A short conversation about super powers

"If I were a superhero, I would be HourMan, and my super power would be hour power. That means I could do whatever I want, fly, be bulletproof, run fast, be on fire, see through shit, anything, for one hour at a time. My costume would have a real working clock on my chest and a watch on each wrist, all set to precisely the exact right time. And my battle cry would be, check this out: 'Knock knock, it's justice time!'. How cool would that be?"

"Well, pretty cool, I guess. But your battle cry doesn't really make a lot of sense. Why not 'Tick-tock, it's justice time!'?"

"Oh yeah. That's so much better."

Family Matters

My family lives up in the Midwest, in the northern Indiana/southern Michigan area. My mom called yesterday to tell me that my aunt was in the hospital, in fairly serious condition. It looks like she’s going to be ok, but the doctors aren’t exactly sure what the problem was/is, although I have no doubt that it is somehow minivan related. The beauty of this story is that mom called me after spending the weekend in the hospital herself. As it turns out, when my aunt got sick, my cousin wasn’t able to find mom and literally had to call a couple of hospitals to track her down before she could tell her about it. I thought that kind of thing only happened on TV and in movies. I found out this part of the story after calling my cousin to get my sister’s phone number, which I thought I had but oops, I didn’t. Of course, neither she nor my sister (the person with whom I would have shared a womb for nine months had we been twins, which we are not) called me because I’m running around somewhere in Florida, doing whatever it is I do. Which, I think they believe might consist of wagering on jai alai, cruising around in an airboat, screwing up elections, drinking umbrella drinks and not having a telephone. The whole confluence of circumstances makes me think that if my family was made up of characters from movies, I'd be Uncle Buck.
At any rate, I’m apparently harder to find than, well, my mom.

Knock, knock...

Here are two stories involving my front door that happened within the last 24 hours.

Last night, I had just gone to bed when I heard someone trying to open my front door. Sure, it was late, I was tired and the cats are constantly getting into stuff, but the sound of someone trying to turn a doorknob makes a pretty distinctive 'chnnk-chnnk' sound
and that is definitely what I heard. I waited a second to see if they were going to try to break a window but that didn't happen. I guess whoever it was didn't want to get in that badly, which is good. For reasons of my own, I would never consider having a gun and even though I know I have several, I didn't know exactly where the nearest baseball bat was at that hour. We all like to think that if someone breaks into our home we'll have the advantage over the intruder because we know the layout of everything in the dark and the adrenaline would kick in if we were put in a position of having to defend ourselves and/or loved ones turning us into cunning warriors. But these factors are probably negated by the facts that we're going to be nervous to some degree, the person breaking in is obviously pretty desperate, probably prepared for some sort of confrontation and has in all likelihood decided that they won't mind hurting you. In fact, that may be the reason they broke in in the first place...Ah, it was probably just the cats getting into something.

Tonight, I had just gotten home when somebody knocked on the door. Unprepared for company and thus lacking a witty quip, I yelled out the classic "Who is it?" and was answered with "It's Matt and John. We want to talk about The Bible." Wow, Matthew and John are both in The Bible. And since I don't know anybody named Matt and John, at least that travel as a couple, they must expect me to know who they are. What if it's the Matthew and John? This could be the opportunity of a lifetime! Not entirely convinced that it was the Matt and John, I asked again "Who is it?". Again, they replied, "It's Matt and John". I'd had time to think about it now and realized it probably was not the Matt and John so I asked again "Who is it?". "It's, uh, Matt. And John. We said we want to talk to you...". By now I had lost interest in the possible theological merits of this conversation and decided to conduct a social experiment, mainly how many times could I ask "Who is it?" before even the most dedicated door-to-door solicitors of Bible discussion named for participants therein gave up and moved to the next door. The answer is 19. I asked them 19 times "Who is it?" before they got pissed off and gave up. If they're really angry about it and come back later and try to break in, I will hit them with a baseball bat.

Spaghetti & meatballs after 9:00PM + Reality TV = Bad idea

...Unless, of course, you like the idea of spending the whole night dreaming about how you can repair the rift between Ron Jeremy and Vanilla Ice.

Vibro-shave

I bought one of those crazy vibrating razors recently, although I'm not sure why.

