take to become Number 1, but I bet there are some hardcore 90s film genre fans right now sitting with blood shot eyes, dry mouths and robust social lives.

The lust for competition only continues when you look at another application; Rank Me. This is an arbitrary ranking system that pits two of your friends against each other and asks a thought-provoking question like, "Who's Cuter?", and demands that you choose between the two. It is particularly difficult when the ranking question pertains to neither of your friends. Who's Cuter? Meh, neither of you is cuter so how about you just kill yourselves for my amusement?

I was partial to the Dirty Gifts application, until the Dirty Gifts started to include things like vomit and poo. You know how I feel about poo and getting the electronic version flung at me doesn't change my opinion on the subject. It was kind of funny at first, but after you receive several piles of dung, putrid toe jam or bacterial infestations, the honeymoon is over.

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**.

*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.

**I get 20% if you do.

Check Out My Soapbox!

2008-02-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

For those of you laboring under the delusion that the United States is the greatest country on earth without having been to very many other countries, I give you Germany. Remember Germany? The country that only 65 years ago was a hotbed of Nazi activity? Germany, the country united only recently by the fall of the Berlin wall? That Germany?

It turns out that Germans are pretty freakin' cool towards the gays. Keep in mind that this article is in addition to their Life Partnership law passed in 2000 which includes:

May take the same surname
Share household insurance
Hospital visitation
Act as the next of kin in key medical decisions
Requirement of a court decision for divorce
Resident status to foreign partners in binational couples
Some parental rights regarding a partners’ biological children
Status identical to married couples in tenancy, inheritance (excluding inheritance taxes), pensions, and health insurance
Provision for one partner to collect support, after a divorce
Pension inheritance
Originally, couples did not have the right to adopt children, however, this has since been corrected to allow a partner’s already existing children to be adopted
Key financial provisions which would have ended discrimination in income and inheritance tax laws (Some of these have now been addressed)
Requirement to support an unemployed partner

Please realize that Robin and I are not guaranteed any of the above by law. Not one. If Robin were ill, it would be from the kindness and love of his family that they would allow me to make decisions on his behalf. As it stands right now, I wouldn't have any legal precedence if they wanted it otherwise.

It's encouraging to me that Germany would now include the atrocities committed against homosexuals living in Germany during the Nazi occupation at the Holocaust memorial. On a fundamental level, it means that Germany acknowledges the humanity of homosexuals and views them as equal. The movement towards acceptance of all cultures and lifestyles is something that Germany (and most of Europe in general, including the Czech Republic) is at least a decade ahead of us on.

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.

Toilet Conversations

2008-01-30T14:45:00.000-08:00

I was using a stall in the bathroom this afternoon. Usually there are at least a few people in various stages of excretion but today was nice and quiet. I was enjoying the peacefulness of our building's upstairs bathroom until in the stall next to me, I hear...

*Loud Nokia phone ring*

Sean: Hello? This is Sean.

Voice: (mumble)

Sean: Oh hi Paul, thanks for calling me back so soon.

Voice: (mumble, mumble)

Sean: Yeah, um I can't come right away but can I call you back in five minutes?

Voice: (mumble, mumble, mumble, etc.)

Sean: Okay. Sure, will you be in your office? I would talk right now but I'm kinda in the middle of something. (more mumbling from other side). Okay, thanks I appreciate it.

Sean's Butt: PBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTTT.

It was all I could do to keep from busting up. "I'm kinda in the middle of something"? Well no shit (ha! Shit!). Due to the constraints of typed words, the above text cannot give you the sense of urgency in Sean's voice during that call. It was just slightly strained so while I'm sure Paul couldn't make out the tone of voice conveying Sean's effort to tense his ass muscles, it was palpable from where I sat. Whether Sean wanted it to or not, his doody was coming out now. No dumb phone conversation was going to stand between Sean's waste and its impending freedom.

And can I just ask? Who the hell answers their phone while dropping a load? Who? 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 going 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!

I could go on and on, but I have to go. I'm kinda in the middle of something.

My Pet Peeves

2008-01-29T13:30:00.000-08:00

Two blog posts in one day! What are the odds?! Anyway, Robin forwarded my this list of Pet Peeves forwarded to him by a coworker forwarded to her by somebody else. I usually hate, HATE, forwards but this one is fucking hysterical. Enjoy!

Women who breastfeed in public but then make a big show of hiding it as if I care.

Total strangers telling me what to do, especially square-dance callers.

Those pretentious phonies who say "pasta" instead of paste or "Boca Raton" instead of rat's mouth.

Itchy labels on bungee ankle straps so I itch the whole way down.

When my opera cape gets caught on homeless people's junk.

Waiters who recite the specials in a bored singsong voice as if they don't really care what I eat.

Bad art in motel rooms, especially bad performance art.

When a woman stands near me and people think her ugly baby is mine and it is.

Dentists who cram my mouth full and don't even ask me one question, though I've been practicing all year.

Big, conceited bodies of water, especially Lake Superior.

The depressing attractions at the Svenskfilmindustrie theme park, near Stockholm. (Actually, I may have dreamt this.)

When a can of cheap peas says "Pea Color and Size May Vary" and inside there's just one giant blue pea.

Halloween decorations in a hospice.

Distant calliope music at night tempting me to forget my duties and run off with the circus and to hell with her orgasm!

A "nature burger" with fake grill marks painted on it.

People who know way too much about the Merovingians or cheese.

Prank phone calls like the guy who called me selling light bulbs for the blind. Ha-ha. Very funny. You are sick, mister.

Barbecue restaurants with happy pigs on the sign.

Those foreign guys on the subway who pretend to read newspapers written in gibberish.

People on fire-they're always asking for favors, even if they hardly know you.

The way road signs talk to you in that stern, fatherly voice.

I never seem to meet those cheerful, uncomplicated women you see on tractor-trailer mud flaps.

When a lecturer takes a drink of water and doesn't offer us any.

I've been all over the world and have lived among every kind of culture and I can say, without any hesitation, that the most ignorant, rude, selfish, and self-centered people on earth are babies.

Snow Day!!!

2008-01-29T08:41:00.001-08:00

For those of you living in areas where snow in the winter is a constant nuisance, the following excitedly-worded post may not be to your liking. If, however, you live in areas like mine where snow is a wondrous spectacle, a rarely-if-even-once-a-year event, then come join with me in thanking our Unholy Lord of the Underworld for this blessing (no, not Satan, the other one).

I awoke Sunday morning to Robin's voice. "Oh my GOD," he said while leaning off the bed and looking outside. Something about the white glow bathing our room suggested to me that a monumental 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 dumping. 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.

Robin and I got up and put on our pajamas, excited for the coming day spent at home wrapped in warm blankets with kitty purring loudly in our lap. The weather didn't disappoint. The snow just kept coming until there were 6 inches of fresh powder at our house. 'Round about breakfast time, we were hankerin' for some grub so we saddled up and moseyed on down to tha Albertson's (Sorry, but after beginning that last sentence with "'round about", I couldn't just stop there now could I?). We picked up some ingredients for a delicious white bean chili and home we went. Chris met up with us and we had a delicious breakfast followed later by a delicious white bean chili. All was right with the world.

Everything froze Sunday night, so it was declared Monday that we would have a snow day. Again sitting at home, I watched outside as the flurries continued flurrying most of the morning. The temperature had no intention of continuing this freezing state, so it rose by midday and everything began to melt. This morning I woke up to rain and 34 degrees. Alls I can say is that even though it was short lived, our 2007 snow storm won't soon be forgotten by this humble servant of the Under Lord.

