Party Shuffle

I'm playing poker online and kind of bored at the moment (don't tell the feds--they're still looking for me after that little incident; I'd prefer not to talk about it right now, from what I hear, the statute of limitations is almost up). And don't worry, I claim all winnings on taxes (so far, it hasn't been much of an issue).

I saw this done here, and thought I would try something similar. So I have the i-Tunes up and here's the first ten songs in the party shuffle:

1. No Rolling Back - Jay Farrar
2. Sympathy for the Devil (live) - Jane's Addiction
3. Eyes on My Back - Joseph Arthur
4. Narc - Interpol
5. My Father's Waltz - Hem
6. Garden - Goober and the Peas
7. You Might Think - The Cars
8. Madness (Is All in the Mind) - Madness
9. What's the New Mary Jane? - The Beatles
10. Christ is My Hope - The Innocence Mission

I don't use the party shuffle enough; it's a pretty nice mix, and it certainly beats reading donkeys chatting with each other between hands.

I Am Superman and I Can Do Anything

Way back in '03, I sat through the Matrix Revolutions, wondering how I was going to get my money, and more importantly, my time back from that complete piece of garbage.

However, from my perspective, the movie did offer one revelation, if you will: after watching Neo and Agent Smith battle in the skies and throughout the city, I thought "Someone's going to make a kick ass Superman movie someday."

Fast forward to today. Superman Returns is out in theaters, and while I was right in one regard – it is impressive. Otherwise, I’m feeling a big pile of ambivalence about the movie.

For those of you who don’t know, the basic plot is after a mysterious five-year absence, Superman returns to Earth, discovering that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Lois Lane is winning a Pulitzer for her editorial “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” Oh, and she’s raising a son and engaged to Perry White’s nephew, and associate editor at the Daily Planet. Lex Luthor is out of prison and he’s raiding the Fortress of Solitude for advanced technology, but he’s using it for a land swindle. And the world? Still needs saving.

This movie does a lot very well. I liked that Bryan Singer chose to make it a sequel to Superman II, effectively removing Superman III and IV from the picture, and using Richard Donner’s version of Superman as a springboard was a great choice, in that viewers are already somewhat familiar with the basic premise and story.

The action scenes, especially the plane rescue, are simply breathtaking. (If you get the chance, see it in 3-D; you’ll thank me later), and Brandon Routh, except for his propensity to pose like Gerorge Reeves in every scene, isn’t bad as Superman. (I was most concerned about him in the title roll – I originally thought he looked too pretty for the part).

But the movie brought a lot of negatives along with it as well. Kate Bosworth, while easy on the eyes, simply wasn’t very convincing as Lois; she failed to convince me that she had Lois’s steely character down. However, she’s still a step up from Margot Kidder’s gravelly voice rumbling “SUUUUPPPPEEERRMMANNN!!!” –shudder-

Superman Returns is also about 30 minutes too long; I’m pretty sure small scenes could have been cut. As it was, the movie screeches to a halt in several scenes and it has a lot of trouble recovering the lost momentum.

And then there’s the plot. I felt like there was a lot of been-been-there-done-that thrown into the movie, and I’m not sure why. Rehashed jokes from the original Superman movie included Superman reminding reporters that flying is still statistically safe and Parker Posey’s character repeating one of Miss Teschmacher’s jokes from the original. Plus, there’s the small problem that the plot is largely a rehash of the first movie, where Lex Luthor is going to kill millions in a land grab. Couldn’t they do better?

I’m thinking probably not. I’ve long suspected that Singer and his writing partners, Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, don’t have many original ideas within themselves. Take their biggest recent venture, X-Men 2; the plot was a cross between Chris Claremont’s graphic novel God Loves, Man Kills and Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Kahn (watch the end of X2 and then watch the end of Star Trek 2 and tell me the end of X2 wasn’t a straight lift – I expected Patrick Stewart to start saying “Space, the final frontier . . .” in his ending voiceover). It worked, but I was a little disappointed, seeing that there was so much better material available to use.

So we get Superman Returns, which is basically a rehash of Superman: The Movie. I didn’t think it was bad, but I was disappointed that they chose to basically remake Superman instead of mining other parts of Superman’s rich 75-plus year history. There are other villains available – Brainiac, Mongol, Metallo, but they went with Luthor again (and apparently, there was a version of the script where Zod made an appearance, but Jude Law, who Singer wanted for the role, declined so they wrote him out). And lest I forget, the scene where Lois is on board the yacht and finds all of the wigs was also lifted straight from Star Trek 2.

I don’t mind homages; I don’t mind even incorporating elements from previous films, but I believe this could have been a better movie had the filmmakers chosen to go a different route.

In any case, while it's definitely not a great movie, it's not a bad one either. If you're looking for decent check-your-brain-in-at-the-door entertainment with a lot of truly impressive special effects, or you're a big fan of the Man of Steel, then Superman's well worth seeing.

Just be sure to block out lots of time.

My Man Otis

Is currently covering the World Series of Poker. Poker might not be your thing, but Otis is one hell of a writer and he offers first-rate coverage of the events. Click the link over in the sidebar to check it out.

Don't Forget to Duck!

Do you think the Busch Stadium ground crew was thrilled when they heard it was seat cushion night? I’m sure they didn’t think too much about it – at least until the Cardinals won the game in an ugly ninth inning. Soon the outfield and warning track was covered in a blanket of seat cushions.

I would have thrown mine, but I left it at our seats when David and I slipped down from our seats on Mt. Everest to some empty bleachers.

The contrast between the fans in the bleachers and the Top-of-the-World club couldn’t be greater. At the top, we were nestled between a gung-ho ex-Marine extolling the virtues of the Casino Queen (dude, while I like the Queen’s proximity to downtown, the place is one giant smoke-filled pit of –EV) and how pitchers shouldn’t be hitting and a bitchy Shirley Jones lookalike with a bruise on her foot that looked as if it was ready to blow at any moment. How did I see said bruise? After accusing us of stealing her seats and nearly tripped into everyone between her and her seat, she pulled off her high-heeled sandals and propped her dogs up on the seat in front of her. I know that’s certainly something I wanted to see. At least I wasn’t in one of the adjacent seats. No one drinks up there – the air’s too thin and drinking requires too much exertion at that height. The beer vendors had nearly forsaken us up there.

But the bleachers crowd – now that’s some local color. In the bleachers, the drinking starts with the opening of the gates and ends only when the beer man sings his sad, final last call. A woman sat nearby repeatedly sang the refrain of “Staying Alive”. Parents blanched as drunks cursed So Taguchi for a fielding error. Of course they apologized – we’re nothing if not polite in St. Louis – we just get a little emotional over the baseball. In the eighth inning, with the bullpen on the ropes, LaRussa pulled Looper and put in Izzy, and the fun began.

First the debates: “YES! – Go Izzy!”

“NOOOOOOO!!! Izzy sucks!”

“You suck cheesballs and drink Bud Light!!”

That shut him up good. I certainly didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t even in the debate.

So Jason Isringhausen came up, trying to protect the Cardinals’ meager lead in the game. It’s important because leads are something the Cards haven’t seen too much of lately, and with the starters pitching batting practice, the hitters’ anemic bats and the bullpen’s willingness to let inherited runners cross the plate, the losing streak is starting to take on a life of its own. The tension in the stadium began mounting as everyone asked – which Izzy is it - the strike-throwing closer who fears no man, or the dude trying to figure out that whole strike zone thing?

Apparently, it was no-strike-zone Izzy, because he fell behind the count on each batter he faced, and that’s when this little observation hit: Jason Isringhausen may be the slowest working pitcher in all of baseball.

Between pitches, he stood on the mound, staring at the batter. Staring. Staring. Staring. He’d start to move . . . and throw to first. Then he’d stand on the mound. More standing. Glaciers slowly advance and recede over the continents. Izzy pitches. Waits. Waits. Waits. Sand wears the Sphinx down to nothing. He pitches. Another ball. At this point, I’ve convinced myself that they’re not using a stopwatch to time Izzy – they’re using an hourglass, and that might be too fast. I think I saw Duncan dust off the sundial.

After a brutal eighth, the Cardinals come up in the bottom of the ninth trailing by one run and the bottom of their order coming to bat. I was ready to leave, but a few things happened: Taguchi got on base. Bigbie hit a nice double (and man, was he flying), and the Indians pretty much handed the game to the Cards. (At least LaRussa pulled Izzy and had Spezio bat. I had visions of Izzy watching a pitch pass him, waiting, waiting, waiting and then swinging. Of course, this might let him hit the next pitch. Who knows?). And the hail of seat cushions flew forth.

I’m happy to see the losing streak end, but I think it was the best thing that could have happened to the team. No longer do we have to listen to ownership claim that this is a world-championship-caliber team. It’s pretty obvious that even if they win the pennant, some American League team is going to tee off on them. Hopefully, when the ownership group is busy selling off commemorative field-level seat cushions and the embers from the fire earlier in the season, they’ll remember that championship teams cost money to field, and after the taxpayers and fans have ponied up boatloads of money for them to get their new stadium, it’s only good manners to return the favor.