That is, I know why I bought it; because now that The Big Companies know that all of us are on to their eight hot dogs / twelve buns in a package swindle, they've changed their bait-and-switch tactics to the shaving game. They make hundreds of different razors and blades, none of which are compatible with each other. They look almost identical, and you're pretty sure they're the ones that go with your particular razor but they're just different enough to not work with anything other than it's own particular brand and model, which is not yours. And since returning an opened package of razor blades is harder than returning an opened home enema kit (trust me), you wind up just buying yet another new razor. That's why I bought one.

What I don't understand is why vibrating is good for shaving (if you know, don't bother trying to explain it to me; reasonable explanations based on thought and logic are completely lost on the likes of me). You'd think when you're maneuvering a piece of steel that's..well, razor sharp...across your face, it's steadiness you'd want, not vibration. It's just one of several things I don't understand about shaving, such as whose bright idea was it to sharpen a hunk of metal and drag it across their face in the name of fashion in the first place?

Anyway, I thought advances in shaving technology were limited to increasing the sheer number of blades involved. In the old days, you had one (1) blade that shaved the hair off your face. Then in the 70s you had the dual blade system where the first blade would hold the whisker up while the second one came along and chopped it off, sort of like an illegal chop block in the NFL. Now, the first blade gives the whisker a dirty look, the second one throws a rock with a note tied around it through the whisker's window as a warning, the third blade roughs up one of the whisker's family members, the fourth and fifth blades jump the whisker in an alley one night, the sixth blade is up state doing a four year stretch for B & E, but it never said anything about that whole mess down by the docks and we appreciate that. Blade seven is the one that actually takes the whisker out, blade eight disposes of the evidence and blade nine, he don't do nothin', but is there to make sure nobody else does nothin' either, capiche? That, plus vibration, is how you shave these days.

Yet another plug for the film...

It's official: "Ten at the Top in Tampa Bay" will be broadcast this Sunday at 4:00 on WEDU.

I'll admit, it's a little scary that this thing that has been looked at by less than ten people in the whole world up to now is actually going to be broadcast on television. That really didn't hit me until yesterday when WEDU put a trailer on their web site.

Anyway, if you can tune in on Sunday afternoon at 4:00, please do so. Don’t worry, they probably won’t make you pledge any money, but if they do, I hear you get a really keen tote bag.

Malled

I needed to buy a new watch and somebody from work recommended the Fossil brand. I could have shopped online, but instead I sucked it up and went to the Fossil store at the International Plaza last Saturday.
Chris Rock was partially right when he said that every town has two malls; the one the white people go to and the one that white people used to go to. International Plaza is a third type of mall; the one where all The Right People go. It’s Tampa’s one-stop shopping destination for people who look like the models in the catalogs from the stores inside the mall. The faces of the stores as well as the shoppers themselves are all freshly scrubbed and peeled. You’ll see lots of ponytails pulled through the backs of khaki baseball caps in carefully choreographed displays of casualness. Many of its patrons are men named Howard and women who spent four years or more in college just so they could eventually marry men named Howard. Basically, if you want to pay $50 for a plastic case to carry your iPod in, this is the place for you. It’s just not the place for me. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice things and I’m willing to pay for them when necessary but I’m (surprisingly) easily intimidated (sometimes) and I’m just not fond of putting myself in situations where dialogue like this can occur:
“May I help you?”
“Um, yeah, I’d like to make an appointment to look at some of these watches, please.”
“All right, why don’t you start filling out this application and the rest of these eligibility forms and we’ll get your request denied in a jiffy, ok?”

Anyway, I escaped without incident and am happy with my new watch. Too bad it didn’t come with a khaki baseball cap!

I'm not goin' to Brandon this time

Last week, I mentioned that I inadvertantly wound up on an expressway from downtown Tampa to Brandon. Yesterday, I was driving in the same vicinity and happened to notice the same entrance ramp, only this time I noticed the sign, which is about the size of a softball diamond, that gives you all the information you would need to know if you were in the position of having to decide whether to get on it or not.
I never said I was smart.

A short conversation about assholes

"I am just so sick and tired of dealing with assholes, man."
"Wow, could you have possibly uttered a more innocuous, generic statement?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"I mean, is there anybody who would disagree with that? Can you imagine anybody under any circumstances taking the opposing stance?: 'Not me, I love dealing with assholes. They enrich my life and I cherish the opportunities to interact with them every chance I get'. Of course you're sick and tired of dealing with assholes! Everybody's sick and tired of dealing with assholes. That's why they're called assholes!"
"I am sick and tired of dealing with you."