House Hunting = Torture

2008-01-22T10:51:00.000-08:00

Robin and I have been actively searching for a home to purchase for over three weeks. It started as a whim, a spark, a look into what kind of financing we could get. With good credit and stable jobs, it turns out we have quite a lot available. We decided on a lender. We were recommended a fantastic real estate agent. We were ready to go in a few short days.

The hunt began as a meeting and eight home tour with our agent. The purpose was to acquaint us with what is available in our price range, what features in a new home we really can't live without and what neighborhood we want to be looking in. The process is overwhelming at first, because I was taking in so much sensory input and trying to remember things like "not to worry, walls can be painted" and "how the hell would we change that" all while processing the overall appeal of the house, where it was, etc.

The weekend before last, we looked at a house on West 18th Place. It was perfect. A bit outside our price range, our agent knew how to work the system being that the house was still going to need some work on the kitchen. She offered a price reduction in lieu of the contractors finishing what they were originally intending to (i.e. sanding the cabinets and changing the counter tops). The agent selling the house agreed, reducing the price by a whopping $25,000. Suddenly, the house was very much in our range. Our realtor called immediately to see if we would go for it. We said yes. This was in the morning around 11am. At 2:30, Robin got a call from our realtor saying that the agent selling the house had pulled a shady deal. He had accepted our offer by phone but never faxed our realtor the disclosure agreement. Without that, we couldn't proceed. In the mean time, he accepted a higher offer from another buyer (we can only assume, but why would he change his mind like that? Higher sale price = more money in his dirty ass shady bitch hell ass pocket). House We Like #1 was no longer an option.

We viewed several more houses this past weekend. Now bolstered by a better idea of what we were looking for, some of the homes were very easy to dismiss. We still took them in as best we could, but our bias was clearly showing. Now that our realtor has a good idea of what we like and don't, she is able to offer her opinion that speaks to our needs. After a string of disappointments, we visited a home on Sally Way. Before I continue, I realize the irony of two gays living on Sally Way. It just sounds gay. It would pretty much be the gayest place we could live besides the popular Rainbow Avenue or Ass Spelunker Court. Be that as it may, the house itself was even more perfect than the previous one. After thinking on it for the evening, we decided we would offer on it the next day.

Our realtor met us at the house for one final look before continuing to her office to sign papers. We had just begun the paper signing process when the agent representing the house called our agent. Turns out, at that moment, there as another buyer offering on the place. So now we had competition. Great. Robin was upset and though I was too, all I could do was laugh. Of course this would happen as we were putting together our offer. On the advice of our realtor, we beefed up our offer to make ours hopefully the more appealing. We did enough to get the seller to make a meeting between the two realtors and hack it out in a bidding war. We were willing to offer the listing price. Turns out so were the other buyers and they had a "substantial down payment", so they won. I don't know why that matters in the scheme of buying a house because we were pre-approved for our loan, but I suppose it just sounds nicer to the seller. House We Like #2 was no longer an option.

I sat last night irritated that the process of purchasing a home is so, forgive my language, FUCKED IN THE GOAT ASS. It goes against everything I have been taught as a good little consumer. Were it any other financial venture, I could walk in with a huge pile of money and say, "Me wantee", the effect of which would be immediate possession of my desired thing. Robin and I are walking around with a ridiculous sum of money, throwing it in people's faces and there's no guarantee that our pile of money will be accepted. Even if it were, there are inspections, closing and so many other factors that could lead to us never getting the house we want.

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.

The Doctor Is In

2008-01-16T09:56:00.000-08:00

I am the minute-taker for all the library meetings. Usually the hour consists of typing things I only know a little bit about. The librarian jargon is becoming clearer to me as time passes, but when the acronyms start firing away (MOML, ELCL, AALL), I can only zone out and copy what I think I'm hearing. Often times I'm wrong and am quickly corrected.

Today was a lighter meeting than usual; lighter in the sense that we didn't have a lot to discuss. There was only one major talking point that my boss needed to cover. The second talking point was taking a look at Google Books and wondering if that resource should be incorporated into our procedures for helping students find texts online.

Google Books is fantastic. It's a resource for people who want to find scanned texts and documents, varying in completeness depending on copyright issues. If the volume is very old and out of print, your search will turn up a complete scanned text, some from places like the Library of Congress or Harvard University. If the requested item is more recent and particularly if Google hasn't dismembered the copyright institution protecting the book (yet), you'll only get a portion of the text, with large pieces missing. In any case, it's a great time-waster, I mean complete UN time-waster, and is worth a look.

Being in the business of law, my boss asked me to search the full texts for "Law" between 1800 and 1900. We perused the Google-created book covers (very nice work, Google! It doesn't look like a 5th grader with Microsoft Paint did these at all!). On the second or third page was a journal of correspondence between one Dr. Lushington and his court opponent, circa 1843. I didn't really care about the content, for I was stuck thinking about Dr. Lushington.

I imagined a somewhat overweight middle-aged family doctor, probably in his late 40s. He was a staunch man with a mustache and graying hair. He sat slouched in his office chair, hands laid flat on the desk in front of him. One eye was slightly more closed than the other, and he seemed to be pondering the stethoscope hanging around his neck. The nurse walked in and announced that Dr. Lushington's 3 o'clock, Mrs. Pennywell, had arrived. The good doctor snapped to attention, heaved his body upright, and shook his head vigorously.

Walking in a not-so-straight line down the hallway, Dr. Lushington managed several times to steady himself with a quick arm to the closest wall. He meandered into the examination room only to find lots of patients (Mrs. Pennywell was nowhere to be found), and was utterly confused until his brain reminded him that this exam room looked too much like the waiting room to be Mrs. Pennywell's room. He hiccuped twice and went back into the hallway. Across the hall was the exam room with a confused Mrs. Pennywell.

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.

"I demand to see another doctor!", Mrs. Pennywell yelled to the desk nurse, "This Dr. Lushington must have a partner or something, yes?" The desk nurse sighed and apologized for Dr. Lushington, who was now snoring loudly on the previously Mrs. Pennywell's exam table. "Please follow me," the nurse said to a placated Mrs. Pennywell. At the other end of the hallway, the nurse sat Mrs. Pennywell on the exam table. She turned to leave the room and said brightly, "Dr. McVodkabreath will be here shortly."

2008, The Beginning

2008-01-07T15:00:00.000-08:00

The year two-thousand and eight has arrived. Yet again the Earth made it's way around the sun in a predictable, circular fashion. It's still rotating at a rate of 24 hours a day and still wobbles on its axis and is still free of collisions with other large celestial bodies. After nearly 28 years on this rock, I'm getting a little tired of this hackneyed routine. I'm waiting for a day when the Earth is all, "You know what? Fuck this. I'm over this gravitational pull. Time to get my groove back!"

Robin and I went up to Portland the Saturday before the Monday that would be the New Year's Eve. Eight of us (not including Robin) decided we needed to take a ski trip to Mt. Hood Meadows. Phoenix and I got separated from the rest of our group who decided their time was better spent without us so they totally didn't wait for us to get ready and instead got into line for the bus and headed for the slopes leaving us to wait for the next round of buses which wouldn't come until 20 minutes later by which time the rest of the group had disappeared onto the mountain. It was actually a blessing in disguise, because the majority of my "friends" with whom we went wanted to go snowboarding. That wouldn't necessarily be a problem except for the fact that they were still learning to snowboard and I wanted to ski. I have never tried snowboarding but I know the first day involves a continued and bone crushing acquaintance with one's tail bone. My hypothesis (which is now a scientific Law) was that if I was paying $54 to go skiing for 6 hours, not to mention the $25 equipment rental fee, then I was going to tear that bitch up. And by bitch I mean mountain. And by mountain I mean vagina.

