Winter can (snow)blow me.

When you have 33 inches of freshly fallen, heavy, wet snow in your 200 foot-long driveway, and haven't had electricity for 14 hours, this is not how you want your snow blower to be:

Unfortunately, you are looking at the state of my snow blower at approximately 7 pm last night.

The day before, I had noticed that this giant behemoth monster snow-thrower (that I bought with my approximate life savings two winters ago) was kind of laying down on the job and not so much "throwing" as it was "dribbling." Whereas it used to throw snow to the other side of the street, now what it was doing was more akin to what a baby does when it doesn't like its creamed spinach, or what toothpaste looks like coming out of the tube or -- well, I'll just stop right there because you are all perverted and you will take it to weird places in your collective heads. It seemed ok as long as I wasn't pushing it hard and it wasn't under load. As I was taking tiny little nibbles at the snow bank to avoid jamming the chute, I thought, Well, the snow is really heavy and sticky so what can I really expect? and then I realized I was making excuses for my man-machine. (It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.)

After about the 5th time the chute plugged up and I had to stop it and manually eject a solid tube of slush with my frozen hand, I decided that there was no way that this is how it should work, regardless of how heavy the snow was. Something was clearly wrong in the underpants of my snow blower. I sighed and broke out the wrenches.

I flipped it up into the sad position you see it in the picture, and unbolted some stuff. I've never had it apart before, but when I looked in there I could see that the drive belt was loose and partially shredded, so using all of my mechanical aptitude in one fell swoop, I deduced that was the problem. After a few more minutes of poking and prodding, I managed to get the old belt off. I knew that I didn't have a shot at finding an Ariens dealer that was open, so I did what anyone would do in my shoes. I went to Lowes. I reasoned a belt is a belt is a belt, and they sell snow blowers so what the hell. I planned on going there first, and then hitting the auto parts store on the way home if I didn't have any luck.

When I walked in the door at Lowes, it looked like a someone had chucked a cow carcass in a piranha pond. You'd think it was a one-day sale at Macy's or something. Apparently, there were a lot of people who had shitty snow blowers at home. Who knew? Lowes had a guy standing at the door acting as the Blower Greeter. As far as I could tell, his entire job consisted of asking people "Snow blower parts?" and then pointing them down the aisle to another guy standing in front of two metal shelving units full of nothing but shear pins and snow blower belts of all sizes. He took one look at me standing there holding my owners manual and old, cracked belt, and he just pointed and said, "See the guy in the red."

"The guy in red" was a little confusing since Hello? All the fucking Lowes employees wear red and there were about 4 or 5 of them standing around in this crowd of people. So I headed for the guy in red who was yelling like a short order cook taking orders on a busy lunch shift.

I walked toward him, and from ten paces away he made eye contact with me and demanded, "Belt or Shear pin?" I held up my disgusting belt in my blackened paw. "Manufacturer and Model Number!" He caught me off-guard so I said, "Uhhhhhh...." and that was it. He was on to the next guy. "Make and model!" "MTD! Model 2810, Tecumseh engine!" someone yelled back. The snow blower savant would then roll his eyes up into his head, and yell out things like, "V-groove, MTD28PD!" and one of the other guys would grab the correct belt and toss it to the customer. It was a sight to behold. He was the Rain Man of Snow blowers.

As I stood there with my belt in my hand and my thumb up my ass, I realized something: The belt supply was quickly diminishing. I ran over and started pawing through them like Tallahassee looking for a Twinkie in a sea of Snowballs. Since they were all made for models of snow blowers that I didn't own, I was really just hoping to find one that was close. I knew my old one was stretched out and too big, so I was trying to find one slightly smaller. I just eyeballed one from the dwindling supply, snagged it and decided I'd buy it since, at worst, it was head and shoulders above the one I had. As I turn to leave, Rain Man catches my eye and says, "Won't work! V-groove is different on the Ariens. It'll jump out. Definitely. Definitely jump out." OK, so I added that last part.

For a second I wondered how the hell he could tell I had an Ariens by looking at my crappy old belt, and was suitably impressed. Then I remembered I was holding the owner's manual in my other hand. I thanked him, and told him I was going to try it anyway. He said, "Auto parts store! Bring the old one!" and then turned away to help the next person waving a broken belt in the air. I was half expecting him to add something like "83 Buick LeSabre! Air conditioner compressor belt!" but he didn't.

I stopped at the auto parts store, and when I walked in there were two people behind the counter -- a bored, cynical, jaded looking guy on the phone, who clearly wanted to be anywhere else but there, and a young, clean-cut college-age kid bouncing off the walls. While I normally gravitate toward the assholes who know what they're doing, in this case I figured the kid was the better bet. I walked up to the counter and said, "Dude, you gotta save my life." then I tossed the snow blower belt on the desk and added, "Snow blower."

He immediately grabbed onto this challenge with claws and teeth, and I knew my snow blower was going to be working again shortly. We went through a few different belts until I found one that I thought was the right size. Slightly smaller than the one I bought at Lowes, but with the correct V-groove. He had a pretty good sense of humor, or maybe it was just late. At one point I asked him how much it was going to be, and he said, "Just give me all your money." We then had a five minute conversation about how it would be really funny to stand behind the counter with a gun and just rob the random people who came into the store to buy stuff. I'm sure the grizzled old dickhead he was working with probably hated his guts, but he liked his job and was friendly and helpful, so I give him +5000 JV points.

I bought the belt and headed out to my car to make the 20 minute drive home. By this time it was getting pretty late, but the rumor was we could get another 16" of snow tonight, so I knew I'd have to install it before I went to bed. When I got home, I measured the pulleys, and ended up installing the belt from the auto parts store. I flipped it back onto its wheels and started my man-machine up. It stunk a little bit like burning flesh, but I ignored that and immediately ran it full-speed into a snowbank -- and was completely amazed. Holy crap, what an improvement. It was no longer throwing snow like Richard Simmons in a snowball fight with a group of high school boys. It was throwing snow like...like...someone who throws baseballs really fast and strikes lots of people out. Yes, it was that good, and yes, sometimes I wish I watched sports just so I could use sports analogies effectively. Also, I've realized that any sentence that includes Richard Simmons and high school boys sound dirty regardless of what they're doing.

Winter can officially suck it. I am trying and failing to learn some rudimentary Spanish for our trip to Mexico, but I haven't learned how to say that yet. I'd like to, because they'd probably get a kick out of some pale white gringo running around screaming that phrase at the top of his lungs.

Lastly, my wife got this e-mail from her website "contact me" page today:

Me has sent you a message using your contact form at: www.ANNIESORIGINALS.COM
Senders email: google@gmail.com
Subject: WTF are you selling?

Message: Seriously? What is it you are selling, the little flower thing on the itchy hat, just the hat or both?

I would just like to thank you, whoever you are, for your constructive criticism. I'm guessing from the bogus return e-mail address you provided and the assholish tone of your message that the entire purpose of this exercise was to try to make someone else feel like shit, and in the process, feel slightly better about yourself.