Another negative aspect of the prevalence of cell phones

Aside from the fact that the cell phone has done more to erode what's left of common courtesy than any invention in history, it's also made it harder for the rest to identify the weirdos. Used to be when you saw someone walking down the street and muttering, you knew they were talking to themselves and thus should be avoided. Easy. Now, you don't know if they're holding a phone to their ear on the side of their head you can't see and discussing dinner plans or if they're talking to invisible robots and discussing how to turn your skull into a gravy boat. Worse, they may have one of those incredibly stupid looking clip-on ear phones. So now you don't know if these people are weirdos or just tools (believe me, if you use one of these gimmicks, you are, indeed, a tool. And spare me the safety lecture. Hands-free? More like dignity free).

I guess we'll have to go back to the old days of tag and release when it comes to keeping track of the weirdos. Thanks, cell phones. Thanks a lot.

A short conversation about catchphrases

"Hey listen, don't be that guy, man. Ok? Just...don't be that guy. Seriously."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Don't be that guy that says stupid shit like 'don't be that guy'. Trust me, you do not want to be that guy."

I'm goin' to Brandon

Tonight after work, I was going over to a place in Ybor City to check out the place where we're having the premiere party for "Ten at the Top in Tampa Bay". There's been some recent construction in downtown, with buildings being torn down, new roads added and old roads re-routed. I thought I was heading towards Ybor when I found myself on what looked like an expressway. I realized that it was an expressway, and figured that I had somehow wound up on the new and improved Selmon Crosstown by mistake. "Looks like I'm goin' to Brandon", I chuckled to myself. As I traveled a little further without seeing any exits, I thought "Shit, I am going to Brandon". The longer this went on, the more I repeated this to myself, each time emphasizing a different word as I grew more and more incredulous; "I'm going to Brandon", "I'm going to Brandon". I may have also added an adjective that started with F and ended with ING between "to" and "Brandon". Don't get me wrong, I have no ill will towards Brandon. There's a huge mall there, which is kind of nice. Actually, the whole place looks like it's one huge mall. But I couldn't help wondering who decided that with all the traffic problems we have in this town that a four lane, non-stop, no-exit express route from downtown Tampa to F-ing Brandon is what we need. It's kind of like installing a Weber 6750001 Genesis Gold C Propane Grill at a mosque; it's nice and it may even come in handy sometimes but it's certainly not what anyone would describe as an essential.

Courtesy is dead in the grocery checkout line

So tonight on the way home I stopped at the local Sweetbay for some groceries. I didn't have a lot so I was using one of the smaller hand baskets. The kind you carry, not push. I got my stuff and got in line behind this lady (not this lady; this is just some photo I grabbed off Google. I'm sure this lady is perfectly nice. Look at how swiftly she's unloading her cart!). The lady I was behind tonight loaded all her stuff on the conveyor belt and then started browsing through a magazine while she waited for her groceries to be scanned. The things is, as her groceries moved along the belt, she didn't. She stayed camped out in that same spot, not allowing me to put my groceries up there. I didn't have that much stuff, but it was heavy enough that it would have been nice to not have to hold it if I didn't have to. So now I'm thinking, "What do I do here? Do I say something? I don't want to seem like a wimp who struggles with a lousy 10 pounds of groceries. Or do I just stand here until she realizes that she's holding me up, gets embarrassed, apologizes, laughs a cute, embarrassed laugh and moves up a little bit, allowing me to smile back and chuckle 'Hey, no problem!'. Well, she isn't moving. She is reading that magazine. And I don't mean just the captions under the photos; she's reading articles! What magazine is that anyway? Ashlee and Keith are hooking up? I don't even know who that is. Brad and Angelina are adopting another baby? Ok, I know who that is. But didn't they just adopt a...Jesus, her groceries are almost all bagged up and she isn't budging!!"

Honestly, it's not a huge deal. It's just that I don't understand people being so wrapped up in themselves that they don't notice little things like this going on around them. These are the same people who slow down to 10 miles an hour in the left hand lane because they just realized they want to cut across two lanes of traffic so they can make a right turn. they'd rather impose on everyone else, maybe even put them in mortal danger, because it's just too inconvenient for them to acknowledge that they screwed up and that they should just double back.