To sum up the day in a pithy narrative wouldn't do the unspeakably awesome nature in all it's glory justice. Considering all the factors (conditions, company, equipment, number of people on the mountain), I had the best skiing day of my life. For reals. Phoenix is a Mt. Hood Meadows veteran, so I followed him. Every time he asked where I would like to go next, I just shrugged and said, "I don't care so long as I'm tearing this bitch up." He snowboarded while I skied behind, floating effortlessly upon the cloud of fresh powder, continually refreshed by freshly falling snow. By the time we carved a run betwixt the Douglas Firs and reached the bottom, our tracks would be newly covered, as if nature herself were rewarding us for being so rad.

The New Year's Eve party was off the hook. I hope your New Year's party was also off the hook, but let me just say that ours wasn't even still in the closet. It was off the hook and dancin' under a disco ball, yo. We rented out the Old Market Pub, we had a fantastic DJ, I won the door prize, and I maintained my level of drunkenness as only a professional can do. We had friends from all over raising the roof with us, some from as far as Hawaii and North Carolina. Friends of friends came because they heard of how amazing the party would be. Might I say, we didn't disappoint. Last year, we completely thrashed Scott's house so it was nice to thrash somewhere else and let them clean it up. To the Old Market Pub: you're welcome for us inviting our alcoholic friends who spent so much goddamn money, you're probably still rolling around in it.

We took down our holiday tree yesterday. We gingerly removed the priceless ornaments, wrapped them in the finest newspaper, and lulled them to sleep until the next winter holiday season. I have unpacked and put away all our presents which were plentiful and given by very generous families (in some cases, "given" means "stolen", but you should see our new bed set!). Looking forward from the middle of December 2007, it seemed as though the list of activities would never end, yet now I can't figure out how it's already the 7th of January, 2008. I suppose if I laid off the heroin for awhile my memory would improve, but all who know me know the likelihood of that happening.

In conclusion, I must admit that I'm not really a "resolution" kind of person. However, being one that holds tradition in a higher regard than his own well being, this year I resolve to care more about places such as The Iraq, such as.

The Smarty-Pants

2007-12-18T15:15:00.000-08:00

Everyone in our office (and presumably the university as a whole) received an 8-page teaser pamphlet entitled, "How to Deal with Unacceptable Employee Behavior". It's a teaser in the sense that it doesn't actually tell you how to deal with several of the "characters", but it does encourage you to sign up for the 1 day seminar that will give you "100% satisfaction" (which, if true to the advertisement, would involve a reach-around). In the way that these sort of brochures are corny, there are corny phrases ("learn the management magic that can turn around the messiest situations!"), corny pictures (trust me), and corny veiled promises ("it will greatly increase the chances of your success"!). This probably isn't the time for criticism, but doesn't getting off one's ass in general greatly increase the chance of one's success? Right. Anyway.

One of my coworkers (with whom I share the snarkiest of bonds) came in with page 3 folded back. She said excitedly, "Which one are you going to be? I'm going to be The Downer!." I hadn't given the pamphlet much thought, but now that she mentioned it, I felt it necessary to choose my very own character. The Excuse Artist was pretty good, but so was The Clod, The Minimalist and The Itch. The list sounded more to me like a half-assed troupe of comic book villains than workplace identities, but again this probably wasn't the time for criticism.

I envisioned myself in meetings as my new workplace persona. Should I be the Soap Star, who "distracts sympathetic coworkers and draws them into their never-ending predicaments and problems"? I could throw myself upon my co-worker's desks, bemoaning the current project our Director is positively forcing me to do. I was certainly qualified to be The Gossip, who "wages verbal warfare" behind closed doors. I envisioned my trumped-up narratives about how I heard from some guy who knows this lady that so-and-so is trying to get a divorce from their first cousin they totally married in Alabama. (Side note: In this case, the seminar promises to teach you to "muzzle the Gossips". HOT.)

And there it was: The Smarty-Pants. This person openly and forcefully challenges management authority. They also engage in an "undercurrent of anti-management" chatter. Still unsure whether I could pull off The Smarty Pants, I quickly checked my ham radio, blazing forth with anti-management chatter. Excellent! I would become The Smarty-Pants. I grabbed some papers and walked openly and forcefully into my Director's office.

"This assignment you gave is pretty lame", I said far too loudly, "Why would you give me something that's just a complete waste of anyones time??"

"I beg your pardon?", she said with an unusual air of petulance.

"I said", I repeated confidently (though I must admit, I was a bit worried my little joke wasn't being taken well), "this is a waste of time".

"Shut the door", my boss ordered. She sneered, "Now listen up. I've put up with all the garbage from you that I can take. Here's the deal. Either you do what I say or I'll tell the staff just how willing you are to do the work they don't want to do. Before you know it, you'll have piles of tedious work sitting on your desk. I'll tell them that you don't have enough to do. I'll tell them to take responsibilities from their student workers and give them to you".

My face completely gave me away, as I was unprepared for this reaction. I thought my boss had a great sense of humor. I thought she would get my over-the-top complaint. Sensing my discomfort, my boss' face relaxed. She started laughing hysterically, "Oh Patrick, I'm so sorry! You couldn't tell? I'm The Intimidator!"

Bitch and Moan

2007-12-06T10:30:00.000-08:00

I've been sick for over a week now. I thought I was getting better this weekend, but then I had to go and get all drinky on Saturday night. Lesson learned. I'm at 85%, so I decided to come to work because I really need to get some stuff done. Stuff like blogging.

Since I'm probably the only one to say this in the history of ever, I'll say it. I hate being sick. I hate waking up being sick. I hate being stuck in my house for more than two days, even with the huge screen, internet, XBOX360, HD DVD player and tons of cable. I get real stir crazy. So stir crazy, in fact, that yesterday I took a short walk to Albertson's (a store that I hate) just so I could buy Spaghetti-O's. Don't judge.

Here's something I decided while being forced to stay at home and sleep and watch TV (waaaa!!):

I used to love the Price is Right. One of the only benefits to being sick was watching Bob Barker and his beauties dole out cheap ass popcorn makers and catamarans. Now it's Drew Carey and even Plinko has lost its luster. The only thrill I still get from the Price is Right are the Wilford Brimley commercials talking plainly and sincerely about his diabeetus.

Drew Carry is a shitty ass replacement for Bob Barker. He's not that funny, he's not charming at all, he is completely awkward with the contestants and I get the feeling like he wasn't sure what he signed up for. I don't know what the fuck, but yesterday he asked this contestant what her dog's name was twice to make small chat. It was crazy enough that she wanted to give a shout out to her dog. Then due to a pause of the wheel spinning, Drew said, "So, what was your dog's name again?", rather than think of a new question. The contestant's thought bubble said quite clearly, "You just asked me that, dumbass", but she kindly repeated the name. By the way, her dog's name was "Sprinkles" so it wasn't even worth repeating.

That's pretty much it. If I think of anything else to bitch about, I'll be sure to let the two of you know.

(Shudder)

2007-11-29T15:52:00.000-08:00

I'm totally stoked on this poster for several reasons. I don't know which part I like the best. What can I say? I'm entranced by the beauty of Ann's demure visage. She is truly a spectacular woman, worthy of having a poster made with, uh, that picture.

I'll give you that she's a best-selling author, but so is Tom Clancy. The rest was just added for comedic value. I mean, it had to be right? Although, truth be told, the first thing I think when I hear Ann Coulter talk is "witty" and "intelligent". Watch any of her interviews and you'll be like, "Damn! She's witty and intelligent! And also compelling!" I promise you won't be like, "Bat. Shit. Crazy."

So let's discuss. I mean, it's a given that I'm getting this poster and hanging it proudly above my bed so I can masturbate to it. Who wouldn't? It's "stunning"! I can't be gay when the object in question is the heavenly Ann Coulter! Besides, homegirl has a surprise penis, you can tell it in her eyes. She's saying, "I've got a surprise penis. Wanna touch it?", which is precisely why all those old conservative senators love her. Oh snap!