I'd like to take this opportunity to say I'm sorry for your small, petty existence. Good luck in the future, and please don't jump in front of a bus. That would have the unfortunate consequence of making everyone on the bus late, and that's just plain inconsiderate. I suggest pills.

To everyone else, thanks for the kind words. She's doing it for the same reason I write this blog. It's fun, dammit!

Giz. It's what's for dinner.

I was driving home the other day, and passed this truck:

I know it's a crappy picture and you can't tell what he's hauling, so I'll just tell you what it is.

Milk.

Jugs and jugs of milk. I'm not sure what he was planning to do with it, but if you see a really great sale on milk somewhere in upstate NY over the next couple of days, I'd probably pass.

And speaking of great sales at the grocery store, they were practically giving this away:

Chicken Gizzards & Hearts? Why?

There has to be a cook or three out there reading this right now, so riddle me this: What does one actually do with gizzards and hearts? I'm guessing that you don't deep fry them and eat them like juicy little tater tots, and I'm pretty sure you probably aren't supposed to boil them and then toss them lightly with angel hair pasta and olive oil.

As far as I can tell, the only possible use for these things would be to give them to your kid on Halloween so he can chuck them at girls and stuff them in mailboxes. Yes, I would be a bad parent, but that's beside the point.

So it's up to you, gourmet chefs of the world. Tell me what's up with these things. And while you're at it, please explain to me the allure of head cheese. Thank you.

What my wife likes to do in her spare time.

OK, as you all know, I've pimped other websites and products here and there, mostly either for fun or some sort of freebie giveaway (I never did get an assbrella, those bastards). I don't get many offers for that kind of thing, probably because I tell them upfront that I'll likely make fun of them, and that doesn't sit well with some of the blog advertising outfits.

Not this time. This time, to do so would cost me dearly.

So with all seriousness, I ask you to please check out my wife's website. No, it's not P0rn, unless you happen to be into the whole holding-down-animals-and shaving-them-bare-and-then-making-yarn-out-of-the-shavings kind of thing.

Dammit. I knew I couldn't be completely serious. I am definitely not getting laid tonight.

My eyes followed my mind into the gutter.

I think my new glasses are adversely affecting my ability to see without them. Yesterday, I was eating lunch standing at the kitchen counter and thumbing through a mail order catalog (the way I probably eat 85% of my lunches when I'm at home) and I saw a shirt in the Signals catalog and immediately thought, "Wow, you'd have to have no doubts at all about your status as a whore to wear that one."


Somehow my less than stellar vision worked with my twisted brain and translated that to "I HEART JUNK."

I guess I really *do* need reading glasses. My version of the shirt is more interesting though.

Planet Witless.

I joined this gym recently because it was too cheap to pass up. It's called Planet Fitness, and it's about 6 minutes from my office. For ten bucks a month, I figured that even if I only get over there three times a month it would still be worth it. Yort joined too, although a bit more grudgingly than I did. Still, we've managed to do OK and go at least once a week so far. It's harder than it sounds because we're only in the office three days a week since we work remotely the other two days.

The first time I went, when I got back to the office I realized I left my combination lock hanging open on the locker because I'm an idiot. On a return visit, I asked the counter girl if she had any locks in the Lost & Found and she pulled out three. She looked at me and said, "I'm not sure how you'll know which one is yours." I looked up to see if she was kidding, but she wasn't, so I said, "Um, I'll open it?" She allowed that this was a good way to figure out which one was mine, and the second one I tried opened.

My combination is a pretty easy one, and I will tell it to you now since it's integral to this story. It's 1-3-17. There. Now you can steal all my shit while I'm working out. Take my blackberry, will you? I have pager duty this week.

So today, Yort and I headed to the gym around 12:30. We supposedly get an hour for lunch, but on most days we end up taking a ten minute break and eating at our desks, so we figure on the days we actually make it out of the building we can stretch it a bit. Normally we can work out, grab a shower and be back at the office in about 60 minutes.

The locker room is kind of cramped, and there are only a handful of long lockers. Most of them are more like cubbyholes with doors. The long lockers are popular, and the majority of the time when you open them, they are full of people's stuff. I guess those people are either more trusting than I am, or don't have anything worth stealing. After checking three, I get lucky and find an empty one near the corner. I change into my gym clothes, lock up all my stuff and get through a pretty good workout. After we're done, I decide I'm going to grab a quick shower. Yort didn't break a sweat because he is apparently more efficient than I am, so he just gets dressed and goes outside to wait.

I stuff my gym clothes in my bag, and because I'm not one of those free-dangle dudes who just walks around stark naked, I wrap my towel around me. I lock up my stuff and head for the shower. The thing about the towel is, the gym doesn't provide them so you have to bring your own. Last time, I brought a bath towel from home, but my wife buys these giant fluffy white things that you need a suitcase to carry around, and it didn't fit well in my small duffel. This time, I rooted around in the bottom of the closet and opted for a blue towel I found in the back that is closer in size to a large-ish hand towel. It barely covers my ass, in other words, and when I wrap it around me, it looks sorta like a mini skirt with a slit in it. It's very sexy.

After my shower, I dry off and wrap my towel back around my waist and go to my locker. Only problem is, the frigging lock won't open. I try it ten times. 1-3-17. Did I go past the three? Let me try again. 1-3-17. Wait, am I supposed to go past it twice? I forget. Or is it 3-1-17? No, I can't be that brain damaged. I just opened this fucking thing 5 minutes ago. I can feel it, and it wants to open. On the last number it drops down, but then won't disengage.

I look around to make sure I've got the right locker. I do. I open the lockers to either side, and they are both full of stuff. I wonder for a second if I've picked up someone else's lock that was sitting on the bench. Unlikely, but you never know. The place is crowded. I try it a few more times. I curse MasterLock and their shitty quality control.

Finally, after I'm standing there like an idiot in my terry cloth miniskirt for about ten minutes screwing with this lock, this nice old guy next to me says, "Do you want me to try?" I tell him the combination, feeling like a freshman on the first day of school, except it's more like one of those dreams where you show up for class and realize you're naked. He tries it and fails too. So now there's about three naked guys giving me suggestions. One guy who is just about dressed to leave says, "I'm on my way out -- you want me to tell the guy at the front desk? I don't think you want to go out there like that." I agree that it's probably not the best idea. So he leaves, and help is imminent.

Ten minutes later, I'm still standing there and there's exactly nobody from the front desk showing up. I'm getting tired of holding my towel closed with one hand, so I sit down on the bench. The towel is really short, so I sit with my legs pressed together like a grade school girl, trying to make sure my junk doesn't fall out. Another guy gets ready to leave, and as he passes me, I ask him to tell the front desk to send someone in.