Anyway, she eventually did budge enough for me to move up and put my stuff down, but she never even acknowledged me. I think she just finished doing the crossword puzzle and decided to move along. But now I have another dilemma: just what is the correct etiquette for putting that little divider bar thing down? I'm always of the mindset that we don't need barriers between us. See? We can be cool, man. I have my groceries, you have yours and you, me and the groceries, are all just doing our own things. As long as we're not, like, imposing on each other's space, man, it's cool. But inevitably, somebody will not-so-subtly drop that thing in there. They don't make eye contact with you when they do it, but they're still making a declaration that what's theirs is theirs and what's yours is yours and they have no interest in getting the two mixed up. It's like they're saying, "I don't want your hot dogs anyway near my bran flakes, you filthy hot dog-buyer". I know it's pretty stupid to find this offensive but I do anyway. Also, I don't even know whose responsibility it is to lay down the boundary. Is it the leader or the follower? Can somebody please explain the protocol to me? Since I don't know, and since I'm such a free-spirit philosophically opposed to grocery segregation, I usually just let the other person do it. Except tonight, I'm a little pissy now from thinking of all this stuff and I didn't want my salad dressing associating with her ginger ale and Perrier (gee, in addition to celebrity gossip, she really enjoys nearly-flavorless carbonated beverages) so I put that thing down there. But it slipped from my hand and landed with a *THWACK!* that made everybody turn to see what was going on. Oh yeah, and by the time I actually out it down, she had paid and all her stuff was bagged up and put in her cart.

So once again, I'm an ass.

Check it out: I'm legitimate!

What's been said about "Sticks Of Fire"

• Best Of the Bay 2006; Best local blog - Creative Loafing
• "...Tampa's premier blog, Sticks of Fire. This is the one blog that is essential to have on your blog roll or bookmark list. Tommy covers all sorts of topics relevant to Tampa. He also has the best list of Tampa bay area blogs. It is currently featured on the St. Pete Times weblog site." - Seminole Heights
• "Sticks of Fire is not Tampa’s first weblog, nor its most prolific, but it may be the Bay Area’s most decorated. Showered with awards from local free culture papers like the Weekly Plant (or whatever it’s called now) Sticks of Fire is widely considered Tampa’s best blog about Tampa." - Perpetualbeta.com

All of those kudos and credentials, and they choose to interview and profile who?!?

Cracked Out

Cracked magazine, perennially the Burger King to Mad magazine's McDonald's recently reformatted itself, taking on a hipper and (gasp!) funnier edge. I read the first new issue and liked it enough to go ahead and subscribe. I mean, it wasn't as great as any of the classic era National Lampoons or Spy in it's heyday but it was at least as good as The Onion.
Two issues later, it's over. "New" Cracked, as a magazine, has folded (it lives on as a web site, which is fine unless you've ever tried to take a web site into the bathroom with you. I'm just sayin'...) after a total of three issues.
This leaves a total of exactly zero worthwhile humor magazines in existence. Mad just flat-out stinks now. Each issue is about as thick as a standard comic book and takes lame, half-hearted potshots at whatever the hottest tv shows, movies or products are at the moment (ironically enough, exactly the kind of waste product that used to fill the pages of Cracked). I'd be willing to bet that the issue on the newsstands right now is chock full of jokes about Grey's Anatomy, iPods and Ghost Rider. Cripes, if I wanted that, I'd buy Entertainment Weekly. And I don't want that.