I think they made the poster 24 inches wide by 34 inches high because that's the size of her anal cavity. It must be! You can't crap out the shit like Ann Coulter and have a small rectum. It's simple mathematics. You must have the largest rectum ever conceived.

Hopefully you get invited to my next party because you know we're playing "pin the penis on the Coulter".

Kelis, circa 1467

2007-11-19T14:58:00.001-08:00

When I Was Young...

2007-11-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

I've always been too confident for my own good. Particularly when I was growing up, I assumed I knew perfectly well what certain words and phrases meant when in fact I hadn't the slightest idea. Let's take a walk down memory lane...

* My mother rarely purchased sweets for us. When she did, it was on very special occasions. Soda counted as a sweet, so my mother never taught me the word "soda". One day in the store, I started screaming that I wanted a "calowie". She asked me to say what a "calowie" was and I could only scream louder and louder. When she finally calmed me down, we were passing the soda aisle. I reached out for Diet Pepsi and began my little show all over again. Of course, mom didn't get me a "calowie" but wondered where I got the idea. That night, she saw the commercial for Diet Pepsi which proclaimed several times, "just one calorie".

* When I was little, I thought the word "urinate" had something to do with the number eight each of us was automatically assigned when someone uttered the word "urinate".

* When I was a little older, I was watching one of those British dramas on PBS and saw one man slap another man twice. On the first slap, he called the man a fiend; the second, he called him a bastard. I thought "bastard" was just some kind of British insult amounting to "jerk". One time in the back seat of the car, my young brother began acting up. I pretend slapped his face, repeating the line from the British drama, thereby calling my brother a "bastard". The front seat creaked a little as my mother turned around. She didn't need to speak. The look in her eyes told me exactly what I had done: "If you ever use that word again, I will KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS".

* Until I reached high school, I used the phrase "in lieu of" to mean "because of", rather than the correct "instead of".

* I came tromping home from school one day when I was six or seven. I walked straight up to my dad with a cavalier look on my face. He asked me what I was thinking. I smugly proclaimed, "I heard the 'f' word at school today. I know what it means". He smirked and asked me what it meant. Realizing that I hadn't thought that far ahead, I shifted a little and said awkwardly but confidently, "It means... 'you stupid boy'."

* In sexual education, we were learning about ways men and women take care of themselves and get tested for STDs. Going through what was an otherwise boring part of Sex Ed, I became intrigued at the idea of a pap smear. Our book didn't explain what it was, just that it was a very important procedure for women to have every once in a while. I gazed off into the distance and thought of my dog who sometimes dragged his ass across the lawn. While I was sure it would be much less of a spectacle for women than for my dog, I imagined the mechanics must be relatively the same. Perhaps not for a long distance, but they must certainly drag their vagina across a piece of sterilized paper, or have some paper dragged across for them. Many years later, a female friend told me what a pap smear is really like. I was horrified. Props to the ladies.

1st Annual Mother of the Year Award

2007-11-09T14:53:00.001-08:00

I would like to present the Me & The Horse I Rode In On's First Annual Mother of the Year Award! Though many viable candidates crossed my desk and though I wish I could give awards to each of them, life is, as they say, only for winners. All of us could take a page from the life of this year's winner, as her example set a standard of the utmost care and concern for her child's well being. Rejoice with exceeding great joy this day, and let us all remember that two year olds, contrary to what those commie hippies may tell you, love to smoke marijuana. Congratulations to Krystle Leigh Weber of Wisconsin!

OCTOBER 11--The mother of a two-year-old Wisconsin boy shared a marijuana blunt with her child as friends laughed, filmed the child smoking, and asked, "Hey buddy, are you stoned?" Krystle Leigh Weber, 20, was charged yesterday along with two male friends with pot possession and contributing to the delinquency of a minor (Weber was also hit with a child neglect rap, also a misdemeanor). According to a Circuit Court complaint, after a confidential source told police about the smoking incident, cops seized a cell phone from defendant Sean Held, 19, and discovered three videos of the August incident. On the clips, the boy is seen holding and apparently puffing on a blunt, and "staggering around a bedroom in what appears to be a confused and altered state." In a police interview, Weber, said that she initially rejected Held's suggestion to have her son "hit it," but eventually relented and agreed to let the two-year-old take a "small one." The complaint notes that Weber told police that she "knew what she did was wrong, and she would do anything to keep her son."

Best. lolcat. EVER.

2007-11-01T11:34:00.001-07:00

Zombie Walk

2007-10-31T14:25:00.000-07:00

Last year, Robin, Evan, Scott and your truly participated in the Portland Zombie Walk. However, it wasn't the first zombie walk ever. Living in Canada, people tend to get very bored and very cold. Their frost-bitten malaise needed a remedy and the only way the Kanuks figured it could be done was by braving the -20C weather and going on a walk dressed like zombies. Crazy though they are, those friendly neighbors to the north struck gold with that idea, eh?

Anyway. The 2006 zombie walk had an admirable turnout. I would say approximately 200 people showed up. We meandered through downtown Portland, the highlight being our walk up and down escalators in the Pioneer Place mall - a shopping center that takes itself very seriously. Shop keepers and their snobby patrons didn't know what to make of us, so they immediately whipped out their Motorola RAZRs and called their friends like, "OMG. WTF OMG WTF zombies LMAO WTF OMG."

This year was a spectacle. Eight of us showed up in Pioneer Square about 30 minutes early. Looking around, we saw small lumps of people dressed as zombies, but certainly nowhere near last year's numbers. Not that it mattered, but I silently hoped more zombies would show up. And then they did.

Ten minutes until 6:00 and dozens of zombies started filling Pioneer Square. More and more kept coming until all in all, I would estimate there were at least 500 zombies. There were zombie families, zombie dogs, zombie killers, zombie brides, zombie babies and zombie musicians. There wasn't one kind of zombie missed. My favorite part of the zombie walk, aside from all the people gawking at us lumbering down SW Yamhill, was a man dressed in plain clothes. He held out a stick and at the end tied to a string was a human brain, covered in fake blood. Occasionally, he would wave the stick over a pack of zombies, drawing the inevitable arm reaches and, "BRAAAAAAIIIIINNNNSSSS!!!", from all who were within twenty feet. I almost laughed until I cried.

The plan was to enter Pioneer Place mall once again. A rush of excitement poured over me as we approached the entrance, only to find that this year, they anticipated our arrival and locked the doors. I'm not kidding - they were telling "real" patrons to go to the other side. We could only let them know of our disapproval as zombies would, so we pounded on the doors and shouted, "BRAAAAIIINNSSS!", to those patrons gathered inside.

People played along nicely, too. Some went so far as to jump on the top of their cars and shake purses, cell phones and anything else they could find which could ward off a zombie attack. If it were a real zombie emergency, I'm happy to say that they would have been turned into zombies. We were a force of unnatural nature.

The walk continued on until we reached Burnside, at which time the eight of us decided to call it a day. Zombies get tired, after all.

See? Designers Can Be Profound, Too.

2007-10-26T14:16:00.000-07:00

"People who say that yesterday was better than today are ultimately devaluing their own existence."-Karl Lagerfeld

Things

2007-10-25T16:47:00.001-07:00

In an uncharacteristic move, I will present a few things below in numbered, statement form. I shall refrain from narrative. Probably.

1. Fall is officially here and I'm freezing. It's gorgeous outside but freezing.

2. I've been working out five days a week for 4 weeks now. Results have been positive and sexy.

3. I don't like training for a database only 2% of which has any bearing on my actual job. Also: grizzled old secretary ladies in training sessions with me can suck someone else's balls.