This time it works, and they send in a kid with bolt cutters. I stand up. He comes over to the locker and says, "You the guy who needs the lock cut off?" I affirm that this is so, and he asks me for the combination. I tell him, and he tries it. "If it opens, I'll have to kill you," I say. Lucky for him, it didn't.

At this point, there doesn't seem to be any other recourse. Yort has been outside waiting by the car for at least twenty minutes, I'm late for work, and I have no dignity left. "You're sure you want me to cut the lock off?" the kid asks. "Yeah," I reply. "It won't be the first six bucks I've wasted."

He hits it with the bolt cutters, and it falls open, and I can finally get dressed and get to work.

Or I could have, if the locker hadn't been full of someone else's shit.

He looks at my confused expression, then says, "That's not your stuff, is it?" "Oh man," I say, feeling my face turn beet red. He just stares at me for a few seconds, and though I've never believed in telepathy until today, I clearly hear his thoughts. You are a fucking idiot, he thinks loudly. Oh yes, definitely, I think back, then look around.

My locker is on the exact opposite corner of the locker room. I slowly realize that the shower area has two entrances, and I walked into one, and after my shower, I walked out of the other. The identical lockers are on all four walls, and somehow I got turned around. Yes, I managed to get lost in a 15' x 15' room. I had simply walked out of the shower, and made a beeline for the first locked locker in the corner that I saw.

I get dressed, then I pay the counter guy six bucks to replace the lock of the poor unknown bastard who now needs to memorize a new combination.

As I am leaving, some guy says, "Hey, make sure you get into the right car!"

I think I'm going to work out at home from now on.

Five years of this? Holy crap.

Hey! So I turned five, and I totally missed it. January 14th, 2005. That's when I started this blog. Out the original "work" crew, only me, Sarah and Shamus are still at it. It seems like so long ago, yet at the same time it seems like no time at all. Blogging was pretty new to us back then, and more people were into them, I think.

Five years is an eternity in the computer industry. Since I am jaded and old, and bought my first computer back in the late 80's (an Atari 1040ST), I view blogging as Rock and Roll, and consider Facebook and Twitter as the social networking equivalent of Disco and Rap. I'm not sure I really like them, and at various times I wish they'd go away, but they probably won't. The father of a friend of mine made an astute observation at dinner a while back -- as everyone at the table was checking their Blackberries and iPhones, he said, "You know, social networking isn't very social since everyone is always looking down at their phones." He has a point, I think. I always find myself wondering what's next after twitter and facebook fade. What do I know? Maybe they won't. Does anyone remember Friendster? Yeah, me neither. That being said, I have to admit that the 140 character limit in Twitter can be a fun challenge.

What does that have to do with anything? Nothing. Just a rant. In fact, I started this blog as a place to rant about stuff that drove me nuts, and over the years I've done my share. But somewhere along the line, it became more than that. It became a place for me to share a bit of my life with kindred strangers. It became a place for me to collect the stories of my childhood, and talk about some of the things that make me laugh on a daily basis. And sometimes, it allowed me to spill my guts and sort through some fairly complex feelings about what was happening in my life.

I really just wanted to take a few minutes to thank all of the people who read my blog from the beginning, and all the people who stumbled on it for various reasons and decided to stick around. I appreciate the comments, and I love reading them. I enjoy laughing at your own stories and memories, and it makes me realize that so many of us could have been great friends if we grew up together, or if the years and geography had fallen differently.

In five years of writing this thing, I've received very few obnoxious comments. I'm sure that's just a result of my writing not being very controversial, but even so, it restores my faith in humanity just a tiny bit.

So thanks, everyone. Here's to five more years of this hot mess. Four and a half years ago, I figured I wouldn't have anything else to write about. I guess I was wrong. I'm going to have to start making shit up soon, though, because I think I'm running out of childhood.

On the outside, anyway.

Doctor in the house?

Did you ever notice how quick Google is to judge? I typed "Is there a" intending to finish that sentence with "fixpack for Lotus Notes 8.5.1," but before I could, Google jumped to its normal obvious conclusions about what I was looking for:



So it appears that Google thinks I am:

1. Questioning my faith in god (and, more importantly, santa claus)

2. Rightfully so, because Google also assumes I have a veritable smorgasbord of diseases that no self-respecting god or fat jolly saint who existed would possibly allow, and

3. I am also interested in listening to songs about ghosts while enjoying immediate celestial events.

So Google let me down, and I had to resort to texting a friend of mine who is in Orlando this week for the big geekfest at Disney. The fixpack comes out on Friday, if you're interested.

I realize I haven't been around much lately, but I hope to remedy that shortly. I've been busy doing "stuff" that doesn't involve writing, which makes me realize that I need to figure out a way to give up sleep completely in order to be able to do everything I want to do. I'm in the process of writing a longish childhood tale for your amusement, but it's not done yet. In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of a sign I saw in our mortgage broker's office this afternoon:

Words to live by, my friends.

Emerson, Lake and Board Games.

IM conversations with Yort always take a left turn out of the gate...

Me: Hey, I just found out that Keith Emerson and Greg Lake are playing down in Westchester. Want to go?

Yort: What are they playing? Football?

Me: No, Monopoly.

Yort: Borrrinng.

Me: No, no -- it's the Star Wars edition of Monopoly. And Emerson dresses up like a Wookie.

Yort: Sweeeet.

No Uggos or Fatties.

I am pretty looped on a couple of very good dirty vodka martinis right now, so no guarantees on this post. I saw this on the BBC the other day. I guess the holidays weren't kind to some of the beautiful people:

It sort of confirms what I always suspected. The Beautiful People are like a pack of wolves. If you show any sign of weakness, they are on you in a quick second, tearing off the tastiest parts and saving the rest for later.

"Letting fatties roam the site is a direct threat to our business model."

Uh huh.

All I can say is I hope none of these so-called "fatties" finds out where you live, because if they do, your business model will be lying in a pool of blood next to your dead, beaten body. Especially if you don't have six-pack abs and a chiseled jaw. Or maybe especially if you do.

Out of curiosity, I checked out the site. Right on the front page I was immediately hit with a picture of a guy and a girl, and it could go either way as to whether the guy is actually prettier than the girl, and I'm not even gay. He actually looks a little like a girl who needs a bit of a shave. This got me to thinking about what constitutes "beautiful" since they cater to just about every country, and let me tell ya, there are some really ugly countries out there.

I also wondered where age fit in, if at all. Would someone like George Clooney be considered one of the Beautiful People even though he's getting up there? Or are all the BP's under 30? If you got kicked out for putting on a few pounds, would you get kicked out if you posted a picture that showed your crow's feet or your laugh lines? What about someone like Mick Jagger? He's probably had more sex in his lifetime than all the people on that site, yet in the classical sense, he's ugly as sin. I used to look at Mick Jagger and think that if he were a cab driver in New York City, he'd probably die a virgin. It's all relative, I guess. Power, wealth, plastic surgery or talent -- they can all make you appear more attractive. Then again, so can hanging out with people uglier than you are. That's what I do. (Hey, where are you guys going? You can't leave! Wait! Come back! OK, that's it. I'm not paying you to be my friends anymore.)