Be Careful What You Ask For

I've been watching a lot of Cardinals baseball this week. What can I say? I'm into torture. Nothing too painful, mind you, but still, I enjoy watching beat downs. However, one thing makes me cringe more than the bad baseball itself -- those Ford commercials with the dude who won American Idol.

Judging from that commercial, either the "talent" on the show this round was pretty damned miserable or he claimed the pity vote from America -- his scratchy voice and herky-jerky spasms across the stage must have triggered a wave of compassion unseen in this nation in many years . . . compassionate conservatism indeed.

In any case, does having him attempt to sing really sell Ford trucks? I seriously doubt vast numbers of teenage girls are watching Cardinals baseball games - or any baseball games for that matter, and I pretty sure that if you're in the truck-buying demographic: older than 20, needs a truck for some reason or another, then some prematurely gray-haired "singer" really isn't going to move too many trucks off the lot.

I think we're seeing one of the inherent problems of cross-promotion here: sure it helps getting your name out, and ultimately, no publicity is bad publicity. However, I can't help but think that this ad is going to cause nothing but backlash. Most guys I know of turn it off in annoyance -- if they're paying attention to commercials at all, and those who do let it sneak through their filters (either TiVO or personal) probably aren't going to run out and purchase a Ford. (Personally, it makes me want to run them off the road, which I did this morning - three times). And I can't imagine it's helping skippy's "career" (aka - three years of producing banal, soporific pop while basking in the glow of a nation's utter indifference).

In the end, I don't really have all the answers . . . or really, too many at all. Maybe this will sell more trucks and albums. Maybe Ford will continue it's decline. Maybe this dude will sing the greatest song ever and bring love and harmony to all God's children. Somehow I doubt it. I do know one thing, however, and that's when the screen fades to black and the commericals come up, I'm doing my part to help him - and Ford slide into irrelavence: I'm changing the channel.

Appalling

Generally, I don't like making this space too political. I have my views, just as I'm sure both my readers have theirs, and that's perfectly fine with me. However, one thing I will say right here: I've thought for a long time that despite any statements, truthful or otherwise, the most unforgiveable sin the administration has committed is the complete lack of planning and preparation for the war in Iraq. Read this (I found it here).

Like Lex said, if you don't find the story outrageous, you really can't claim to support the troops.

Duller Than Dirt

After suffering through a few minutes of Windfall last night, I decided that I'd probably be the most boring lottery winner ever. Granted, getting picked up by helicopters or buying small amusement parks for your kids is a fun way to use your winnings, but I'm guessing the second season (we should be so lucky) will be the winners going through bankruptcy court. Now that my annual foray into prime time network television has come and gone, it's time to turn off the TV for another three months.

Ten Books

A forum I lurk at (and sometimes post) posed a question: what are ten books you like and why do you like them? Not necessarily your favorite books, and they should be from different times in your life. I thought I would give it a shot. What ten books do you like and why? Here's my list:

1. Watership Down by Richard Adams– I read this every few years. I was in the seventh grade when I discovered Richard Adams’ tale of survival, friendship and courage – told from the perspective of rabbits. I scoffed when a teacher recommended it; I was nearly crying when I finished it. I love the stories, the language, and how Adams created a richly painted world that mirrors ours; one where all you need is friends to rely on, hope to carry you through the rough times and a place you can call home.
2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee – I wish she would have written more novels. I read this twice in high school and once a couple of years ago.
   
3. The Spy Who Came in From the Cold by John LeCarre– For me, LeCarre's best novels are about the old, burned out and bitter Cold Warriors – those who do the unspeakable so that we (the rest of the world) can sleep soundly in our beds. On the surface, Alec Leamas, the disgraced anti-hero of this novel, is sent back out “into the cold” for one final mission: bring down Mundt, his rival in the East German secret service. What always brings me back is how it’s so much more than a simple revenge story: we’re not so different from our foes, friendship and love have little place in the world of Cold War espionage, and there are no lengths a government won’t go to in order to protect its secrets.
4. The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien – This one makes my “read every few years” list. I love that Tolkien created a living, vibrant world, where different cultures mix and, at times, clash. Granted, some of the characters are little more than cardboard cutouts and archetypes, but my favorite aspect of the story is how two simple farmers bring down the greatest evil in the world.
5. The Civil War by Shelby Foote – I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to read this series again, but if you want epic, there it is. Foote starts you from the beginning – you meet the key players, the political landscape and then the battles begin. The thing I enjoyed most about this series is that unlike many history books, Foote really brings the people alive; this history is like reading a novel (a very, very, very, very long novel).
6. Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls – Recently, I noticed a copy of this at the bookstore; I picked it up and thumbed through it. I put it down when I started getting verklempt at the end, and tried running away before anyone noticed. Same reaction I had when I was 10. Darn sad books! If you can get through the end of this book without tearing up a bit, then I think you’re a rock, but this was one of my favorite books when I was growing up. I like books that cause strong emotional reactions, and this one does it in spades.
7. Shibumi by Trevanian – I like this book because I don’t really have to think too hard while reading it. The hero, Nicolai Hel, the world’s greatest assassin, lover, spelunker, and Go player, runs afoul of a monolithic corporation that essentially rules the world. All hell breaks loose. Damage is done. Revenge is sought. Everyone lives happily ever after. What’s not to like? The outrageous, larger-than-life characters make this book one of my favorites.
8. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams – Any book that answers the nagging question of life, the universe, and everything is all right with me. Any book that explains the myriad uses of a towel belongs on my bookshelf. The gleeful absurdity of the story reeled me in. Strangely enough, I still haven’t seen the movie.
9. Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein – I remember pulling this out, running to my mother’s lap and getting her to read “I’m Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor” time after time. Of course I was 22 at the time . . . not really, but giggling to the little poems in this book is one of my earliest memories and something that I treasure.
10. Chasm City by Alastair Reynolds – The key to great science fiction is to not focus on the physics, the kewl spaceships and the uber-powerful rayguns that can level cities, but to focus on the things that make a story great: the characters, the plot, the scene. I wish that more sci-fi writers (for both TV and written word) would remember that. Sure, you can throw in explanations for the cool doodads here and there, but give me a compelling mystery as told by a bodyguard seeking revenge for his (former) employer’s murder, and you have a pretty kick ass novel. This is the second, and my favorite, book in Reynolds’ Revelation Space series.

Mutant Explosion

When I saw the trailer, I figured we were either in for a train wreck or a pretty decent movie. Normally, I'd wait until video and banish it to my "movies that didn't suck as much as I thought they would" category, but since I'm nothing if not a dutiful geek (and therefore a completist), I saw me some X-Men: The Last Stand over the weekend.

I've always been fascinated by jugglers; I think it's amazing that someone can keep all those chainsaws in the air without dropping them, but there's a little part of me hoping that at some point, one will slip and we'll have a sight to see. This was my big problem with the movie: too many chainsaws in the air.

Just because we're different doesn't mean were not human. Love conquers all. If we stand together, there's nothing we can't accomplish. I love my gay -- errr, mutant son. Brett Ratner managed to set up each of these plotlines, and in fairness, he did resolve them. However, it wasn't very satisfying, since you needed a scorecard to keep track of all the characters running around. I was getting confused, and I read the comics for 15 years.

I don't really blame the director too much here: the action scenes were well done and fun to watch, but while Bryan Singer handles the character and plot development better than the action, Ratner definitely brings the big action to the screen well.

The basic plot: pharmaceutical company develops mutant "cure", so Magneto gets pissed and raises an army to slap the government around and announce that mutants aren't taking anymore crap from any humans. Meanwhile, the house of Xavier is a little shaky: the X-Men are now Storm, a withdrawn and depressed Cyclops, and the inexperienced Colossus, Rogue, Iceman and Shadowcat? Ariel? Sprite? Kitty Pryde? (They never really said her codename). I believe this would have made a serviceable and fairly satisfying film, but it looks like the studio made a few "suggestions" designed to set things up for future films.

So suddenly, we have Phoenix; we have Angel and his father, who developed the "cure"; we have Henry McCoy, the Beast. All these characters and plots zip around the screen and they come crashing together in the end in a rather unsatisfying explosion of CGI. Had they gone with fewer characters and one or two less plotlines, this would have been a much better movie.

But despite all this, I didn't hate the movie. It did move along well, and the action sequences were well done (Kitty vs. the Juggernaut is a definite highlight; in fact, Vinnie Jones as the Juggernaut was an inspired bit of casting); however, I believe that had Bryan Singer finished the trilogy as was originally planned, this would have been a better movie and a stronger conclusion to the series. But Singer was drawn off to make Superman Returns and Ratner, originally slated to make Superman, took his jobless ass and made X-Men.

So if you're looking for a good check-your-brain-in-at-the-door movie, X-Men is a fine choice. It's no Snakes on a Plane, but what is? If you liked the character-driven stuff from the other two X-Movies, consider yourself warned. And if you do see it, stick around until after the credits end. You'll thank me later.

Give Him the Heat, Ricky!

Jose Canseco has a new hobby.