4. The plants I purchased for my office are doing well. Percival Two is the happiest of the three.

5. I just finished Book 6 in the Harry Potter series. I am not afraid to admit I'm addicted though I will not be seeking personal or professional help.

6. I'm participating, with many friends, in a zombie walk this weekend. I love Portland.

7. Eating sushi makes me a happier person. No seriously, I think I would probably have killed most of you by now if it weren't for the occasional euphoria sushi brings me.

8. I'm really over people using the word "literally" incorrectly. I literally go insane when people use it just to emphasize their stupid point.

9. The new pair of Lucky Jeans purchased from Costco the past weekend have made me happy. The crotch hole in my older pair of jeans was getting absurdly large.

10. We watched Down With Love last night. Ewan McGregor is hott with an extra t. Renee Zelwegger misplaced her boobs somewhere.

11. I like making up songs for our kitty. They are spontaneous and cannot be forcibly repeated. Please do not request to hear one.

12. The piano given to me by Sami's parents has been practiced upon quite a bit. I'm very excited to have a piano again.

13. When unexpected, sudden loud noises cause my heart to race, my body to jump and my face to flush. I am most likely the only one who receives these symptoms.

14. Sometimes I like to make up abilities I don't have so I can scare people. Like when I told a seven year old that if he didn't stop crying I would burn down his house with my mind.

15. I resisted the temptation to buy chocolate the other day. It was a poor decision.

16. I read somewhere that drinking wine increases your IQ probably by a lot.

17. I will be going to the coast in a couple of weeks for a visit to the cabin. Friends will come and we will laugh about things and have a deathmatch.

18. I only want to eat delicious food forever now. Becoming a PC family has whetted my appetite such that bland, poorly cooked foods are no longer of interest to me. Unless I'm drunk and the food in question is Taco Bell.

19. One time, long ago, people didn't have toilets. They had chamberpots. People used to be so stupid.

20. If you made it this far, good for you! I'm glad we could share in the pointless post together.

Five Years

2007-10-16T09:15:00.000-07:00

Robin and I met eight years ago, in late 1999. I was living the "high" life, partying my ass off in a new environment free from my parent's regulations. Robin was dating someone else at the time. We met because I hung around his dorm, in which my friends also lived. We always met in passing, myself being in various states of consciousness. Our pleasant regards were quickly exchanged, as he was on the way to class and I was on the way to another bong hit. At the time, I was blithely unaware of how much this man would mean to me a few years down the road.

Though Robin cringes at the truth of how we re-met, we did so at Neighbors, the local gay bar (sadly, now closed). Each with different groups of friends, the chance meeting was both fortuitous and happy. We were excited to catch up on the past three years, so we exchanged numbers and said we should do lunch. The following week, we did.

Last night was a beautiful way to spend quality time an reminisce about the past five years. I made reservations at Red Agave, a local favorite, and when we arrived the place was practically deserted. They sat us in the corner, away from the other parties, and our server was wonderful. When we ordered a bottle of Argyle 2001 Brut, she asked what we were celebrating. When we answered, her face blushed with an earnest smile and she gave us a warm "congratulations". Our classes clinked in celebration as we perused the scrumptious offerings. Was it going to be the Sea Bass or the Lamb Chops? The Mesa crepes with Chevre or the Kobe Beef tamales? In the end, I ordered the Crusted Salmon with homemade Chorizo and Robin had the creamy chicken enchiladas, with homemade salsa verde and mole. Both dishes were phenomenal. Our conversation was delightful and joyous, wrapping us in a lovely blanket of togetherness.

As we were at Red Agave, and knowing we would be, I got it in my head that I needed a Richmond Gimlet. A Richmond Gimlet is Tanqueray No. 10 Gin, muddled mint, simple syrup and club soda. But you can forget all that and just remember that it tastes what unicorn tears must taste like. It originated at Red Agave, but the owners of RG also own El Vaquero, a short jaunt down 5th street. Before we left, we asked about the desserts. All sounded wonderful, but the chocolate torte with creme fraiche and mint sounded like the most bestest. As our server brought it out, she laid it on our table and said softly, "it's on the house". She received an amazing tip.

We only had one drink each at El Vaquero. I, of course, had the Richmond Gimlet. Robin had a Pico Sour, which was some insane drink with Angostura bitters lit on fire and foamed up. Quite tasty. The evening ended with us bundling up and watching a couple of X-Files episodes at home. I went to bed with a big smile.

Wizard vs. Sorcerer

2007-10-10T09:32:00.000-07:00

The morning bus is populated mostly by students. Headed directly to the main campus, it is a very efficient bus route. On the way, we pass within a block of a local high school that many bus riders attend.

In no mood to force others to listen to my music, I am very conscientious of how loud my earphones are for the morning commute. Instead of completely drowning out the noise, I allow some to filter through and just remember that it is public transportation, after all. Being that is the case, I overhear conversations from time to time. Some are absolutely mundane. Some, however, begin with sentences like, "You can't tell me a 10th level Sorcerer is more powerful than a 9th level Wizard."

The conversation was happening behind me. I didn't want them to stop, so without turning I pulled out my earphones. I nonchalantly turned as though I were staring out the other window and did a quick size-up of the high schoolers. The immediate stereotypical image that formed in my head turned out to be true: matted hair, drab, loose fitting clothes, screen print of a dragon on one's shirt.

"If a level 10 Sorcerer could do any more than +20 damage, then I could agree. But they CAN'T"

"Right, but you're forgetting that at level 10, you have an automatic +3 saving throw against destruction magic"

"It doesn't matter! A Sorcerer can't effectively block against a level 9 elemental spell anyway!"

"I admit it would be close, but they could counter with paralyze that would automatically give them two more die rolls. The wizard wouldn't stand a chance."

I smirked at their enthusiasm. The conversation went on for a bit longer, neither side relinquishing any ground. Later that day, their theories would surely be tested in a spectacular display of LARPing. One could imagine, anyway.

And then it hit me: I understood everything they were saying. Thanks to years of RPGing on my part, I knew precisely what they meant by "destruction magic", "saving throw", and "+20". In fact, I thought of my Elder Scrolls: Oblivion game at home and how I hadn't played in awhile. The smirk on my face was not just to delight in their nerdiness, it was also because I delighted in my nerdiness. I'm such a nerd! The fact that I don't actively play D&D doesn't save me from the fact that I'm a complete and utter nerd. Truly, since I know precisely why they think the distinction between a wizard and sorcerer was worthy conversation is a testament to that fact.

Nerds forever!

SUSHI

2007-10-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

I want sushi today. I'm getting sushi today.

(Pic from the ever popular icanhascheezburger)

Warmth

2007-10-03T08:48:00.000-07:00

I had a dream the other night. It was a beautiful fall day; crisp and sunny. Robin, Shannon and I were sitting under a gigantic oak tree having a picnic. We were watching Eric and Chandra play ultimate. I looked at Shannon who was wearing a bright pink cardigan and a long skirt with daisies printed on it. She offered me a stuffed pickle. Robin was uncorking a bottle of Pinot Noir. We were laughing. Chandra scored a goal. I was very, very happy. This flash of a dream, this small joyous moment, made me wake up and I had a smile on my face.

Like most people, my dreams are usually strange and filled with bizarre imagery. A typical dream will also take some digesting as to what the hell my subconscious was trying to work out. At times, such dreams are never resolved and in some cases, I have them again with the same confusion following. Then there are other dreams, like the one above, whose meanings and intentions are immediately clear. I was surrounded by people I know and love, doing things I thoroughly enjoy: eating and drinking wine (although I don't know what the stuffed pickle was about), watching a friendly sporting event and basking in spectacular nature. This year has so far provided me with many opportunities to bask in a pleasant state. Like a dream, I sometimes wake to the reality of my life and become very satisfied with the friends I have, the relationship I am in, and the place I live.