Speaking of paying, once you have been deemed "Beautiful" by the Others, you apparently have the privilege of paying $25 a month to continue your "membership." The founder said he'd rent out the membership list for things like exclusive club openings and such. But I think this will cause confusion and probably result in a bad rep for the club, because what will happen is this: On opening night Joey from Jersey will go to the club and then the next day he'll tell all his friends about the tons of hot women who were ignoring him there. Then the next weekend they will all go with him and Joey won't understand why the place is a now a sausage factory, and an ugly one at that.

Just for fun, I decided to see if the vaguely middle-eastern version of Johnny Virgil from this post could become a member of beautiful people, since I knew my real picture wouldn't have a shot. Since he appears to be from a foreign country of unknown origin, I randomly decided it should be Turkey, since I figured they had a pretty high tolerance for the ugly given the name of their country. I've never been there, so I have no idea how ugly they may actually be. After I signed up and created my profile, I did a Google search on "Turkish Girls" and the first image that came up was this one* so I obviously have no idea wtf I'm talking about. And now I want to move to Turkey.

Once you submit, there's a period of time where the already accepted Beautiful People can vote on you. After that, you're either a member, or you're Too Ugly To Belong. So far I'm doing pretty good:

Yeah. You can't see it well in the picture, but there's a white indicator line that is slammed so hard to the left side of the bar that it's practically become part of the frame. If that graph were really in 3D, that red X would be poking your eye out right now. And apparently looking like Lionel Ritchie doesn't count for much to the Beautiful People of Turkey. Maybe if I attached a .wav file of me singing "Sail On" it would help. Or maybe not.

Once you're on the site, there's a little window where random comments by existing members go by, accompanied by a thumbnail photo. I clicked on the first one that went by after I noticed it scrolling and it was a guy who looked kinda like an old version of Heath Ledger. He had a shaved head, a fake tan and he was wearing a suit jacket with no shirt underneath. Presumably, he believes he has found the loophole to get into those "jacket required" restaurants, and yet still be able to show off his abs. I think he got confused and he really meant to sign up for ridiculousdouchebags.com.

In another six hours, I'll lose my access, and go back to being just a regular Turkish guy with a stupid blog.

Oh well. I guess I'll never be an emo vampire.

*Kumho? That sounds like the battle-cry of the amazon hooker warriors or something

Balls.

I am typing this on one of my two favorite Christmas presents. I've been saving for one of these for over a year, and my wife's christmas gift was the difference between what I had and what I needed. So yeah, I'm a Mac now. As least as far as my portability goes. I'm still a PC in most other aspects of my life, like at work and when I have to sit down and pay bills. So far I'm digging it, other than some weirdness with the keyboard layout (Apple thinks DEL is Backspace) and some flakey wireless connectivity I'm still trying to iron out.

Anyway, I love it so far.

Of course the day after Christmas, we were driving around in Wilkes-Barre and the A/C compressor seized up, and the only place open on a late Saturday afternoon the day after Christmas was a Sears Auto Center, so I brought the car over. The guys there were great -- even though they couldn't fix it, we poked around for about an hour and determined exactly what the problem was. I tipped them $20, then snipped a wire that kept the clutch from engaging, and that let us get home.

Yesterday I spent most of the day sitting around waiting for the garage to call me. The definition of "extra money" is "what you have right before shit breaks." I really wish it could have happened last month instead, but if it had, I probably wouldn't have a new computer right now, so I guess it was in the cards.

Current estimate is approximately $800-900 bucks, and unfortunately it's not as easy as saying "It's winter, who needs air conditioning?" and simply forgetting about it until June, because apparently when the bearings in the compressor clutch go south and the car is making a noise like a 55 gallon drum full of marbles being pushed down a cobblestone road, it also tends to get extremely hot. Not only does this spell almost certain death for the fan belt, it also has the unfortunate side effect of making the heater smell like BO and burning hair, which is no good for anyone. At least the quick fix at the Sears store let us drive home without being forced to smell burnt armpit the entire way.

My second coolest present was a set of BuckyBalls. I received them from my good friends who always get me something either funny and useless or cool and useless every year. If you've never seen BuckyBalls, (which I never had until I received them), check out this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JpM4A4657k

Awesome right? So I immediately opened the package and placed the perfect cube on my desk:

After about an hour, I was a master at this. I could do exactly none of the things in that video, and I couldn't even get it back into the little cube it came in. I was going to shoot a video similar to the one above to show off my prowess, but I didn't have time. Instead, I give you the "after" picture:

Once I got done picking the tools out of it, I promptly lost one ball somehow. I have no idea where it is, or what it's currently stuck to, but it seems to have simply disappeared into whatever alternate universe buckyballs come from. Since you can't make the cube without all 216, I decided to write to the company and ask about getting one ball replaced. Here's their reply:

From: Buckyballs [mailto:getbuckyballs@gmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, December 30, 2009 10:53 AM
To: johnny virgil
Subject: Re: You've probably been asked this a million times..

Johnny,

We're so happy to hear that you've had such a great time playing with our balls. What a bummer you're missing some... lost balls are no fun. We do have great news for you though, you can click here to purchase a set of 10 replacement balls so you'll never have to worry about missing balls again. In the meantime, enjoy playing with the balls you do have.

Thanks!

Bb

So I officially love this company and you'll all be happy to know that my new balls are on order.

On a completely unrelated topic - it's apparently newsworthy that Rosie O'Donnell has a new "partner." Unfortunately, this has caused her to be in my face more than usual, which is not a pleasant state of affairs for me. But since I notice things, being forced to stare at her horrific visage every time I turn on the TV or open a news site has brought something to mind: Is it just me, or does her smile make her look like she's trying to gnaw a tough piece of gristle off an antelope haunch?

Gah. That's just scary, if you ask me. It could be from too much botox, I'm not sure. What I do know is that I can almost hear her low growl from here.

I hope everyone has a great new year, and had a fantastic NYE. Ours was pretty mild, other than the scalpings. We had dinner with friends, drank a bunch of sake, watched Inglorious Basterds, paused the movie mid-scalp at 11:55, popped a bottle of champagne, watched the ball drop, had a short toast and went back to the movie. Good times.

Pay Etenchen!

This post will be multi-faceted. (I originally mistyped that as mulit-faceted, but that's an entirely different thing.) As you guys know, I have been writing this blog for quite a while, and I've been writing in general since before the internet was even a gleam in Al Gore's eye. I dug around a little and found this incredible story my mother had tucked away from when I was 7 years old (click to make bigger):



If you look closely, you'll see I made a "mestake" with my paragraph spacing, but all in all, a riveting piece of fiction, wouldn't you agree? And it was fiction too, as you can probably tell by the teacher's added note.