I heard this on Jim Rome today; I almost wrecked the car I was laughing so hard. Imagine Jose Canseco with his 450+ major league home runs, marching up to the plate to face a 30-something accountant-pitcher bringing his blazing 60-mph heat. Oh yeah -- Canseco is using an aluminum bat.

The last thing some poor infielder is going to hear is PIIIINNNG!

Walking the Dog on a Night Like This

It’s May 1 and I’m wearing a stocking cap. I’m not sure if it’s going to help, but with the rain pouring down and a dog hopping around while crossing all four legs, I’m going outside. And my raincoat? The really good one that I use for camping trips? It’s doing a fine job keeping the trunk of my car dry.

Maybe an umbrella, you ask? Nope. I’ve long distrusted umbrellas, since those breezy college days, when winds would blow off the plains and rush between the campus buildings, creating little wind tunnels that would rip umbrellas from unsuspecting hands, or if you were prepared, the wind would just turn the umbrella inside out. Do this enough times and you don’t have an umbrella – you have a frame with little nylon tatters hanging from it. Mother Nature can be a real bitch sometimes.

So I open the door to the howling winds, preparing for a long, cold soak, and Trudy stares out the door, cocks her head and looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

“Go out? In this? Are you crazy?” Her little brown eyes seemed to say.

I dragged her out of the house, because by God, if I’m getting soaked, then so is she.

We made it to the gate in my backyard before she stopped, took care of business in the yard, and started pulling me back to the house.

By this time, I’m looking around for the Four Horsemen, because this never happens and I’m thinking that the world is truly coming to an end. Trudy lives for the outdoors. She stares out the windows longingly. She loves sniffing at every blade of grass, every wayward leaf, every acorn or piece of trash on the streets (mainly she’s looking for food).

Lightning? No problem? Thunder? She’s stone deaf, so while I might be cringing and hoping the next blast of lightning isn’t aiming for me, she’s gleefully oblivious to me sparking like a roman candle. Wind? I could be blowing around the block like that cow in Twister (I can’t believe I actually watched it this weekend, and more importantly, I can’t believe I actually saw that piece of crap in the theaters – twice), and Trudy would be trying to take a dump in the crazy old man’s yard. She’s equally ignorant of plummeting temperatures and ice storms.

But a little rain, and she’s hauling ass back into the house.

Who knew? Maybe these smart pills are working (I know that fusion generator in the basement didn’t build itself and I sure didn’t do it. I’m not sure where she found the deuterium, and really, I don’t want to know). Maybe she’s just gaining wisdom with age.

All I know is that on a night where most sane people would be staying indoors keeping warm and dry, I was standing outside in a jacket and stocking cap, trying to coax a dog into staying outside to relieve herself.

Who needs the smart pills now?

Wanted:

• Female kickball player. Must be available this Sunday afternoon. Preferably someone who's not afraid to catch a large red rubber ball.
  
• Someone to remind me why I put up with this crap every freakin' spring.
  
• Something for my headache.
• Copious amounts of alcohol.
• Ten hours of sleep.
• More booze.
  

A Roof Spun from Gold

I believed this was going to be a total waste of time, but I figured what the hell -- give the guy a chance.

My fears were confirmed when he pulled up in a new Escalade, not a ladder in sight. After glancing briefly at my roof from the ground, he said, "You're missing a lot of shingles up there. You could start leaking any day now."

Uh-huh. And so it began.

I'm going to need some roof work on statley Brian Manor soon. As I've mentioned before, she's shedding shingles like crazy. According to the roofing contractor who actually climbed up on the roof and looked at it, Fortunately, all the old roofing material the previous owners left on the roof basically guarantee that it won't leak anytime soon, but it looks like crap. If I want to sell the house any time in the near future, I'm going to have to do something about it.

Meaning I got to visit with my new best friend. Jay strutted in, perfectly coiffed wearing a shiny leather jacket. Forgive me for stereotyping, but I want a roofing estimator to look like he actually stood sometime in the last 20 years with a hammer and roofing nails. I find that reassuring.

Jay started getting on my good side by commenting on my Indiana Jones DVDs that were out on the table - I'd been doing a little watching. He started talking about the good old days, watching Raiders and that one movie, with those guys, Monty . . . Python was it? The grail? Right! The Holy Grail.

Please. No self-respecting geek with an ounce of geek cred forgets about the Holy Grail. Nice try though.

But that's okay; I then heard about how his company is the most benevolent, kind, noble organization on earth. They rescue old ladies from the evil contractors. They remove kittens from trees. They save orphans. By the time he finished, I was crying. I wasn't worthy to be sitting in the presence of such magnamity.

Soon, it was time to talk turkey. He wasn't a salesman, and he hated it when sales people named a price, then cut it down in order to get the business. So a new roof would cost me . . . $22,000. But wait! They're offering $1,000 off as a special -- and another 15% since they buy so many shingles (apparently they're magic shingles, each one coated in gold and kissed by a fairy), and if I sign the paperwork tonight - right this very minute, he'll cut the price to a mere $13,000.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that the other bid I had, the one from the guy who actually walked up on the roof, was for around $3800. Needless to say, I know which bid I preferred.

My new best friend left, without a signed contract. For some reason, I had trouble pulling the trigger on a roof that would cost more than my car. At least the car has moving parts.

There are all sorts of predators in this world. Some say they'll do something and run away with your money. Others are nearly as bad -- they dazzle you with a long presentation and flummox you into signing your life away for a service that you can have at a fraction of the cost. Sadly, there are people who fall for the dog and pony show every day; that's why Jay was driving his shiny new Escalade around town.

What can I say? It sucks always being right. I closed the door and climbed up the stairs, chuckling all the while.

Milk Bones for Algernon

Some choose to celebrate holidays by quietly spending time with friends and family. Some choose to observe any religious obligations associated with said holiday. Some, on the other hand, have their own special way of observing these holidays. Take Trudy, my trusted canine companion, for instance.

She celebrates holidays by pooping in the house.

Trudy has always been a little shaky on the whole house training thing, but most of the time she gets it. Inside = bad; outside = okay. Sure we’ve had incidents over the last couple of years, but what relationship doesn’t have its ups and downs.

So this year, my dog celebrated Valentines’ Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Ash Wednesday by relieving herself in various rooms of my home. She also chose to do so for several days afterwards. She’s also been behaving more erratically, staring into corners, sleeping more frequently and generally acting more confused than normal.

I hit my limits after one particular post-Ash Wednesday session, where I spent an hour with some industrial strength cleaner on the rug in my sunroom upstairs. After a phone call to the vet, we determined that either Trudy is suffering from CCD (canine cognitive dysfunction – basically senility for dogs, or dumb dog syndrome as someone I know refers to it) or she’s losing control of herself.

So at the vet’s prompting, I started giving her some pills (smart dog pills!) that might alleviate the CCD. So far, no real changes, except that last night she pointed out that I forgot to carry the two in some calculus problems I was working out. It was a nice catch - that could have caused some trouble down the road.

If the pills don’t actually work, then it may be Trudy’s time. I can’t keep cleaning up after her, especially if I want to sell the house this year.

Trudy is a sweet dog, but she’s a difficult dog as well. She’s not particularly affectionate; she never plays and only acts happy to see me when I come home in the afternoons. She's also flatulent like you wouldn't believe. She can clear a room in six seconds. I’ve spent more money on inconclusive vet visits and kennel trips than I like to think about.

However, I also hate giving up on someone – even if she is a dog. I agreed to take care of her, and so it’s my responsibility to do so, even if she becomes an inconvenience. And, most importantly, she's still my friend.

Inconvenience or not, though, she may drive me to ulcers, especially if we have another argument like we did last night. I mean, come on, who really believes that given a little more time, McClellan could have revitalized the Army of the Potomac and beaten Lee? Smart dog pills, indeed.

The Blue and the Green

“Brian, there’s green and blue stuff all over your dryer!” Darcy’s disembodied voice floated up from the basement.

Coffee. That’s where my mind was. Needed to finish making coffee. Before bed, I set up the coffee pot, and at that moment, my head was buried in the pantry, trying to find more coffee.

“It’s all over my clothes. It looks like there was a crayon in there . . . oh. I might have had a crayon or two in one of my pockets,” her voice floated up at me again.

Found it. Mixed the grounds and sugar. Poured in the water. Set the timer. There. Now the counter needed wiping up. Clean kitchens are good.

“There’s a big glob of green crayon stuck to the side!”

Apparently, my plan to bury myself in kitchen cleaning and coffee making wasn’t going to pay off. I was going to have to face cold, hard reality – something that I haven’t wanted to do much lately. I’d like to sell my house this year, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen.

There’s a big hole in my kitchen ceiling, which I can’t fix until I get the corroded water line for the toilet replaced. I have a broken ceiling fan in the kitchen. The grass in the backyard is dead, but at least the weeds give some appearance of life. Once the weather turns warm, I’m going to replace most of the deck. But to keep things interesting, my house has decided that it could use a new roof as well.

As the roofer said, it probably won’t leak due to the inch of rotted crud under the shingles, but anytime there’s a good windstorm, my house sheds shingles like a Labrador sheds in the spring. I’m thinking this won’t encourage a potential buyer.