It can be very easy for one to gloss over moments of happiness because they're moving on to the next thing, running from home to work, to the gym, to home, to the weekend. I sometimes lose sight of how precious a life I have with those I know because I'm too focused on the next event.

People say that there are no real seasons in Oregon. Compared to some places, I understand why they would have that conclusion. But this past week, fall came crashing in; no overture whatsoever. Fall always reminds me to take stock of how my year has shaped up, considering the fact that it is almost over. The past several years I have been in school, so my normal stock-taking was replaced by, "What the hell class am I supposed to be in right now?". This year, however, I have a moment to collect my memories and fondly think about all the hard work, long hours and dedication I put into the first six months of this year and how everything after has gone delightfully well.

While I don't believe in some supernatural force that brings to us good fortune and happiness, I do believe you have the ability to attract such things to you. Call it an aura, call it whatever you want, but I can't deny the fact that I have what I do because I have created myself such that my friends and loved ones are honest representations of my inner most happiness. Perhaps I'm just getting wiser and perhaps I'm just learning to be authentic, but the happiness around me is something I have helped create through hard work and learning from my mistakes. I am not foolish enough to think the bad times will be deflected by my happy force field, but they will in part be absorbed by the support and love of my friends.

Since my blog is very exclusive, I know only close friends read it. To all of you, know that I truly appreciate you. In my eyes, you are the epitome of friendship and my thoughts of you are comforting and warm. It is a blessing to awake in your life and see that you are surrounded by true, caring, and intelligent friends.

And no, I'm not drunk.

TMI

2007-09-27T09:47:00.001-07:00

WARNING: This post is about an experience I just finished having with a hot pepper eaten last night. If you don't want to know about the workings of my digestion track, you have probably already read too much.

That said, the reason for this post is because we all have painful bowel movements and I'm not ashamed to share mine with the world via the internets. Last night, Eric, Robin and myself went to a local favorite restaurant Asado for some yummy dinner.

As we hungrily read the menu, Eric was reminded of a particularly delicious appetizer they served - the Jalapeno poppers. Now, these aren't your typical popper. They are an entire jalapeno, stuffed with a creamy mixture of sour cream, bacon and onion, then deep fried to perfection. Four of them came on a plate and the dipping sauce was a thick blue cheese concoction. Trust me, they were amazing. Oh my god. They were so good. So creamy, so flavorful, so, so, HOT AS HELL.

Tears poured down my cheeks from the high concentration of acid and heat. I couldn't stop eating it, even though my body begged me to do so. My tongue soon lost the ability to distinguish between tastes. We motioned to the server for water in a typical this-pepper-is-fucking-hot-as-shit-holy-shit-I-might-die-HOLY-SHIT manner, "Watah... bwa. Watah!", waving hysterically towards our table. She smirked and produced three tumblers filled with water. By that time, the scorching had subsided and we were free to finish our own thoughts again.

The night was capped with Sakitinis and a viewing of Blades of Glory, which far exceeded my expectations. We talked and visited, all the while laughing gaily (especially Eric). Unbeknown to me at the time, that pepper was far from finished with its punishment. In fact, what happened to my mouth was only a taste of the power this ONE pepper was about to unleash.

I slept peacefully through the night; no leaping from the bed to deal with an eruption. This morning, however, was a different story. My usual routine involves waking up, getting up, using the potty and taking a shower. From the moment I sat on the toilet, my bowels clenched and I knew something was about to happen. My entire body flushed red. My intestines burned red hot and I knew I was in for an unpleasant experience.

15 minutes passed, my body clenching and quaking from the heat, reeling in agony, sitting upright, bending over and clenching my feet. As it exited my body, the toxic waste evaporated the water on contact, a sulfurous odor filled the air. Was I dying? Why is it burning so much? Why can I feel my entire intestinal track? Was that my LIVER?!

This bout with my bowels utterly wrecked my morning schedule. While I do use the potty and sometimes it takes 5 minutes, this morning's marathon was an unwelcome addition to the morning rush. The contractions finally subsided enough for me to hop off the potty and into the shower. Now at a breakneck pace, I was furiously ironing my shirt, threw on my clothes, didn't even eat breakfast, and off I went.

By this time, I thought the battle was finished. I felt a calm, cooling sensation rush over my belly; surely a sign that the worst was over. As if to say "FUCK YOU", my body started heating up again on the bus. I was still 7 minutes away from campus and I was sitting on an atomic bomb. To make matters worse, the bus drops me off on the opposite end of campus from the law school. At a good clip, it takes 10 minutes to walk there. I couldn't wait. I ran across the street and into the basement of the bookstore. There, on an unsuspecting toilet did I unleash Round Two of the jalapeno saga.

I twisted and turned from the sensation of needles puncturing my insides. The spicy odor once again filled the air and I knew that if anyone else came in, they would hopefully turn and run before they asphyxiated from the stench. The bowel movements were more severe this time, sputtering and lurching like a hose under too much water pressure. I remained in control, though I think I passed out for a minute or so.

Now almost late for work, I ran across campus. I couldn't tell whether or not the jalapeno had run its course. There was no cooling sensation this time but even if there was, I wouldn't have trusted it. I made it to work on time and sat to go through my email. Just when I least suspected it, my body flushed.

I leaped from my chair and towards the main door of the library. In a cruel twist of engineering, the bathrooms for our floor are located half way down the building. I whimpered as I knew I couldn't make an ass of myself careening towards the stall. Instead, I stood upright, clenched my buttocks and pretended like everything was just peachy keen. Bowel movement? What bowel movement? Japaleno poppers? Why, I barely remember them...

Inside the bathroom the third and thankfully final round of the jalapeno saga raged with unbridled fury. In a spectacular display, I was practically blown off the toilet due to the sheer force with which the jalapeno was making its final approach. I quickly braced myself against the front door of the stall, determined to rid my body of this evil force. The smell threatened to choke the consciousness right out of me but I held on, determined to finish what I started. My eyes watered, my head burned. I was certain nothing was left of my intestines. It was worth it! No regrets! GAAAAAA!!!

And then it was over. Somehow I knew it was all over. I washed my hands, walked outside and the sun was beaming down through the skylight. As if god itself were speaking, a voice from inside the bathroom then yelled, "HOLY SHIT!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL??!!"

All is right with the world.

Customer Service Training

2007-09-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

An email went out to all library personnel that they were to attend a mandatory meeting yesterday that would review customer service. I hope the irony is already swirling around your head, as (let's face it) many librarians have the same attitude as your local DMV worker. Unlike other offices I have worked in, what the library staff as a whole lacks in gossipy bullcrap is more than made up for with social ineptitude. Some might find their direct communication style refreshing, as you certainly can't accuse the librarians of wasting your time with chit chat. That said, their "directness" has recently come under fire and the peeps in power decided it would be good to remind them of some simple Do's and Do Not Do's of basic customer service:

Do
Acknowledge people with a word or nod
Make eye contact
Ask May I help you?
Listen to what they are saying

Do Not Do
Ignore people
Sigh or roll your eyes
React angrily to their questions

My favorite is, of course, "react angrily to their questions". I would love to see one of the library staff just lose their shit and get all nasty with a student or client. Another piece to the presentation were sections utilizing ridiculous examples, script style, which were not only hard to follow as there was only one speaker, but they were also lame (provided is one of the actual "anger" examples I took notes on):

Librarian: Can I help you?

Student: Yes, I was looking for a book.

Librarian: Do you know what book?

Student: Well, I was reading from an article in my class, it was an article by Robert Smith, but I can't remember the book.

Librarian: (frustrated) Can you remember the title of the article?