Wow, what a night

Last night, I went to MacDinton's Irish Pub in the South Howard part of town to watch the Lightning game with four co-workers. This was a historic occasion because it was the first time I'd been to MacDinton's for a reason other than seeing the Johnny G Lyon Band and it was the first time I'd gone there when I wasn't already drunk. It was also historic because it was BY FAR my shortest visit there...and most likely my last .
Let me explain.
We started the evening with dinner at the Chipotle Grill in the plaza next door. After dinner, we went across the street to Marble Slab Creamery for ice cream. Then we made our way back across the street to MacDinton's to watch the game. We were there for maybe 20 minutes when somebody mentioned that cars parked in the plaza next door should probably be moved or there was a possibility of being towed. Guess what happened? Three out of the five of us had been towed. Thankfully, I wasn't one of them (Why? I honestly think it's because they took one look at my car, Jeeves, and figured I wouldn't be able to pay to get it out of impound. thank heaven for perception being reality). So I wound up taking everyone who had been towed over to the impound lot, which is not in a nice part of town, where we learned the fee to retrieve their cars was $162, each, in cash, exact change only. Further adding to the fun was remembering halfway there that I had started running a tab at MacDinton's, which meant I had left my credit card behind...and I was low on gas. Bottom line: My co-workers were seperated from $486 and none of us got home before 1:00 in the morning.
These tow truck/impound lot operators are scumbags. There's no other way around that. They're parasitic scumbags who have figured out a way to steal people's property legally and get paid to do it. As a sidebar to this story, when I lived in Sarasota, I managed a movie theatre that lacked adequate parking and our customers often tried to park in the lots of antique shops across the street, all of whom closed by 6:00PM. These merchants didn't like it and started towing cars. Not the friendliest thing to do, but it's their private property, so fine. Whatever. In an effort to be neighborly and respect their property, and save my customers some grief, I went out and bought great big orange traffic cones and used them to block off the driveways to these lots after they closed. One night, one of my employees told me that a guy in a tow truck was outside taking the cones. See, as it turns out, it wasn't really about keeping people out of the parking lots; it was about towing people's cars out of the lots and then basically demanding ransom to get them back. Nice, huh?
To answer the unasked question, yes, the lot was marked as a tow away zone for people who were not customers of the plaza, but remember we started the evening by eating dinner there. And the thing is that South Howard, or SoHo as the euphemeisters would prefer you call it, is the kind of neighborhood where parking the car and exploring the eclectic collection of shops and restaurants should be encouraged. Heck, our group patronized three of them in the hour we were there. But after last night, it's going to be a long time before any of us think about going back.

A short conversation about breast exams

"How often should women have mastectomies?"

"Well, in all but the most extremely rare cases, the most any person can have in their life is two."

"Oh. What? Wait. Are you sure? I would think it would be every six months or at least once a year..."

"Wait, do you mean mammograms?"

"I don't think it really matters whether or not they have children or how old they are. All women should have them."

"Viewer discretion...is advised"

What other four words are capable of inspiring such giddiness and delight in me than the ones listed above that herald the weekly arrival of "24", featuring Jack Bauer and the general mayhem that comes with him? Well, maybe "I love you Clark" would do the trick, but I don't hear that once a week.

I'm not the world's biggest TV fan but Monday nights at 9:00, however, is another story. That is my TV time, the one hour a week for which DVR was invented. I'm not old enough to remember the old movie serials like The Shadow and the Lone Ranger but I have to think that the fans of those old yarns felt the way I do about "24". I spend all week wondering what will happen next (something bad; worse than last week) and how Jack is going to get out of it (he always does, even though you think he might not). Being able to tell a story over a much longer period of time is a distinct advantage TV has over movies. And serial shows, when they're done well, with the right balance of prolonged suspense (cliffhangers) and resolution (payoffs) are ultimately more satisfying than just about all films. "Lost" often hits this mark, but when it misses, it misses big. "24" NEVER fails to deliver.

Critics of the show point out how Bauer has no qualms about breaking rules (and limbs, his or someone else's) to accomplish his mission, as well as concerns about the show's perceived insensitivity towards non-American cultures, since many of the villians are non-American. This causes fans to be defensive about liking the show, for fear of being labeled as jingoistic racist supporters of fascism.

Please.

My enjoyment of "24" makes me no more of any kind of fascist than my enjoyment of the "Grand Theft Auto" video games makes me a cop-killing sociopath.

S Words

I got home very, very late last night from a road trip to south Florida with some co-workers to watch the Lightning play (and let me state for the record that baseball is the only sport you can watch your team get it's ass kicked and still have a good time).

We got down there early enough to do some shopping at the Sawgrass Mills Outlet Mall, which is reportedly the largest outlet mall in the world. Visiting the world's largest anything is certainly an experience but what I was most impressed with was this: there was a store selling samurai swords for $12!

Now, I'm sure these probably weren't exactly Hattori Hanzo quality swords (katanas to be exact) but still. How can you possibly beat a $12 sword? (No, not with a gun, smartass). The price is certainly right and there's apparently no three day waiting period if you want to walk right in and buy one, regardless of how angry you might be. Three of us considered buying them, decided not to, and spent the rest of the night regretting it.

In the relatively short period between the mall visit, the game and the ride home, we thought of literally hundreds of occasions where the swords would have been useful. They would have paid for themselves at the game alone.