Needless to say, for me, the joy of homeownership was long ago replaced by a sort of bunker mentality: what’s going to blow up next? When I purchased the house, a friend said to me, “Congratulations on the best purchase you’ll ever make. And in getting the biggest pain in the ass you’ll ever have.” I laughed at him, charmingly naïve. Now I’m laughing at myself, cynicism fully restored.

But you learn from these tempests in teacups. Six months after I moved in, my roof started shedding shingles. I was convinced the whole house was broken; the next rainstorm would sweep the roof off the house and ruin everything. I found someone to fix it; he patched them up and no problem. (Until now, but I still needed to learn about finding competent contractors).

When I discovered my gutters had developed a new trick: they were pouring water into the house, as opposed to away from the house (there’s nothing more fun than seeing water trickling from an exterior wall), instead of losing my mind and pacing around like I’d forgotten my meds and the voices were getting a little too loud, I had them replaced along with the fascia.

Had it happened a few months ago, discovering that my dryer is now producing aqua-hued clothing would have caused me to pull out clumps of hair as I paced around fretting about it. Now, after deciding that ignoring/avoidance isn’t going to pay off, I needed to take a look. Hell, I might even be able to fix it. Right.

You learn; you adapt. Heck, I might even be growing up a little. But I’d still prefer to be playing a video game. Or sleeping. Or reading. Or just about anything else.

So I steeled my nerve and made my way to the basement, and sure enough – my dryer drum was looking rather cyanotic. Annoying? Yes. Insurmountable? Not really. Many bottles of cleaner, WD40 (it works! God bless the Internet – source of all knowledge), several rags and a roll of paper towels later, the drum only has a light blue tint. I’ll test-run it on an old towel tonight. The slightly blue-tinted drum adds character to an otherwise bland appliance.

Before I owned a house, I believed that outside of mowing the lawn once a week, I’d be living on easy street. Building equity, watching the house appreciate in value, collecting fat income tax returns. Easy living!

It’s not easy. Sometimes, it is a complete pain in the ass, but name one thing that’s important, fun and worthwhile that isn’t a pain in the ass occasionally. What’s that? You can’t? I know, because everything worth having is going to make you work for it.

So even though I sometimes consider dousing the first floor in gasoline, grabbing the dog and lighting a match, I fix the old place up, forgive it its faults and look forward to the day I can step into a new home . . . and deal with all of its daily catastrophes.

I Bought Into the Hype . . .

. . . and now I want my $40 back

Sometimes it sucks being right; there are times I take very little pleasure in it.

Last Saturday, I met Darcy at the mall; she was dress shopping, something I know we'd both be happier if I wasn't with her. So I met up with her by the Cheescake Factory, where she said she'd put us on the waiting list for a table.

Now, I've never been to the Cheescake Factory, and to be honest, I've never been too keen on going. I simply wasn't interested in the place; all I knew was that if I never set foot inside, my life wouldn't be any worse off than it was before.

But we were there, Darcy suggested it, and I said sure. So I arrived at the mall, freshly scrubbed and all worked out from my trip to the gym, only to discover that we had a 25-minute wait ahead of us.

Darcy had put our names on the list 30 minutes earlier.

So we joined the masses waiting to get into the place. So we wandered for a few minutes, and returned with ten minutes to spare. And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

About 20 minutes later, we learned we got to wait another 10 minutes - at least.

I understand a restaurant gets busy at lunchtime. I understand that people act with all the predictability of the Midwest weather. But I also know that you should take that into account, so people aren't waiting much longer than you say.

So we head off to our seats after our pager signals us. Our table? One small table along a long bench, where roughly 12 other tables had been placed. It looked like a cafeteria, and funny, with the overly-loud muzak and cheap plastic cups for water, it sure seemed like one.

Thumbing through our menu, I was overjoyed to see that I had to get through the bar and appetizer section before hitting the entres. Oh yeah --- there was also all the advertisements on every other page. Every. Other. Page.

Judging by the crowds I've generally seen at these restaurants, I can't imagine their hurting for cash. If they were a small mom-and-pop restaurant in Anytown, USA, I'd buy the need for ads in the menu, but not full-page color ads on glossy paper. And not for places that were NO LONGER IN BUSINESS!!! WTF? Honestly!

Our food arrived. A lunch salad was large enough to feed a family of sixteen. It was an okay salad; nothing to make me want to shake the chef's hand, but certainly not worth the $10 it cost.

However, the carrot cake I had for desert was quite tasty. I'll give them that.

We left, having two salads and two deserts - $40 poorer. I wanted to ask the hostess or manager for a kiss, since I generally enjoy kisses while being screwed.

In short, I have never, never seen a restaurant with less respect for the people shelling out the money to eat there. You wait for an insane length of time, only to sit and wait some more in an uncomfortable seat with all the privacy of a barracks while drinking in the painted on decor and thumbing through the ads in the menu.

As near as I can tell, their basic message is "Screw you; we're going to make you wait and you're going to like it." They bribe you with insane portions of food, but for me, that's not enough.

I'm dying to know how many people regularly go there -- and not under some form of obligation or duress (they have friends or family in from out of town who want to go; they need to use a gift card, etc.). I'm willing to bet the number isn't all that high.

Perhaps I'm out of touch, but I'd prefer going to a small, more quiet restaurant, with reasonable waits and less-than-indifferent service. I don't mind dropping money on a meal; I do mind if I feel as if I'm not getting my money's worth for the experience, and to me, a mountain of salad and an admittedly good desert for a nearly one-hour wait to sit in a crappy atmosphere isn't worth it one little bit.

Fitness Tips

After a nearly two-year hiatus, I decided it was time to take my tubby ass back to the gym. Something about running out of breath while climbing the stairs, feeling slow and the vision of me being buried in a piano box with two cranes as pallbearers didn’t seem like a good life choice. Besides, kickball’s around the corner, and I need to be ready.

And it’s good to see things haven’t changed much. I like consistency; it makes me feel safe and secure, so when I walk into the gym only to see the Beautiful people congregating, it feels like a sort of homecoming. Sadly, the only thing missing is the two guys standing in the corner, straddling each other while screaming “CMON!!! IT’S ALL YOU!!! YOU GOT IT!!!! GO GO GO!!!!” I’m pretty sure one of them was holding weights, but I was afraid to look too closely.

However, things have changed; maybe it’s the time of year – there’s a few new years’ resolution holdovers, younger people and new folks there. And these young’ns? They don’t know crap. So as the old salt, I figured I would take the liberty to give a little gym etiquette guide:

1. Stripping the weights is for pussies. The next guy’s there to work out, right? So why the fuck would you want to take your old weights off? He needs the exercise, so let him take his tubby ass up and remove all the plates you just slapped on the machine. He’ll thank you for it eventually.
2. Accessorize. Ladies, be sure to cake on an extra layer of makeup to go with the jewelry. That way, when you stand around in the humid room, it might not run as badly. Keep your purse with you too; you never know when it might come in handy, or you need to write down a phone number.
3. Attire. It’s all about the look. That’s why it’s important to wear a t-shirt saying something to the effect of “Macho”, “Pride”, or “Big Gunz”. Or, if you’re a real man and want to show it, go simple and find the Superman logo t-shirt. Your admirers will appreciate you that much more.
4. Socialize. The gym is fun. You should have fun, so feel free to sit on one of those handy seats and benches randomly set around the room and have yourself a good talk. Maybe while you’re discussing real estate, 401Ks, getting ripped the night before. The guy wanting to use your seat? Fuck him. You were there first.
5. Say it loud, say it proud. 100 lbs is a really good bench; especially if you’re doing reps. So be sure to let fly the soul-clearing scream while putting it up. You want people looking at you; the ladies will be coming over for a chat or maybe to pat your pecs. The guys, well, they’ll be hiding their heads in shame, sorry they ever set foot on YOUR gym floor.
6. Do I look like the maid? You’re in the zone. Sweat’s flying, you’re moving. If you were sweating any more, you’d have ducks swimming around you and people would be tossing coins at your feet. But you can’t stop. Even if you just used that dumbbell. Even though it just slid out of your hand due to the layer of sweat. Sweat dries eventually, especially if the next person comes along to pick up the weight. Gotta keep moving, get back into the zone . . .
7. I did it MY way, Byeeotch. America was founded by individualists; men and women who were bound and determined to make their own ways in life without some crusty old monarch in London telling them what to do. So you’re simply honoring America when you ignore the arrow telling you to walk clockwise. If it’s Tuesday it’s counter-clockwise day dammit!
8. Now that's what I call high quality H2O. A good workout means a big sweat. You want to replace that lost water, so you keep a gallon jug with you at all times. Good thing there’s all those drinking fountains around to refill the jug when you empty it. Those people in line behind you? Morons. They should’ve brought their own jugs.
9. I look good – real good. When you’re pumped up, you look like a god amongst men. That’s why you should stand in front of the mirror, blocking off all the free weights staring longingly at yourself. Because really, what can look better than you?
10. Patience is a virtue. You learned how to wait your turn when you were two (ideally), so when someone’s on the machine you want, stand right over him and stare until he gives it up. It’s your turn, dammit! Screw his slow old ass on the equipment. Asking to work in is for pussies, and that’s something you’re not.