I also found this finely wrought winter scene among the stories:



It's clear that at some point in my young life I stumbled on naked blue aliens making metallic snowmen somewhere close to my house, and subsequently repressed that memory.

Obviously, my writing is marginally better than my artwork, so with that in mind, here's a little piece of geek fiction I wrote a long time ago:


“No! This can’t be happening NOW!,” John said, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “I think the whole database is corrupted. Nick’s going to kill us.”

“What about the backups?” Terry asked. “I did a full backup of that server just last night - we should be able to restore from optical.”

“Do you know how long that will take? This stuff was supposed to be done by 4 at the latest,” John replied. “But if we have to do it, we need to.... Damn!”

“Now what?”

“I think we just lost our server connection. Let me try to log off and log back on....Nope. I can’t connect to it. If the SQL box went, we’re toast. Maybe it’s just the NIC in my machine.” John wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, and hit the power button on the front of the computer.

“Uh, John, I don’t think so. Look around. We lost all the other workstations too,” Terry said, as the room full of computers began popping up dialog boxes.

“Let’s try killing the rest of them before Nick calls in,” John said, as he stood up. “I’ll start in this room - you go down to the vault and bounce the server. Check the RAID controller, and make sure it’s working. If the first drive dropped dead, see if the rest have cut over. It should’ve kicked in automatically, but maybe something’s screwed up. Remember last month when we lost that unix box during the brownout? You know how the power is around this place.”

“Yeah, it stinks,” Terry said, shaking his head. “I keep telling Nick we should have a line conditioner in here, but with all the cutbacks it’s always last on his list.”

“Well, this might change his mind. Load the last set of backup cartridges while you’re down there. That way we can mess with the restore from here.”

“Will do,” Terry replied, heading off in the direction of the vault. He paused at the door. “Maybe you’d better call him.”

“Yeah, I will. Unless you want to do it.”

“No way. Not me. Not tonight,” Terry said as he walked out the door.

John finished shutting all the workstations down, sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed a number, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Hello, Nick? Yeah, it’s me, John. We’ve got a potential problem down here - No, no, nothing too serious yet. We just wanted you to be aware that there was a problem...no, I don’t think it’ll screw up tonight -but we’ll keep you posted. Uh huh. Yeah, I know you can’t - that’s why we went to this system in the first place. No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I -- hello? Hello, Nick? Are you still there?” John put the phone back in its cradle, and rubbed the back of his neck. Great, he thought. The old man was coming down to the control room.

When Terry came back, John was still sitting with his head in his hands. He looked up hopefully.

Terry shook his head. “We’re in serious trouble. The whole thing is history. The main SQL box won’t even power up again. And the clustering was effed up, so even though the backup server is up and running, the data isn’t there. We’ve got a ton of restoring to do. Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Terry asked, seeing the look on John’s face.

“He’s coming down.”

“Now? Tonight? Jesus, he’s gonna be pissed.”

“Tell me about it. We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up on the assembly line in the factory. Hell, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t fire us outright.” John sat up in his chair and rubbed his temples. “Well,” he said, “let’s load up a restore and see what we can do.”

A minute or two after the restore kicked off, Nick stormed into the control room, slamming the door behind him. “What the hell’s going on here? Don’t you realize how important that data is? I thought this system was supposed to be foolproof.”

“Nick, you gotta understand, it’s about as foolproof as we can make it,” John said. “We need new equipment. This stuff is old, and we’ve been pounding on it for quite a few years.”

“Old? We bought it less than 4 years ago!”

“Yeah, but in the computer industry, 4 years is like – “

“We don’t have the cash, and I’ve told you that before. We never had these problems with the old paper forms system. It was slow, but at least it couldn’t crash. Now what the hell am I going to do?” Nick asked, pacing the room. “ I was counting on that data.”

“We’re restoring it now,” Terry said, avoiding eye contact with his boss. “But we’re not sure how long it’ll take. These optical disks are slow, and there’s a pile of data. The transaction logs are brutal. The database seems like it gets bigger every year.”

“How long?”

“Looking at the percentages, maybe four to six hours if nothing goes wrong.”

“I can’t wait that long. I have to leave in less than two, and I need that data with me.”

John stood up and took a deep breath. It wasn’t often that he was forced to go against his boss’s wishes. “Fire me if you need to sir, but I have to tell you -- it’s just not going to happen. There’s no way we can get the data off these disks in time.”

Terry piped up. “If you let us buy that SAN solution like we --”

John shot Terry a warning glance that shut him up in mid-sentence, then continued. “I think we need to look at other possibilities. Maybe you could do without the raw data this one time. Bring the sat phone with you, keep in touch. Hell, maybe we could even tether the laptop to it. We might be able to send you hourly status reports, shoot the data over as we restore it. It won’t be as easy as having the whole thing with you, but at least it’s something. What do you think?”

Nick thought it over, and his expression softened a bit. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? What the heck, I’ll give it a shot. His expression hardened again, and he glanced back and forth between them. "But I’m warning you, if this thing isn’t fixed by the time I get back, you’ll both be out of a job. And I want a formal disaster recovery plan, and I want it on my desk first thing Monday morning. And schedule a quarterly DR test. Understood?”

Terry and John nodded humbly, and set about their repairs.

Nick walked over to the phone, and dialed the hangar. “Hello? Yeah, it’s Nick. Hook up the team and bring the sleigh around to the front of the computer building. Of course I want Rudolph in front! What are you, an idiot? Right. Yes, I know it’s short notice, but I need the extra time. We’re having some computer problems.”

He hung up the phone and turned to John and Terry. “Well,” he said, grabbing his satellite phone out of his desk drawer, “it looks like we do it the old-fashioned way this year.”


Merry Christmas, everyone. Hope you all have a great holiday season!

+++

Mr. & Mrs. JV tree, 2009.
(featuring my mother's childhood train)

Vomiting pinwheel girl? E-mail me.

That right there is something I never thought I'd type.

I read through the stories again, and while there are many great entries, I'm going to have to say it's the mental image of the vomiting pinwheel girl rolling down the hill and the crazed dog following that actually made me laugh the most.

On the other hand, just the sheer brass balls of the dude who posted about the bus-stealing, riot gear-inducing Chinese drunk fest has wormed its way into my shriveled, black peach pit of a heart. If there hadn't been video proof, I think I would have thought the entire thing was made up. Master Waster, you also get style points for a well-written inner dialogue, although I think we've all had the same conversation with our inner voices on occasion. Usually, my inner voice is way drunker than yours, but still, good story. Also, props to Cory and his naked Cat in the Hat. My memories of Dr. Suess will never be the same.

So here's what I'm going to do -- the martini glasses go to the vomiting pinwheel, and the other entries I mentioned get a mystery prize of my choosing. So shoot me an e-mail with your name and address and I'll get them out in the next week or so. Congratulations, and I'm sorry. That apology is really for the consolation prize winners, because they'll probably end up with something weird and useless.

To everyone else, thanks for playing along. You guys are great!