Student: No

Librarian: (screaming) WELL MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN HOW TO WRITE THINGS DOWN SO YOU WOULD KNOW WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR!!!!!!!!!!

We also learned that students, staff, faculty and other community members are all the same! A member is a member, no matter who they are. Diversity rules! So, we have to treat all our members the same. In my mind, this means that somewhere along the line, some librarian somewhere was taking a member's ID card and said something like:

Librarian: Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Johnson. We can't help you.

Mr. Johnson: (community member, looking around confused): But, I have a membership here. All I want is to know where the journals are kept.

Librarian (quietly sneering): Yes, but you see I can't help you.

Mr. Johnson: Why is that?

Librarian (leaning closer): Mr. Johnson, we don't help your "kind".

A little customer service refresher is good for everyone from time to time. But taking a bunch of grown adults and giving them a customer service lecture obviously geared towards sales clerks and, well, customer service support specialists was a hilarious waste of time. My boss and peer were seated on either side of me and we all got a nasty case of the church giggles through the presentation, and especially during the video.

We watched a video in which a male actor, let's call him Phil, chewed the scenery while fantasizing about different scenarios in which he either had bad or good customer service. Set in a diner, his primary example was a loud-mouthed, hospitable southern woman of generous size. She zipped all over the restaurant, talking to folks and serving them while Phil pointed out how much he loved the place. "That's Mary," he said at one point far too articulately, "the food's okay, but I come here because of her. Just look at her!" Mary, in an equally scenery chewing performance, was basically yelling at the other actors, "Y'ALL WANT SOMMORE HAESHBROWNS?!?! (To an exiting couple) Y'ALL COME BACK NOW, 'YA HEAR?!?!" At one moment in the presentation, Phil talked of the importance for people in customer service situations to use the customer's name. If my bank, who has all of my most sensitive information uses my name, that's cool. I mean, they can look at my social security number for pete's sake. But if my local librarian says "thank you Mr. Moore" not because she knows me but because she read it off my membership card, I will leave the library totally creeped out.

Aside from all the over-the-top examples Phil gave was the fact that the sugary sweet kind of customer service he was explaining would hopefully not be found in a library. People aren't there to chat. They're not there to socialize. They're there to study and research particularly in a university library. If every time I checked out a book for my thesis and the student assistant said, "How's the research going, Mr. Moore?", I would be inclined to give them a bewildered head tilt, not feel placated by their false attempt at sincerity.

iPhone Madness!!!

2007-09-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

Robin and I were talking this weekend and he came up with a fabulous idea. He wanted to go and buy an iPhone. We had spoken a while back about this, but since that time, I saw several demo videos and commercials. Because of that, I couldn't stomach the thought of only one of us having an iPhone. So, I said honestly, "Okay, but you realize we have to get two. I will get really cranky if you're walking around with your iPhone and I only have my Samsung." Robin sighed, knowing that I was absolutely correct.

My threat was perhaps a bit toddler-ish (and true!), but it was effective. It also meant that Robin had to somehow justify us dropping [insert ludicrous sum of money for two phones here] on two iPhones instead of one, and he did so by making these our five year anniversary presents to one another. The only justification I needed was in having an iPhone. Yay! Our actual anniversary is on October 15th, but hell. Why wait when you can buy now? We're such good consumers! Trickle down, money! Trickle down!!

When we pulled into AT&T to buy our little trifles, Robin first wanted to play with the ones they had sitting out on display. Fine with me. I knew the only thing that could happen was that Robin would want them more. We held the perfect little devices in our hands, picked them up and from the moment the screen turned on, we were giggling. The hype is real. Oh god, it is SO real.

10 minutes later and we were on our way with our new 8 Gig iPhones. It only took one minute to buy them; the other nine was spent playing on the store's iPhones until I said, "Why the hell are we standing here? We can play with ours at home!" And play we did. Over the past two days, Robin and I have been adding our favorite music, videos and pictures. Robin also made a bunch of ring tones and individualized the hell out of his. I programmed the moon with mine.

On my way to work this morning I had my iPhone out and as I was flipping through my music ready to board the bus, I realized that I could watch Youtube videos if I wanted. And watch I did. At least I haven't let this go to my head. I mean, I could have very easily made sure others on the bus could see my new techno sexiness, but I sat in the back and watched the video to myself. Ah, life is good.

One more thing: if you're thinking I'm selfish and materialistic and have no sense of obligation to those less fortunate all because I wanted a fancy new trinket, I'm going to assume you don't have an iPhone ;)

LA LA LAnd

2007-09-13T15:24:00.000-07:00

The past 11 days were a whirlwind. We left on the 2nd to visit Robin's family for a few days. Then, to make matters crazier, my family (minus Chris, who we missed terribly) flew down to spend five days in Disneyland.

Robin's SoCal family is great. His aunt and uncle live in Torrance, along with his cousins. His grandfather and stepgrandmother live in Redondo Beach. At his aunt and uncle's home, we swam in the pool, ate delicious food and had a spectacular time. We took a trip to the Getty Villa, which was astounding. Hooray for rich people that share their wealth and art! There is no admission price, save the $8 to park your car. The Getty family purchased something like 60 acres on a hill overlooking the ocean in Malibu. If you've been to Malibu, you know that real estate is prime, so basically you have all these ginormous homes stacked on top of one another (except the filthy stinking rich who can afford more property). The Getty Villa is truly special, for there aren't homes surrounding it. You feel completely isolated and if you focus on the Cyprus trees and travertine enough, you just might feel like you're in Italy. The center focuses only on antiquities: sculptures, jewelry, furniture and anything besides painting in the Etruscan, Greek and Roman cultures. If you're in the area, you really need to spend the 2 hours it takes to walk through and visit the Getty Villa. Oh, and their restaurant is phenomenal. Wow. SO good and not too bad on the wallet.

On Tuesday, Robin and I got our first taste of some really well crafted California Pinot Noir! We had lunch in Redondo Beach with his grandparents and drank a luscious Babcock Pinot Noir. California Pinots I knew by reputation but had never actually tasted one that impressed me. That changed on Tuesday. They are so different from Oregon Pinot Noirs in that they're really jammy and packed full of earthiness. Contrast this to Oregon Pinot Noirs which are more delicate and certainly not as dark and you have two different styles of one varietal both of which are fantastic. I love Pinot Noir. Love. It.

On Wednesday, we bid adieu to his family but not after a trip to the South Coast Plaza, a humongous mall in Costa Mesa. This mall is freaking unbelievable. We didn't even scratch the surface of stores because all we wanted to do was hit up H&M, which we did with formidable success. H&M, for those that don't know, is like the IKEA of clothing stores. Totally cool stuff for totally inexpensive prices. I even got out of paying sales tax because I thought being from Oregon made me exempt from the 8%. Turns out it doesn't, but the manager in H&M didn't care and just subtracted the sales tax. The thing about H&M's is, however, that they only go into hugely dense populations. I'd be surprised if one goes to Portland. Maybe Seattle. While shopping in the South Coast Plaza, I was reminded how truly over-the-top some of those SoCal malls can be. Gucci, anyone? Fendi perhaps? Maybe some Christian Dior? Though I find fashion extremely interesting and artful (sometimes), I have no interest in being stared down by anorexic store clerks who know I have neither the desire nor the cash to buy their overpriced wares.

Then came Disneyland. Wednesday night saw us dining in Downtown Disney with my parents, and we were later joined by Bonnie and Bryan (Bonnie's bf) who drove all the way from Eugene. We had a delicious dinner at Tortilla Joe's, replete with yummy sangria. Then the marathon of Disney began. FIVE DAYS. Thursday through Monday were our Disney days and let me tell you, five days is too much for this little bunny. My legs were totally giving out on me by day 4 and my attitude showed it. Robin reminded me to check it and thank Jebus he did.