So there you have it; a little help for you gym beginners. Working together, we can make the gym experience one that everyone can enjoy.

Progress?

While I'm annoyed that she chose to take care of business in the smallest and, perhaps, least ventilated room in the house, I can't help but be impressed that Trudy crapped in front of the toilet. At least she's has the right idea.

Ungrateful

I checked my pockets to make sure everything was in its place: cell phone, check; wallet, check; keys, in the ignition. I hadn't dropped anything, so I was awfully curious as to why the guy was jogging up to my car while waving frantically.

Somehow, I doubted he wanted to chat; when I held the door open for him as I walked out and he walked in, he didn't look at me or say anything ("Thank you" would have been nice, but what the hell). What would cause a grown man to hurry out of a bank gesturing urgently to a total stranger?

I was pretty sure he hadn't just finished robbing the place, since he'd only been in there for about 30 seconds, but just to be safe, I cracked the window as he walked up to see what he needed.

"You got a lighter?" he asked.

WTF? I mean, I hear nicotine cravings are a bitch, but he ran out to see if I could give him a light?

"No. Sorry," I said.

"How about in the car?"

To the best of my knowledge, most cars built in the past 5-6 years don't come with a built-in lighter. I have a very new-looking car.

Now, I'm willing to guess that he doesn't have a newer car, and I'm willing to guess that he's probably not the most observant soul on earth.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"I bet there's one in the car," he came back with.

"No -- there's not!"

"Oh." And he walked back towards the curb.

So let's see; he was a rude asshole when I held the door for him. Then when I didn't have a light for him, he was an even bigger prick. I was kind of pissed at this point, but I just rolled up the window while muttering a few choice words. People suck.

As I drove off, he stood on the curb, hunched over, intently studying one of the sidewalk lights on the curb. Maybe he was trying to figure out if he could light up off of that; maybe he was new to the whole electricity thing. Who knows?

All I know is it's bad form to act like a tool then expect people to bend over to assist you. I toyed with the idea of running his ass over and adding a little badly-needed depth to the gene pool, but deciding that might be considered murder, I headed back to work instead.

To the best of my knowledge, he's still looking for that light.

Woohoo!!

My nerd heart is all aflutter.

Sure it's cheesy and silly at times, but what's more fun than watching a crazy brit travel through time in a phone booth with a really hot chick? It's fantastic!

More posts this weekend. I just had to get my nerd on for a moment.

Naked

We dashed out of the cold wind and into the warm building. We'd been driving all day and some leg stretching was in order, so a walk through Wal Mart it was. However, as we left the car, we realized that the warm Dallas winter we'd left behind had slowly transformed into the cold Missouri one. Joy.

I reached into my pocket and realized that my phone wasn't there. No worries, I was sure it was in the car.

But it wasn't. Nor was it in the trunk. Nor under the seat, or in the glove box. I was without phone.

All things considered, it was a great weekend. I'd just met the rest of Darcy's family. We had a plesant Christmas. We were headed home. No disasters, problems or spats. All was peaceful under the heavens.

So in order to add a little spice to my life, I decided to drop my phone somewhere in Oklahoma.

I handled it well -- for six seconds. What if mom was calling? What if work needed me? What if someone had it and was calling 1-900-SPANKME? What the hell was I going to do?

"It's okay," Darcy said. "I'm sure someone turned it in. If not, just call Sprint tomorrow and have them shut off the phone."

"But I need a phone." I said.

"Why?" Darcy said.

"Because. I need one."

"Who's going to call you? Why do you need one now?"

"Because that's the number I give out. People know to reach me there. I need a phone, dang it!"

"I don't think the world will end if you don't have a phone," Darcy said while smiling.

"I'll be cut off from society; I'll cease to exist! I'll be a giant hole in the space-time continuum!"

"You're so cute." Darcy said.

So maybe I didn't wink out of existence, but I'm feeling lost and somewhat naked without a cell phone. I don't have the reassuring weight in my pocket; no one can reach me RIGHT NOW. Dear God, I'll have to listen to the radio while driving! Lord, give me strength. And now I learn that if I wait until Sunday, I can get an extra $75 off a new phone.

Of course, this could be a positive experience. Perhaps between now and Sunday I'll learn to cherish the silence; I'll have to be a little more careful in planning my time out, but I can manage, and if I need to call someone, I go home or I use a pay phone. Sure, I could embrace the simplicity forced upon me and enjoy the freedom, but I'll probably end up like the guy in the Shawshank Redemption who hung himself because he couldn't handle it.

However, I'm pretty certain I'm going to lose my damned mind between now and then. If you see someone hustling down the street, glancing furtively to the left and right, while talking to himself, take pity on him. It could be me, so kindly take my shoelaces, belt and any matches or sharp objects. I'll thank you later.

Random Stuff, Take 99

Happy Holidays!

A few pre-Christmas random notes before I head out of town again:

• What’s with all the anti-Christmas hysteria? You hear all the conservative gasbags going on about how Christmas is under attack because people say “Happy Holidays”. Note to assorted windbags: Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve. Last time I checked, that’s four – count ‘em – four separate holidays. Therefore, if you say “Happy Holiday,” you’d look like a fool – there being four holidays and all. I looked it up: the plural of “holiday” is “holidays”. So here’s a suggestion – TONE DOWN THE FUCKING RHETORIC FOR ONCE! That way, we might take you seriously when you babble on about all the other made-up crap, like the liberal media, the war on terror and judicial activism.
• Better yet -- how about not worrying about what Target, Wal Mart, K-Mart, S-Mart, Joe's Lamp Shack and Billy Bob's House of Knives does to acknowledge Christmas and just try making the season as pleasant as possible for you and those around you.
  
• Lesson learned from writing the book – have an actual idea before starting. Paper-thin plots pretty much die by word 15,000. I’ll be at it again next year, though.
• Charlie Brown Christmas? It still rocks – 40 years after it first aired.
• Four days of little to no sleep = messed up sleep schedule. Messed-up sleep schedule + post-Vegas exhaustion = pre-Christmas cold.
• I hate Kohl’s.
• I also hate Christmas shopping. Next year, it’s all online, baby!
• I still believe in Walt Jocketty, but I’m starting to get kind of nervous.
• Don’t give suckers the benefit of the doubt. Odds are, they’re just as stupid as they look and act. (More on this later)
• Have a safe and wonderful holiday, everyone. Enjoy the time with your friends and families.

Tree Memories - Pt. III

It’s three weeks before Christmas; carols have taken over the radio, a winter chill has settled in, keeping people cloistered in their homes, huddled against the cold. Everyone, that is, except for me – my fingers were numb.

Why were they numb? Because I was reaching up through the moon roof of Darcy’s car, holding her 8-1/2-foot tall tree on the roof. Despite thick gloves and heat blazing from the vents, airflow at 35 MPH treated my gloves like tissue paper, but I wasn’t deterred – my death grip kept the damned tree solidly against the car’s body as we inched closer to home.

How did I get into this predicament? Well, let’s set the clock back a week. Darcy wanted a tree for her apartment – a live tree; a tall tree; a fresh tree. Meaning we were going to a cut-your-own-tree lot. When she suggested this, I pointed out the obvious flaw in her plan:

“Let’s be honest, sweetie,” I said. “When they say cut-your-own tree, they probably should say Brian-cuts-down your tree.”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “But can we go?”

Again, rather than waste time with just saying no, pointing out how it’s a waste of gas, a waste of time and damned cold outside, I folded like a piece of paper. Sure, pride is nice, but grumbling aside, since I decided to not hate Christmas this year, and it would make Darcy happy, then tree shopping it is.

And there but for the grace of God I went – to a tree lot over in Illinois.

The car ride was uneventful, except that since we were in her car, we listened to Christmas music the entire time. Now, I don’t mind “classic” Christmas music; however the new stuff – mostly stuff written in the past ten years or so – really stinks. Mariah Carey warbling about something; Faith Hill – ugh. And of course, the most hated version of all – Stevie Nicks croaking Silent Night. It sounds like frogs fucking.

So we arrived at the tree lot – trucks as far as the eye can see. We go to the cashier, pick up a saw, hop on the trailer being dragged by the tractor and off we went into the wilds of Eckert's tree lot.

The cold wind blew into the 30-40 of us huddled on the trailer. I pet the large dog lounging beside me -- there were two dogs on the trailer; I'd bring my dog, except that she'd run off, trying to urinate on every tree on the lot. Between that and the "presents" she'd leave for everyone, and we might not be welcomed back, so Trudy remained behind.

We walked around, seeing various trees. Finally we found It -- green, tall, fluffy. It stood out amongst the other trees - taller, fuller. It was the One.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees before it, sawing through the trunk, and soon, the tree was down (fortunately, not on top of me -- kind of was afraid of that). Soon, we were in line, paying for the tree.

As we left, I grabbed several strands of twine -- we had no other means of tying the tree to the car, so twine it was, and after several minutes of knotting, weaving, wrapping, we climbed into the car and drove. For about a half mile, when we stopped to re-tie the tree. Two miles later, we stopped again.