Damn, people. You're lucky to be alive.

Those are some crazy-assed stories! Regardless of which comment I pick, I will need to see this chinese bus-stealing video. I just want to get that out there right up front.

I'll try to pick my favorite story by the end of this weekend. It's going to be a tough choice, no doubt about it. I may have to pull together a team of professional drinkers to see if I can get some sort of majority rule.

In other news, a buddy of mine dropped off a bunch of old wooden water skis a couple of weeks ago. He just purchased a little camp in the Adirondacks, and he wanted me to make him something out of them. So here's his Christmas present:

I'll be back shortly with the announcement of the winner, and maybe a Christmas story if I can think of one....

Hey, Liver! It's almost Christmas. Buckle up.

It's time for a little holiday cheer, I think. I am using up the last bit of my vacation starting right now and I don't have to go back to the office until Wednesday of next week and that's just fine by me. They are gutting the building and most of the construction is on my floor, so it's almost unbearable anyway. Not to mention that the place is so full of frickin' construction workers that you can't hear yourself think in the cafeteria since all those guys seem to be permanently set on 11. Just today, for instance, I heard a conversation about vagina from about 60 feet away, and that doesn't happen every day.

Usually.

Anyway, to kick off this little vacation, I'm planning on having a nice martini tonight. I love martinis -- even the ones the purists don't consider martinis. I love traditional gin martinis, Americanized vodka martinis, dirty martinis of both types (blue cheese stuffed olives, please) appletinis (when I'm wearing my tight purple t-shirt) and even espresso chocolate martinis.

Basically, if you call it a martini, load up one of those ridiculously unstable glasses with some kind of kickass alcohol, chances are very good that I'll drink it and like it. Of course, the problem with martinis is that they get right on top of you. They will ride you face-first into the dirt before you know what happened, especially if you go light on the food and weigh 150lbs soaking wet like I do. I've found it's generally a good idea to have one or two and then quit for the evening and switch to something else. I can't even imagine a "three martini lunch" -- I would never make it back to my car, let alone my desk.

So in the spirit of responsible drinking, I think I'm going to have a little contest. The prize is a brand-new set of 4 of these guys:




That looks pretty damn festive, am I right? This prize was donated by CSN Stores, a company that sells all sorts of glassware and cookware, both bar-related and not. All I had to do was mention them in a post for some glasses, and I thought they'd make a neat giveaway. So there ya go. I'm a man-whore for you guys. Oh, and martinis. I'm also a man-whore for martinis.

But in all seriousness, I get offers like this all the time, and if the company looks sketchy or the product ridiculous, (assbrella, I'm talking to you) I'll pass. In this case, I spent about 30 minutes on their site looking for a good holiday giveaway, and they have a ton of bar-related stuff. If you are looking for a wine rack, or any other wine-related stuff, it's a great place if you happen to be in the market. We've actually owned this one for years, and it's perfect for a random kitchen corner where nothing else would fit.

So what do you have to do to win these? It's easy. In the comments, you have to tell me the stupidest/funniest thing you ever did while drunk. Or tell me why you quit drinking, since those two things seem to go hand in hand most of the time. The contest will end Friday at 5pm, and the post that makes me laugh the hardest will be deemed the winner. Extra points if you were shaken or stirred.

So go to it. You know you want to. Come on, confess to Johnny. Tell me about your walk of shame, or the time you were arrested wearing nothing but a tiara, I won't judge you. I may or may not have a picture of myself sliding down a steep set of stairs on my stomach, is all I'm saying. I was bruised for a week after that one.

Want some advice? Don't love the ocean too much. It doesn't love you back.

And with that line, Mega-Shark vs Giant Octopus really got rolling.

The best part of the movie had to be the story. No wait, it was the special effects. Or maybe it was the acting...sorry, I don't know where in this steaming pile of awesomeness I should start the tour.

After some deliberation, I've decided that there is just no way I can review this movie. It's too horrible and yet unintentionally laugh-out-loud funny. I simply cannot do it justice.

I fully intended to give you an actual serious review. I did. I swear. I even sat through the entire thing and took notes. That's how dedicated I was to this idea. Instead, I present you with my notes. You can make your own judgement.

It starts with stock footage. The stock mountains. The stock glaciers. The stock under-sea life.

A fake ice slide occurs, to show us that fake ice slides are always occuring:

A nefarious government helicopter drops a low frequency active sonar device. LFAS. The helicopter pilot inexplicably yells "Holy crap!" and then flies straight into an ice wall and explodes.

A fake mini-sub is watching a pod of whales lose their shit because of this LFAS. In this sub are Debbie Gibson and some fat guy who has no business in a mini sub:

The whales are crashing into the ice walls, confused by the sonar.

Suddenly you see:

A drawing of Mega Shark and Giant Octopus! Behind a wavy piece of bathroom privacy glass!

Debbie makes her combo scared/disbelief face:

Someone shoots a bb-gun at the glass (what it looked like) or it got hit by a whale (what actually happened) and they're free:

....and they drift down to the ocean floor, somehow still alive and not frozen to death.

Cut to an oil rig, where there is a mystifying conversation about peeing on a co-worker and something about how Japanese custom frowns upon that. Then, this happens:

Now we're back in Cali, on the beach with the fat guy and Debbie. There's a beached whale with giant chunks taken out of it. I'd like to interject here that Debbie looks like a washed up stripper:

Also, there are some of these:

Then she steals a giant prehistoric shark toof out of the blubber:

Next we go back to Tokyo where a guy who looks like substitute Sulu is interrogating one of the oil platform guys.

Then we're flying somewhere on a fake jet:

Just so you know, this face:

is what happens just before this:

Then Debbie gets fired for trashing the sub and goes to see Sean Connery. Well, not really. It's just some old Sean-lite Irish guy who is an "ex-navy paleontologist guru," and they play with colored water in test tubes and computers with pretty graphics and then he tells her that what she has is a giant prehistoric shark toof.

So then SubSulu flies in to Cali and meets up with Sean-lite and Debbie and they put two and two together, and discover that he has a giant octopus to match their giant shark.

"The polar ice caps are melting because of our thoughtlessness." Debbie says, staring wistfully out to sea. "Maybe this is our comeuppance."

Then they climb into their car with the Obama Change bumper sticker and drive away.

And then we're in a battleship, with the crazy captain who looks like the love child of Hunter S. Thompson and Dr. Cox from Scrubs:

He's tracking the Megashark, but then suddenly it's swimming right at them at 500 knots, and it's not leaving a wake:

That's some awesome special effects right there. As is this:

Of course, Coxhunter's orders from Washington are to destroy the Megashark, which he does. Just kidding. He only thinks he does, and then the shark eats the battleship and his acting career is over.

Then Subsulu, Debbie and Sean-lite get abducted by Government agent Lorenzo Lamas, who can't admit he is no longer Renegade and so still has a pony tail and a coating of grease:

They aren't really prisoners, he just needs their help - and taking people at gunpoint is obviously the best way to get help from people who actually want to help.