Disneyland and California Adventure are really fun and really out of this world. The rides are great, the shows are spectacular, and overall, one would be hard pressed not to have a good time. If anything else, watching the little kids scurry around could give you hours of entertainment. Of course, I don't know why one would pay $83 (price of ONE DAY admission in the park) to sit and watch little kids. Unless, of course, you're some kind of creep. Or a Republican senator.

Let me tell you, it's good to be back. SO GOOD. I don't mind LA for a time, but after day five, I start to hate it. It's really, truly disgusting there. The people have sticks up their asses all the time, trying to get anywhere is a huge pain, and the air quality, well let's just say there's a reason not too many plants can survive there. Sitting in my office, I'm happy to look out on a cloudy but green and lush day. I can breathe deep and not start to cough. Holy crap, I can drink the tap water! All in all, it was a great vacay, but I'm in no hurry to go back.

Sicko

2007-08-30T09:31:00.001-07:00

If you haven't yet seen Michael Moore's new documentary, I highly recommend it. I think it's his best, most unbiased report thus far and forever changed my idea of the American health care industry. Unlike his others, in this film he allows the stories to speak for themselves and he always has evidence to back himself up. It will no doubt show you sides of our "illustrious" and "top-notch" medical field like you've never seen before. There is a reason the American health care system is ranked 37 in the world and those "crazy" socialized countries (or at least, those who have socialized medicine) are in the top 10.

I had benefits orientation yesterday. From 2-3:30 I sat with 12 other new employees and we were schooled on how to choose the right plans, medical and retirement. I was only half listening, partly because the majority of the time was spent answering people's questions like "what's a premium" and "so, are you sure the university contributes to your retirement", but also because I already have insurance. My only decision needs to be made regarding retirement and whether or not Robin and I will be doubly covered, or which of our plans will be primary and which will be secondary. My intention was to take all the material home and decide for myself, so this whole orientation thing was much more of a brief rundown.

One man kept asking the most hair-splitting, nitty gritty questions imaginable. I couldn't quite place his accent, but it sounded French. It was obvious he came from a hybrid of cultures and was new to the block. He was confused as to how we know what 30% of the total cost of a special procedure is when we don't know what the total cost is. He didn't understand billing. He didn't understand emergency procedures. When we were covering the eye appointment section, it clearly states "$20 co-pay" but he didn't get that unlike billing, you had to pay a co-pay up front. This guy was really getting on my nerves. I was pissed because the questions he was asking were not for orientation. It was obvious that he needed far more help than could be provided while this lady was trying to orient 12 people. I kept it to myself, but the woman eventually had to say, "Okay, these are great questions, but we really have to move on. Talk to me afterwards."

I looked over at the man, who was accompanied by his wife. I stewed over the fact that we would barely scratch the surface of the "retirement" section, the one that interested me the most. Then I realized what a complete asshole I was being, but it really hit me when I heard him whisper to his wife, "If only we were back in France."

He wasn't "getting" it because he never had to deal with crap like co-pays, billing and the hierarchy of which medical procedures cost more than others. He never had to worry about whether or not he could afford it if he were injured and couldn't work for awhile. He didn't have to contemplate just how much he needed to pay out of pocket for extra insurance in the case that he or a loved one needed a really expensive procedure. He didn't comprehend why you wouldn't have to pay for the eye exam but the glasses would only be covered a certain amount. In short, he didn't understand why medical care cost anything.

I was enraged. Not only was I being a jerk for letting myself get so upset at this man, but I was even more upset and how he was absolutely right. Just why the hell is there a co-pay when the doctor's visit is only $100? Why am I paying for medical coverage only 70% of which is actually covered (some restrictions apply)? Why can't I get medical leave for more than 2 months should I get something like, say, cancer or lukemia? What's going on with us?

Greed. The reason people in our nation aren't cared for, from the richest to the poorest, is greed. A health care company's bottom line is mandated by whether or not someone receives care. If they don't get care but they pay into the system, they're a positive investment. If they someday need care, all those months of payment mean little when the poor company is forced to do what they said they would. And even then, Michael Moore does a phenomenal job of showing how quickly companies will deny claims, stop payment, or just pretend like their client is a huge risk (see: woman who because she once had a yeast infection and saw her doctor for medicine was dropped by her insurance). The more people can be denied medical care, the richer the company becomes. The more money an executive at that company saves by doing such evil, the more they are promoted and the higher their bonuses become. I sat staring at my paperwork, verging on simply throwing it in the air and walking out of the room.

The more I think about it, the more I worry about my future as a medical patient in our health care industry. I worry if I'll be able to afford expensive procedures should I need them. I worry about keeping healthy so I don't get fired from my job. I worry that if something happens to Robin, I'll have to keep plugging away at work, because if I don't I'll find myself unemployed. I don't know how or why we let ourselves be convinced that socialized medicine was an evil plague, illogical and a system of chaos. Let me tell you this: if you are able to watch "Sicko" and still feel yourself bolstered in the American health care system, you weren't paying attention.

New Beginnings

2007-08-24T16:24:00.000-07:00

I accepted and began my new position as the Administrative Assistant for the Law Library. Located in the fancy new Knight Law Center, the Law Library is located on the south end of the second floor. I interviewed for the position in early August. I can honestly say that it was my best interview ever. It was a two hour ordeal, the first hour being a panel of three people (the Director, her assistant and the Acquisitions person), the second hour being ten people (the rest of the staff). Each interview felt more like a conversation rather than a job interview. Towards the end of each hour, we were simply chatting about office stuff. I always kept it professional and cleverly found ways of tying what we were talking about to pertinent experience. My effort must have paid off, because when Mary Ann (the Director and my new boss) called, she said that her staff's official recommendation had a sticky note attached which read, "You'd be crazy not to hire him".

Also during my interview, I caught a glimpse of the office occupied by my predecessor. It overlooked the garden and was flanked by two beautiful trees. My first official day was yesterday and I breezed past that office only to find that someone else had moved in. At first, I was a little disappointed. That is, until I saw my office. It is a couple of doors down and was originally intended for the Director herself. It's absolutely humongous, has floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooks the garden, has maple cabinetry and is, in a word, stunning. I beamed with joy.

My boss proceeded to re-introduce me to the library staff and then took me on a brief tour of the school. Absolutely everyone I met was warm and inviting. They were authentically pleased to meet me, welcome me into their family, and ensured me that if I needed anything related to their field to give them a holler. I have to admit that I was surprised that in a law school, everyone was so incredibly nice. Prejudice be damned!

I meandered over to the main library complex to sign my paperwork. Mary Ann walked me there and we discussed lots of things, from my position to the school to Eugene in general. She is a wonderful, bright, caring, funny individual. To be sure, she gave me the best first impression any boss has ever given me. Because of my experience, she didn't want to start me off at the base salary for my position. She had told me as much but we never settled on a salary until I reached HR. There, I found out that her negotiations were successful and I did indeed receive a nice raise.

I was so happy leaving work yesterday. I dove right into my work and before I knew it, the day was over. I excitedly told Robin all about it, after showing him my office of course. He sighed and said, "I wish my corporate culture was like that. I'm so happy for you, but I'm envious". Then it hit me - I am fortunate. I'm incredibly fortunate to now be working where I am. A place where they actually appreciate their administrative assistants and pay them? Crazy.

Early this morning I checked my email. I had a personal message from the Dean of the Law School, welcoming me to the family and relaying that she had already heard good things and was looking forward to meeting me. I'm now sitting here towards the end of my day, looking out my window-wall and smiling. For a year that has been so rigorous, so demanding, this sure is a great way to start the next step in my career.