The tree kept swaying to and fro on top of the car. This wasn't good, considering we still had several miles of highway to cover before getting the tree safely to Darcy's apartment. After stop number three, I was reaching up through the moon roof, holding the tree on the car. We needed help - and soon.

Salvation came in the form of a nursery that sold trees. We pulled into the lot, and Darcy appealed to their kind natures, while I slinked off, not wanting to be pointed out as the guy who couldn't tie a tree on a car. After he finished tying the tree back on, I belly crawled back to the passenger side door and we made a clean getaway.

The tree fastened to the roof, it was off to Darcy's apartment, where we put it up and added the lights. The next night we decorated it. Then we redecorated it the next night after it fell over in the middle of the night.

I'm still not a big tree fan. As we worked on it, I could feel my sinuses filling up and my head starting to swim. Allergies rock. And in a few weeks, we'll need to take it down. However, the experience wasn't as traumatic as it might have been, and any chance I get to spend time with Darcy is well worth it.

However, I still don't want to carry the damn thing out of her apartment. I'm nothing if not lazy.

Tree Memories - Pt. II

Sometime in September, it became increasingly obvious that Darcy wasn’t going to dump my ass by the holidays. This, by the way, is a very good thing; however, my past relationship history generally keeps me peeking over my shoulder.

In any case, we began discussing the holidays, and I soon learned that Darcy loves Christmas. She. Loves. Christmas.

This is kind of a funny contrast to me, who, as I said before, likes the family time, the food (Lord, do I love the food – rub the belly! Look at it jiggle! Roll, fat roll! Err . . . I digress), and the giving and receiving of presents, but I couldn’t care less about the stores, commercials, bad Christmas music and the tree.

Yes, the tree. My fingers and toes turned numb just thinking of the tree, and now my girlfriend is suggesting that I go out and buy one. I needed a distraction; I needed time to think, to clear my head, I needed to say something so brilliant that it would put it out of her mind completely for the rest of time.

“Um – I’ll think about it,” is what came out.

“If you have a tree, I’ll want to spend more time at your house. Otherwise, I won’t come over as much,” was her response.

“Err – I’ll think about it?” kept rearing its ugly head. And so we tabled the discussion until Thanksgiving.

I had some extra time that morning; my services weren’t required for the parade, so Darcy and I lounged around watching television and reading the paper.

“Lowe’s has an artificial pre-lit tree on sale for $25,” she said.

“So?” I came back with. Probably not the best response, but I had turkey on the brain. Sweet, sweet turkey, with stuffing and cranberries and . . . .

“I think you should buy it. While it’s so cheap.”

“But I don’t want a tree”

“Yes, you do! We’re going to enjoy this Christmas, and I want you to have a tree here!” is basically what she said. So I looked her right in the eye, gathered my resolve and folded like a piece of paper.

But hey – since I was going to lose the fight anyway, why not save a few bucks in the process? I’m nothing if not practical.

Up bright and early Friday morning. Had to beat the shoppers. Had to beat the shoppers. What’s my damn problem? Lowe’s isn’t going to be infested with crazed shoppers drunk from turkey and lack of sleep; maybe a few surly contractors who need to get some work done, but crazed post-Thanksgiving shoppers? Not so much.

And I was right – sort of. It took awhile to get past Crestwood Mall, where the cars lined up and down Watson, patiently waiting to get in before all the stuff was gone. Because, you know, stores sell out of everything for the rest of time unless you make it there at 3:00 AM.

So I bought my tree (and I went to the casino to kill a few hours and not deal with traffic --- and I won $50 – thereby paying for the tree). And last weekend, we finally set it up, and decorated it.

All I had for this tree was lights – no ornaments or anything, so my beautiful girlfriend bought me the coolest ornaments ever – Star Wars and Batman ornaments! This rules. Then we went out and bought some generic ornaments along with a tree topper – a model of a robot with huge guns! Robots rule! I was going to have the coolest tree ever.

We returned home; I walked the dog and popped The Two Towers in the DVD player – I needed a little Christmas decoration movie for inspiration. We assembled the tree and plugged it in. And a strand of lights didn’t work.

Unfazed, Darcy tugged at the strand, and they came on for a second – but only for a second. Remaining calm, I checked the instructions. It was either the bulbs or the fuse. I hoped for the fuse and tried replacing it. And failed – because I have REAL FREAKING FINGERS!!! Apparently, they designed these lights for the wee people, because you can’t change the fuse, unless you have needles for fingers. What the hell were they thinking?

I started tugging at bulbs, feeling frustration and anger mounting. But before I blew, I realized I was becoming my father, which brought be back from the ledge. I put the burned-out strand on my to-do list, and we sat in the glow of the tree lights, contemplating warfare and politics in Middle-Earth. Well, I did; Darcy fell asleep.

So I have a tree. Sure it’s artificial, sparsely decorated and kind of small, but I have a tree, and I didn’t traumatize myself while putting it up! Progress! Bring on the next challenge!

Little did I know that the next tree challenge was only a few short hours away . . .

Tree Memories - Pt. I

Almost immediately after Thanksgiving, you could feel it starting: Dad would whistle Christmas carols. A few days later, he’d start clearing a space in the living room. Then he’d dig all the boxes of ornaments out a few days after that. Then the moment came when we could no longer ignore it; the moment we all dreaded – it was time to go tree shopping.

When Mike and I were very young, Mom would start bundling us up early: sweaters, gloves, socks, mittens, socks, coats, hoods, hats, scarves, boots and socks covered every inch of flesh – except for a tiny hole around our faces. As we moved outside, steam would fountain out of the hole. We looked like dolphins with feet, lumbering around the tree lots.

At the first of several tree lots, Dad would inspect each tree, eyeing it critically, making sure it lived up to standards agreed upon – by his committee of one – years ago. He’d stand the tree up and look at it standing out against the sky, and then he would comment on how small it looked – failing to realize that to the sky, everything looks kind of small. To me, it looked huge – towering over us, occasionally obscured by a jet of exhaling steam, but it was big. It was green, and it was a tree. And I could no longer feel my fingers.

But the trees wouldn’t stand up to their inspection. A small bald spot here, brown needles there, and by lot three, I’d lost sensation in my feet. And the search continued, until we found the Tree. Up until now, I couldn’t have cared much less about the damn tree. However, watching them bundle it was the most fascinating thing ever. Cutting the bottom off and then shoving the tree through the chute so it came out wrapped was (and still is) the coolest thing ever. I know – I’m a geek.

The tree would come home and stand up in the corner of the living room. We’d remove the lights from their assorted boxes and begin untangling the Gordian knots. And the fun began.

My father was a wonderful man who loved us dearly. He was extremely intelligent and loved greatly by his students and fellow teachers. He knew more about history than I can ever hope to know. But the man couldn’t use a hammer to save his life. Any project involving carpentry, electrical work or plumbing involved much cursing, stomping and several attempts. So when the lights didn’t work, Dad would be chipper no more. Cussing, and stomping and complaining lead to a trip to Target, where we’d buy new lights, and inevitably, a strand wouldn’t work, continuing the process.

But afterwards, the tree would be up, gently glowing in the corner of the room. Dad would sit in there with it; heck, we all did – it was relaxing to sit in the dim twinkling lights. By Christmas, the tree had worked its magic and I was suffering from pneumonia while Mom and Mike were nursing colds. The allergen factory had to go.

This process continued yearly, but as we grew older, it grew less smooth. Add a little teenage sullenness to Dad’s frustration with all things electric and you can imagine how the scene played out. But even grudgingly, we’d help put the tree up.

Because Dad loved Christmas; he loved the idea of the family being together and celebrating the holidays together. He loved Christmas carols, trees, lights and just the time of the year. And while we may laugh it off now and complained about it growing up, we knew where he was coming from. He did these things because he loved us and wanted us to look back on Christmastime as something special and magical. But by then, my heart had been poisoned off the holidays.

Spend several years working retail around Christmas, and if anything will beat holiday love out of you, it’s some crazed semi-drunk shopper blaming you that he waited until the 23^rd to buy his kids the must-have toy of the year. If that doesn’t do it, working the return desk will. So sometime during high school and college, I developed something of a –meh- attitude about the holidays. I liked giving and receiving presents, and I liked spending time with my family, but that was as far as I could take it.

I think it frustrated Dad to no end that we all felt the same about it. Eventually, we switched to an artificial tree, and every year, two weeks before Christmas, Dad would put it up. We’d return from college or come to visit after we’d moved out and the tree would be up. A few weeks later, it would come down.

After Dad died, we never set the tree up again. We still celebrated the holidays, but there were no trappings – it was purely a utilitarian celebration: gifts exchanged, dinner eaten, and then we’d go to the boats – you know, a traditional Christmas celebration.

I never saw a reason to put a tree up in my assorted apartments or house after I moved out, so I never did. And so things continued. Until this year.

Plugging a Hole

How are you? It's been awhile? What? Really? I'm not surprised, and that shirt? It looks great on you.