At this point, things got dicey, and I stopped taking screen shots and just started jotting down random thoughts as the movie unfolded. Favorite quotes, observations, questions. Oh yes, I have questions.

"They don't rest. They just kill."

Debbie Gibson, Super Scientist. She's making octopus and shark pheromones to lure them together to capture them, but her experiments fail, I think because mixing test tubes full of water tinted with food coloring really doesn't make pheromones.

I thought for sure Subsulu was gay. Then he and Debbie did it in the storage room. My gaydar must be off.

Yay! Good pheromones. You know how I can tell? Because it's no longer food coloring in water, it's the stuff out of a green glow-stik.

Oh, I see. They are trying to draw them in with "breadcrumb trail" of pheromone droppings.

"What, may I ask, is your trap exactly?" "Oh you can ask."

Oh, Lorenzo. It's been too long. Only Bill Shatner rivals you in the overacting department. Or maybe Coxhunter.

And then a fighter plane is slapped out of the air by a tentacle.

"We're going into their world now.. Their pond..."

Cartoon experimental mini-sub again.

Hey, it's a 500 knot shark. (faster than a jet, she says.)

To make the sub go faster, you just have to lean forward in your seat really hard and look serious. Who knew?

Oh shit. It just ate the golden gate bridge. As far as I can tell, its entire diet consists of planes, battleships and bridges. That can't be good for your digestion.

The octopus is still in Tokyo. "Our military has only succeeded in angering it. My god. What have we done?"

OK. The navy wants to nuke them and not capture them, but you knew that.

"I suggest we get some rest and reconvene. Nothing can be accomplished in this state of exhaustion." Yeah, let's take a break while all this shit continues to go down.

Oh no! Dream sequence! Kissing SubSulu! Seeing stuff that only we saw from our omniscient standpoint!

Debbie's breakthrough! Get them to kill each other! Just say no to nukes!

"They were frozen in battle." Wait, how fast did this ice age happen? It's not like Pompeii for fuck's sake.

"They are natural born enemies. They chose to stay and fight to the end. A hate stronger than their combined survival instinct is our only hope."

So what he's saying is, they basically hung around getting colder and colder, and their fight got slower and slower until it looked like a fight on Walker, Texas Ranger, and then they went into suspended animation somehow.

"Neither has followed a consistent pattern." "Yeah, but somehow it makes sense."

annnd...then he quotes Julius Caesar.

The people actually driving the sub? Perfectly still. The people in the back? Bouncing around like they're in a washing machine.

"I want that commander on report!" "That commander saved your ass!" "He should have done it in a more timely manner!"

Emergency turbos activated? Subs have emergency turbos? I'm seriously expecting someone to yell "the engines canna take any more, Captain!"

"We must remain optimistic," he says, looking like he has to shit really bad.

Nuclear subs are driven by one guy with a joystick. Who knew?

"Captain, I'm picking up a massive underwater disturbance. Two bogies. Hard to say what they're doing."

Oh, apparently, they're fighting. From what I am seeing on my TV, I would have sworn they were fucking. And why does it sound like a little kid splashing around in the sink?

"Who has the upper hand? It's impossible to tell. It's just a massive sound." Of a kid splashing around in a sink.

Ooooh, sharky just bit off a tentacle and got hisself inked. The tentacle is back again. Now it's gone. Now it's back.

Could have sworn the captain of the Japanese sub just said there was a massive disturbance in the vicinity of hairy slut. No wait. It has to be something else. OK, I rewound it three times. They are heading towards hairy slut. Case closed.

Everyone in the sub gets tossed to the floor, all the emergency lights go on, there's smoke, all sorts of beeping...and what does the captain yell? "Something hit us!"

Giant Octopus handled that sub like a loaf of french bread.

I just saw Debbie's "O" face.

It's the fight to the death!

"Looks like they finished what they started 18 million years ago."

Oh no, Subsulu is dead.

Debbie is sad.

No wait! Subsulu is alive.

Debbie is happy.

Epilogue: Beach blanket conversation with Debbie and Subsulu.

They're kissing again. Subsulu is so gay in real life. It's like watching George Takei after he came out.

Suddenly, Sean-lite is there. They are needed by the government to chase other newly thawed giant creatures in the north sea. As a team. How romantic.

Roll credits!

Awesome. Go watch it right now.

I'd watch it again, but I have to watch Frankenfish.

These things just happen.

Which is why my wife rarely asks me to cook dinner when she's not home.

Random stuff.

OK, I saw this Virgin Mobile commercial last night and it freaked me out.



First off, I don't know about you, but if I were planning on having some sort of disgusting crotch-rot conversation with my mom, I probably wouldn't do it in public. Secondly, how does your mom know about your rot to begin with? Did she catch a whiff at brunch last Sunday and ask about it? I'm glad you're airing that thing out, and "the smell means it's healing," because the alternatives are too horrible to contemplate. If you let it get out of hand, it could result in.. oh, I don't know...maybe something like your mouth falling off your face and sitting there on a locker room bench like some kind of masochistic pocket pussy. Maybe something like that.

Jesus, that chomper is going to give me nightmares. Or sex dreams. I'll let you know which way it tips.

Has anyone seen the trailer for this new Disney DVD called "Snow Buddies?" How shitty does this movie look? Not just from a plot standpoint, but from a production standpoint, too. The CGI in the e-trade talking baby commercials is heads and shoulders above this horrible mess.

In every trailer I've seen, the dogs are basically just standing there with their lifeless, shark-like eyes fixed forward, like they are waiting for a doggie treat (since they probably are). Only their mouths are moving. Nothing else on the face moves -- no eyes, no eyebrows, no nothing. The whole effect looks like it's from 1987. Hell, knowing Disney, maybe it is. They probably outsourced the animation to India.

Speaking of lifeless and sharks, I saw this movie in my Netflix Instant queue, and the title alone made me laugh, so I'm going to watch it and write you guys a nice review:



How can I not? It has both Debbie Gibson AND Lorenzo Lamas. The only way this could be any more awesome is if the Shark and Octopus turn out to be David Hasslehoff and Gary Coleman.

Of course just finding a picture of that movie led me to some other "recommendations" like this one:


I absolutely love the look on the black dude's face. He's like, "OK, you guys set me up in a sweet beach house with a hot chick wearing a bikini. What's the catch?"

I'll let you know how these experiments in cinematic splendor turn out.

Other stupid shit I've noticed lately:

Apparently Americans are either too dumb or too lazy to figure out how a roll of tape works, and so now we have to have individual, pre-cut, dispenserized pop-up tape. There's even a video showing you all the things you can do with pop-up tape. Of course, it's all the same stuff you could do without pop-up tape, unless you only had one hand (or maybe had two but one of them was busy with the S&M virgin mobile thing.) Then pop-up tape is probably pretty cool.

Also, am I alone here in hating the Snuggie? Let me clue you in. Here's what the Snuggie is: A crappy polyester robe with no belt, that you wear backwards. That's it. Go to Target, buy a nice XXL fleece robe and wear that backwards. You'll be warmer, and you'll be the only one in your neighborhood with a plaid Snuggie, plus you won't look like a monk who escaped from Renfaire.

Even worse, now they have snuggies for dogs. And if you act now, you can get in on this BOGO deal:



Lastly, it's become obvious to me lately that Vietnam has many problems --foremost among them, their economy. They are suffering from accelerating inflation and a widening trade deficit and a general devaluing of thier currency, which I recently learned is called the Dong. So Vietnam, I have some advice for you. The first step in fixing your economic mess is obvious: Rename that shit. I'm just saying that nobody takes you seriously when you offer to pay for dinner and then whip out a pocketful of Dong.

Tell you what -- If our economy ever recovers, I'll even take you all out for some nice Vietnamese food. Or as you call it, "food." There's probably, what? 10 or 12 of you left over there? I think we probably owe it to each other to have some grub, play some tunes and get shitfaced. What do you think?

Can I get a hog snout with that?

I hate going to the dentist almost more than anything. Maybe not as much as I hate public speaking, but it's a close second. I haven't had a cavity in probably 20 years, but I still hate it, even if it's only for my 6 month cleanings. I go religiously, however, since I know that the longer you put it off, the worse it will ultimately be.

Unfortunately, my regular dentist decided to retire and he sold his practice to some new guy, who I'm not sure I like. Suddenly, I have all these teeth on some sort of "watch list" - which I assume is like the one Homeland Security has for suspected terrorists, except this one's for radical bicuspids and suicide molars instead. The teeth that have made his list all contain 20-year-old fillings that he thinks need to be replaced because of tiny fractures he can see in the enamel. He wants to replace the existing fillings with that composite stuff, which supposedly holds the tooth together instead of wedging it apart, like the old silver fillings do. It sounds logical but I'm not sure I'm buying it.

There are a few reasons for this. First of all, he looks exactly like this guy, whom I've always hated. Has that guy ever not been a dick in any show he's been in? Seriously. He's a dick. Second of all, these are cracks my old dentist never mentioned, which I find a little suspicious. Even if they really are there, he apparently didn't think they were an issue. So I'm trying to decide if this new guy is practicing progressive dentistry and trying to fix small problems before they become big ones, or if he's practicing progressive bullshit because he has a new building to pay for.

I think he suckered me in though. He already knows I hate that place more than anywhere else on earth, but as much as I hate the thought of him drilling old fillings out, I hate the thought of someday breaking a tooth and being faced with a root canal and a crown even more. The bastard has me cold.

There was a new receptionist too. While she was swiping my credit card, I looked down at the counter and noticed a stack of the new guy's business cards sitting there. Up until that moment, I hadn't known his name. Turns out it's Dr. Moreau. I asked the receptionist if he had his own island and if she thought maybe I could get some quick tail work done next time, but she just looked at me like she was going to call the cops so I let it go.

In other news, I went to a fantastic rock show on Saturday night. We drove down to PA to see the reunion of The Badlees. You might remember them from the late 90's when they were signed to Polydor. They had a video on VH1 and a couple of pretty popular songs. (You can check out the videos on that link to jog your memory.) My buddy Pete is/was the lead singer, and they have a new record out, so they're doing a couple of shows to promote it and have a little fun. You can sample the new tunes here at CDBaby. Check it out if you get the chance. (There's a kick ass tune on it called Anodyne that I can't get out of my head.)

As for the show, all the guys were in top form, and the new songs sounded fantastic live. It's been five years since they shared a stage, but it was like they never stopped playing together. Jeff, their old rhythm guitarist, apparently found Jesus and doesn't play the devil music that much anymore -- so Aaron Fink from Breaking Benjamin was playing guitar with them in his place. We saw a lot of old friends and had a great time.

The funniest thing was the Pottsville PA crowd. Holy crap. I don't think any of them have changed in the last twelve years. The same hair, the same clothes, the same Yuenglings. It's like the land that time forgot down there.

It was a blast from the past, that's for sure. I haven't stumbled into a hotel room at four in the morning in a longggggg time. I had almost forgotten what that was like.

I kinda miss it.

Hanna-Barbera got it wrong. Who knew?

It's been an interesting week. I was working from home last Friday and while I was in my office, I heard a crashing noise. I was on the phone and figured one of the cats had knocked something over, so I didn't think much about it.

About a half hour later, Jesse, our Siamese, limped in to the office and sat there on his back legs like a woodchuck. I picked him up and flipped him over and instantly knew what happened. He had jumped up on the top of the blazing wood stove, apparently not knowing that hot=pain.

All the tough outer skin on his paw pads was blistered off and hanging, and underneath was swollen, red, raw skin. Just looking at it made my feet hurt. So I immediately called my boss, logged off and drove him to the vet. She had to clip the blistered skin off of 3 of his feet, apply ointment and bandages, and give him an antibiotic. All to the tune of $250 bucks or thereabouts.

That's not the bad part. The bad part is that we have to change the bandages twice a day for about three weeks, give him antibiotics and keep him secluded from the other two cats because he isn't supposed to scratch around in their litter. Instead, he gets to use this horrible shit made from compressed newspapers that looks exactly like rabbit food pellets (except they're grey) and is about as absorbent as it sounds, which is to say I might as well fill the litterbox with m&m's.

He's been amazingly tolerant of the whole twice-a-day procedure, and his paws are healing up nicely. The pain medication makes him think he's invincible, and he beats the hell out of his feet -presumably, because they don't hurt. The drug also turns him into a crazy wild beast who won't sleep and is determined to chew his own legs off, so we've stopped giving it to him.

The problem we have now is that his paws dry out and crack and start to bleed, so we've been pretty religious about changing out the bandages. We feel horrible that this happened, and it's partially my fault for leaving the kettle off the top of the stove -- but still, he has to take at least part of the blame. The other cats never did that shit, and he's supposed to be the smart one.

I know you're all thinking, "Who cares? We don't want to hear about your cat. Entertain us! That's what we pay you for!"

With that in mind, there is one funny thing that came out of all this. Every time we change his bandages, he does this for the first five minutes:



And I laugh my ass off. Every single time. I'm mean.

Watch this space.

Two things that made me laugh out loud in the last few days -- first, this incredibly well-targeted e-mail that I received because of my "ahead of the curve" blog. (click for larger image):

I only have a few comments about this:

1. Their users are clearly effed in the head.

2. The reviewing editors need to cut down on the weed when they are doing their reviews.

3. I am totally getting a Top Science Blogs banner for this place.

Secondly, today I bought a practice test from a place called Cert FX to study for a Blackberry server exam I have to take before the end of the year. This was an actual question, which I did not change in any way:

I think they are outsourcing their dev to Gungan City.

Sorry. Geek joke.