So yes, I've been somewhat delinquent in writing out here. I could bore you with the usual excuses, but you've heard them all before. I want to write again, but I've been having trouble finding my voice lately. Everything I write sucks. I read it, hate it and leave it sitting in the ether, waiting for a revision that will likely never come.

Part of the problem is focus -- I lack it. I return home from work and don't feel like doing anything, so nothing gets finished.

I pondered this last week as I surfed the 'net, trying to figure out where I left my voice (not that it was so fresh and unusual that the world can live without it), but I missed it. Then it hit me:

I need a goal.

So I'm writing a novel this month. It might suck, it might rock. Right now, it doesn't exist. I don't even really have a great idea. I did, but those bastards Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson stole it. Wedding Crashers, indeed. Fuckers.

In any case, I'm writing a book this month. I don't know if it's something I'll ever share with the world, but it's something I need to do - just to prove I can.

Wish me luck, and please, feel free to kick me in the ass if it looks like I'm lagging. Or, heck, just kick me in the ass -- I probably deserve it.

Jeeee-sus!

That's what I said when Pujols destroyed Minute Maid Park with that bomb he unloaded on Lidge. Anyone who doubts him as a hitter just shut up. I know the Astros did.

I'll admit; I lost faith. I was starting to plan out what I'd like to see them do in the offseason (mostly a .300-hitting young outfielder who can finally protect Pujols in the lineup). But, like many people, I suspect, one swing of the bat restored my faith. This was no wussy Berkman-esque pop-fly home run; this was a statement. I'm curious to see how the Astros respond.

In any case, I'm excited about tomorrow night, and hopefully, we'll be seeing one more World Series played here.

Probably Shouldn't Surprise Anyone, Really . . .

I found this here.

You are a Social Liberal (81% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (25% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Democrat Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Lessons Learned - Summer Edition

As the year enters the final stretch, I thought I would share with you some nuggets of acquired wisdom:

1. Five guys buying one-way plane tickets at the last minute is deemed suspicious; who knew?
   
2. However, those TSA folks down in South Carolina? Very nice and professional -- he didn't even look like he wanted to die when he opened my bag and the toxic cloud from three days worth of clothing over a three-day drinking binge wafted over the area.
   
3. Southern Comfort brings no comfort. None whatsoever.
   
4. 80-lb. Boxer + my crotch = much pain
   
5. My girlfriend may be better than me at Scrabble; my ego is protesting this call, but numbers are numbers.
   
6. Yesterday, I figured out that Jaws 3 may be the worst film ever made -- then Jaws: The Revenge stared.
   
7. Volcano came on next, totally killing theory.
   
8. I've seen more bad movies than any human being should, and God help me -- I like some of them.
   
9. At the ballpark, everything is better in the field-level seats.
   

Passive Aggression

I don't mind having my picture taken, but usually I ask that the photographer introduces himself before snapping away.

So I was kind of curious why this short balding man with a prune face and thinning hair stood in front of his house taking pictures of Trudy and I walking down the street. Normally, I ask that you give me a chance to hide the bag of dog crap before stealing my soul, so I took a more peaceful route.

"New camera?" I asked.

"Something like that," he replied, and walked back in the house.

Now I knew what he was doing. Several times when walking the dog, he just happened to appear on his front porch when we make it by his house. I'm always friendly; he always growls. It's fun.

Yep -- George Freakin' Smiley was scoping me, afraid that Trudy was using his lawn as a toilet. And she does from time to time, but that's why I carry bags around - so I can clean it up. However, my neighborhood is full of the zealous guardians who delight in nothing more than catching a wayward cur crapping in their front yards. I guess the benefit of the doubt is something that we're no longer entitled to these days.

So last Saturday, I return home and take the dog out around 11:30. I'm tired and ready for some sleep. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him standing less than two feet behind me, glaring at Trudy like she's Satan herself.

"How you doing?" I asked.

"Uhhnnn," he said.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope."

I'd like to point out here that Trudy was sniffing and doing nothing more.

"You know, if you're worried about her going in your yard, that's why I always carry these," and I pulled a bag out of my pocket.

"People don't clean up after their dogs," he said.

"I know, but I do."

"Whatever." And he retreated to his house.

His foul mood bothered me for awhile. I'm tired of the glares, the stares and the general suspicion I seem to arouse -- especially considering the stray dogs, stray teenagers and rampant nightclubbers on weekends.

So I left the poop bag on his front porch. That'll show him. Next time, I'll bring a match to light it.

Home Front

Growing up, I think we were each others' worst enemies. Playing Batman when I was four (he was two) - he cracked my skull open with a wooden block. Six stitches later, we were friends again.

Wiffle ball bats made great torpedos while in the pool. Those air/water-powered rockets sure could fly fast, and a few of those "accidental" hits with the wiffle ball bats to the head weren't as accidental as the injurer made it seem.

But like all brothers, we stood by each other. I wouldn't let older kids pick on him (we both wound up getting our asses kicked), and I felt genuine pity for him the day he slid down the gravel-covered street on his back after falling off his skateboard (he was wearing a muscle shirt at the time) - so I didn't smack him in the back . . .even though we'd been beating the crap out of each other the day before.

Age brings maturity --- err, maybe a willingness to put stupid squabbles behind you. We nearly torched the house with fireworks one steamy July night - dousing the smoldering bushes with the garden hose and hoping mom wouldn't inspect them too closely, and we both tried getting kicked out of the go-cart course in what turned into a combination go-cart race/roller derby. Stupid? Slightly psychotic? Sure, but what's life without a little life-and-death struggle at 20 mph?

We drifted apart a little in college -- 800 miles will do that, but we still kept in touch. We even worked together tending bar one summer - screwing over the boss while drinking free booze was a pleasant way to spend an evening.

And despite wanting nothing more than to smack him upside the head when we were kids, I always look forward to seeing him - the good-natured jabs, the quick sense of humor and the shit-eating grin are all infectious, and you can't help but laugh when he's around. It's easy to see why small children and dogs flock to him.

Now he's packed; his body armor sits in a corner - kevlar helmet resting on top of it. It all hides a backpack stuffed with belongings. More stuff is riding on a ship or in a plane, where it will meet him in the desert.

In two months, my brother Michael will be in Iraq. While visiting with him this weekend, it hit me -- Monday could be the last time I ever see my little brother again, and that's a hard thought to swallow.

He's a doctor; he won't be kicking in doors or patrolling the streets -- he'll be treating pilots and wounded soldiers back at the base, so odds are he'll be safe and not vulnerable to wayward explosive devices.

At least I hope so.

Ultimately, there's nothing I can do to affect what happens to him. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow; David could be knifed in a poker room brawl (that's the most likely of the three scenarios I just outlined). All I can do is hope and pray that he'll return to us in a year, safe and unhurt, and in the meantime, I'll be sending care packages and e-mails whenever possible.

I've made no secret of my disdain for this war. I thought it was bullshit when it started, and I think it's bullshit now. But I've never said anything disparaging about the troops over there - they're just fighting to stay alive and sane in a place where death and insanity seems to hold sway.

Keep your head down, Mike, and come home safe.

Hanging

I'm back from the latest Bradoween. I'll have more of a post tomorrow or Wednesday, after I get my life a little closer to back on track. In the meantime, I want to thank Otis and Mrs. Otis for a fantastic weekend.

And I'm never drinking Southern Comfort again. I don't know how Marty survived . . .

Perspective

The aqua blue car stood out in the afternoon's dull gray. It didn't hurt that it was about two inches from my foot.

Apparently, I had the nerve to cross the street in a crosswalk, so the driver, a teenage girl chauffeuring her friends around decided to ignore the stop sign hidden in plain sight and roll it.

Right in front of me, as I walked Trudy.

"THAT'S A STOP SIGN!" I helpfully pointed out.

She drove on, and one of her friends flipped me off. His hand standing out against the backdrop of the car's white roof did a wonderful job setting me off.

"SCREW YOU!" I shouted as I memorized the license plate number.

I've now called the police and my NSO several times regarding the asshats that surround me. Running stop signs, urinating in the alley behind my house, fights on weekends at the club across the street (yes, I'm actually trying to get a bar's liquor license revoked - I'll tell the story some other time). I fear I've turned into the cranky old man I used to snicker at while riding my bike.

But perspective is a bitch. The kid riding his bike while giggling at the old man didn't have to worry about paying bills, keeping the house clean and balancing a job. All he had to concern himself with was cruising the streets on two wheels and finishing his homework.

I'd like to think that that younger me would think that current me is a cool guy, but we know the truth -- he'd just laugh and pedal harder. And probably call me fat.

But the tradeoff is worth it - as I sit with Darcy or friends in my backyard and enjoy a beer in the cool evenings after work, I can't help but think life is pretty damned good.

If only those darn kids would keep the music down.

My Humor Style Kicks Your Humor Style's Ass

Found this here. What can I say? I've always known I was on . . .

the Cutting Edge (66% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 81% on dark You scored higher than 36% on spontaneous You scored higher than 45% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Just Passing Through . . .

If you're seeking solitude, a walk at 3:00 AM is the perfect solution. The perfect, quiet still of the evening is a good way to come down from a crazy night of losing poker and to get the sound of casinos out of your head.

And really, it wasn't so much by choice -- I had to walk the dog.

She'd been cooped up for some time and needed a walk. I needed to get the frustration of constant suckouts and drawing to the second best hand out of my head. So we walked.

I noticed him walking towards us, his whitish shirt and shorts standing out against the black night. But from a distance, I coudn't see what he was carrying. By the looks of it, it was cumbersome, and since he was holding it over his head, I didn't see him as a threat. Besides, I had my trusty watchdog with me. Ahem.

As he drew nearer, I pulled Trudy out of his way, curious to see just what the hell he was carrying. Was it a box? Was it a painting, a work of art. Was he going to bash me over the head with it?

Nope; it was an ironing board. Bouncing over his head as he walked down the sidewalk.

"Just passing through," he said to me as he walked past. I was too weirded out to say much of anything. He continued on through the night, oblivious to me staring at his back.

In my somewhat bland but safe daytime world, people walking down the streets with ironing boards is a touch unusual. At 3:00 AM, it becomes kind of sinister. What, exactly, does he have planned for this ironing board? What does he need to iron in the middle of the night? And if he stole it, why didn't he just go for the television?

I guess I'll never know. And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to -- the answer probably isn't half as interesting as the questions.

Terror at 300 Feet

My hands started shaking as the shoulder harnesses clamped me onto the seat. Strike that -- I was trembling. Here I was, latched into a chair, which in turn was bolted to a cylinder that surrounded a 250-foot tall tower. In mere seconds, the cylinder, with me attached, would be launched up to the top of that tower, where it would fall for a short time, bounce back part way up and then lower itself gently to the ground.

Why in the hell am I doing this? I thought. I don't particularly like heights, but I can tolerate them - as long as I'm enclosed in something. Nor do I like the whole dangling feet ride. On a roller coaster, it's okay - you move too fast for it to really hit you. But on this, the Power Tower? Nope. You get to fly straight up and bounce back down.

Darcy smiled at me as the ride moved into position. She looked around eagerly, ready for liftoff. I clutched the shoulder harness more tightly, and realized the sound I heard wasn't hydraulics tearing themselves to shreds - it was me preparing to hyperventilate.

Why am I doing this?

Liftoff pressed me down into the seat, leaving my stomach somewhere on the ground. The wind burned my face as we kept climbing up up up. Darcy may have said something, but I was screaming too loudly to hear it. I would have looked, but my eyes refused to open.

Finally, we started back down -- and then we bounced back up. I opened my eyes a bit, and saw the sun peeking through the evening clouds, its orange reflection shining up from Lake Erie. The lights from the amusement park glittered like stars.

And finally, we hit the ground. I climbed out of the seat and reached out with a shaky hand to get my glasses from the shelf. My legs shook. I was sweaty, scared and ready to go home.

Why did I do that?

Darcy's smile said it all; for her, being launched into the sky wasn't terrifying, it was exhilerating. And that made the trip worthwhile.

But no, I didn't join her for the second ride. I was perfectly happy celebrating gravity from the ground floor.

Bored?

Try a little civics! Let your Senator know what you think about their wasting time with a ridiculous flag burning amendment when they could be dealing with relatively minor concerns - like say wars, budgets, our standing in the world, Social Security, crime, an executive branch running amok. You know -- inconsequential crap like that.

Spam of the Week

New feature hereabouts . . . my favorite spam e-mail. This week's winner:

Subject line: mcadams Mccown

Text:

Brian (last name removed - though it was misspelled),

our bank has approovted your mrtgagqe request. You can  ref
inance, buy a new house or maybe get some  ca s h m.
Do not worry about bad credxit: we got you covered.

The soonesft you apply, the better deal you get. It is
possiblne to get $300,000 for $250 per month.


Thank you and apply here:
(Link removed)


Lauri R. Sykes

I was kind of worried about my bad credxit, so it's good to know someone's "got you covered".

The Circus is Back in Town

So now that the Schiavo autopsy results have been released, what do you think the odds of Michael taking the high road and living his life in quiet obscurity, content in the knowledge that the Schindlers, Randall Terry, Fox News, and all the "nurses" who saw his "abuses" were wrong?

Yeah, me too.

I'm pretty sure a small army of attorneys are currently gearing up to sue the Hell out of all of them. Much as I would enjoy seeing some of those assholes publicly apologizing and getting run through a ringer, I know that won't happen, and while it'll bring some satisfaction to the Schiavos, it'll just keep dragging this sad, sorry case out in the public eye yet again.

Great start to the summer.

Remember the Batusi?

A few years back, a friend asked me to share my thoughts about Batman and Robin, the big movie of the summer. I told her something like this:

Batman and Robin is like one of those wrapped presents you see in a store display: really pretty to look at, but once you open it, there's nothing inside.

I'd seen the movie twice. Once because it was out and the Bat was da bomb, and the second time because I was sure the movie couldn't have sucked so badly.

I was wrong. It sucked even more, and I had to actually pay for it the second time, which really pissed me off. Batman should be a dark, dreary freakshow - not a gay romp through the streets of Gotham.

And don't get me started about the Governator. -shudder-

So I was a little nervous when I came across a pass for Batman Begins. It looked solid - good cast, with Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson and Katie "man-she's-hot-but-Tom-Cruise-is-sucking-the-life-out-of-her" Holmes. Christopher Nolan brings some gritty indie cred to the table - Momento was a kickass film. And David Goyer, the writer, has plenty of nerd cred. But still, could Nolan resist the call of the camp?

I'm happy to say yes.

This movie is Spider-man good. This movie is Superman (the first one) good. This movie kicks all sorts of ass. George Lucas wishes he could make a movie jump up dance like this one does. And no, Batman doesn't dance.

To me, the most interesting part of this film is that Nolan focuses on Batman - he doesn't let the villans run away with the show. Batman is a pretty interesting character - you'd have to be to dress up in a Bat costume and beat up on thugs every night, yet past movies focused on the freak of the week. The villans take the back seat here.

Which is great, because Christian Bale will make you forget Keaton, Kilmer and the other guy. -shudder- He's young enough and has the acting ability to carry out both sides of the characters' personality - the driven, tortured hero desperately trying to forgive himself for his parents' death and the facade - the careless playboy who makes indolence a career.

The fight scenes aren't dances with actors floating around on wires - they're straight out of Fight Club, with a little horror movie thrown in for good measure. Batman uses the shadows, streaks out of nowhere and incapacitates his foes one by one. The remaining few are so terrified they can't fight.

Other than a love story that really goes nowhere and accomplishes little (other than gives the new Bride of Hubbard more screen time - something I can get behind - as long as she doesn't talk in public about her new "spirituality"), this will be the best action flick of the summer. Period.

Oh, and the Batmobile will make you cry.

Housekeeping

For poker posts, go here.

Three Weekends, Three Weddings

The invitations started pouring in in April. I didn't pay too much heed to them; after all, I'd heard about them months earlier - happy phone calls and conversations. Heck, I was going to be in two of them.

So I sent the RSVP cards in sometime in April and went back to life. I had a vacation to go on after all, and thoughts of dancing, wedding cake and mustacolli-filled buffets simply couldn't compete with swim-up bars, margaritas and warm sunshine.

Then May arrived, and I realized something: anyone who finds weddings relaxing is nuts. Simply nuts. However, it was also an educational experience; I learned quite a bit:

• Don't leave a present - especially one made of glass - sitting on the edge of a table where the dog can knock it over. Strangely enough, this wouldn't have been an issue had I actually WRAPPED the damn thing and taken it with me to the wedding.
  
• If the guy at the tuxedo store tells you it's not necessary to pay, ask again. That way, they can't "lose" your tuxedo.
• I still hate Meat Loaf (the food and the singer).
• Why can't they play the Time Warp at weddings? It would spice things up a bit.
• Wedding photographers are apparently paid by the hour.
  
• Corsages don't taste too good (actually, I learned that years ago).
• Being able to field two softball teams (both with a bench) out of the wedding party really isn't something to be proud of.
• Dressing up is exhausting.

Okay. That's it for two days. I'm off to Vegas for a psychotic weekend. Keep it real, kids. I'll be back with more updates soon. (I promise!)

Ten Ways to Be a Better Softball Player

1. Use one of your employees as the umpire; that way, you'll get every advantage over the other team.
   
2. If, when this plan backfires and you still star losing, start blaming your team.
   
3. Start jawing at the other team when you draw a walk.
   
4. Get your umpire to give you an extra inning of at-bats.
   
5. Even though you know the umpire made a mistake, don't acknowledge it -- just keep the game going.
   
6. Stomp off and pout by yourself -- it's especially becoming when you're older than 40.
   
7. And even more impressive when your wife and child are at the game.
   
8. Gloat at the other team before the game.
   
9. Joke around with everyone on your team after the game -- even though they're looking at you with something resembling contempt.
   
10. But don't bother with basic skills like catching and throwing; they just slow you down and take away from the game's competitive spirit.
    

Yes, it's good to know that people still aren't taking coed recreational softball too seriously these days.

Still Living . . .

I'll have a longer post later this week. Things have been pretty hectic, and I lost my internet connection for several days; however, I'm back now.