One of the many brilliant ideas we had was to become a team of sword guys for hire, kind of like an A-Team that was actually bad ass (the original A-Team was like G.I. Joe; forever firing off clip after clip of ammo and blowing up all kinds of stuff but never actually hurting anybody). We couldn't agree on a team name (I liked Sword Guys, somebody else said Sword Dudes, I think somebody else suggested Sworders, which is just dumb....I don't think they were taking us seriously at this point, which would not have been the case if we'd actually bought the damn things) but I was already visualizing our ads on the sides of HARTline buses all over Tampa: "1-800 ASK-WHOEVER, my a$$! You got problems? You need somebody to do something about them? Call the three guys with the $12 swords!".

Oh, and we would also wear top hats. Damn, we would have been so bad ass.

A short conversation about logos

"Look at that nerd. He's got a friggin' silver-plated Star Trek logo on his car. Friggin' nerd."

"That's not a Star Trek logo. He's driving an Acura. That's just a chrome Acura logo."

"No, it's not. It's the Star Trek emblem that's on their spaceship, the Skywalker, and that Captain Spock and the other guys wear on their shirts."

"I'm telling you, it's an Acura logo. Do you even watch Star Trek?"

"Not as much as you, apparently. Friggin' nerd."

Something weird happened to me today...

As I mentioned yesterday, I have a cold again. I went into the restroom to blow my nose nice and hard without disturbing anyone. When I did, I felt my right ear pop. That's not weird. I've had that happen before. I know it has something to do with the sinus canal or whatever it's called. But what was weird was I immediately felt very dizzy. Really dizzy. Like my equilibrium was gone dizzy. Like I was going to fall down and I had to reach out with both hands to brace myself against the walls dizzy. The first thought that sprang into my head was "Nick Esasky!". Nick Esasky was a baseball player in the '80s whose career was ruined when he suddenly and inexplicably developed vertigo. I hadn't thought of Nick Esasky in years (justifiably so I would think; I'm sure Nick Esasky would be as creeped out as anybody if I went around thinking about him for no reason) yet he was the first arrival in my head when this weird thing happened to me.

What happened next was a rapid succession of random thoughts: Don't fall on the toilet; toilets are hard and you will crack something and bleed. And don't fall in the toilet either. That could actually be more harmful in the long run. Uh-oh, speaking of long term affects, what if this is permanent? What if my career is affected? Will I need a special chair with straps or side rails to hold me in it so I'm not falling down every few minutes? Will the company provide that? I'll bet they'll have to. If they don't, I will go on the news and shame them into it. Bastards. I bet this will make me eligible for a handicapped parking tag, which wouldn't be the worst thing actually. But wait; I won't be able to drive! I'll cause horrific accidents all over the place. I'll roll my car over and over and probably won't event know it. Shit, who is going to drive me around? Maybe nobody. Maybe I'll be a shut-in, living on disability. But maybe I will develop incredible artistic ability as a result of my horrible affliction. People will be amazed at my incredibly surreal paintings and will be so astounded at my ability to create such beauty that they will pay incredible sums of money for them. I, of course, will remain a recluse, shunning all the adoration and will be thought of as a mysterious, troubled genius... Every one of these thoughts came and went within five seconds or so (and that particular phenomenon actually happens to me quite often). About a minute later I was fine and went back to work.

Billy The Kid and The Science Experiment

For some time now, I've been wrestling with the dilemma of whether or not to blog about my job. The perils of doing so are many and range from getting fired, which would be bad, to getting sued, which would be worse, to getting arrested which would be tragic. On the other hand, I spend so much time at work, where so many blog-worthy things happen, that I've felt constricted by NOT writing about what goes on there. I've been struggling with that for some time but have now decided, screw it, I'm going to blog about it...with some boundaries:

1. I'm not going to mention where I work
2. Or what exactly I do there
3. I'll be blogging about some of what happens there, not the nature of the company itself or the business that takes place there.
4. And I'm going to use pseudonyms for everybody who works there.

If you really care about the first two points, ask me (quietly, via email). I'll (probably) tell you.

I'll start by telling you a little about the guy with whom I share an office. Billy, while not actually a kid, is younger than me and I have known him since he was one. He's a cocky, mischevious little bastard who I think of as a grown-up Bart Simpson. Frequently my work is interrupted by a shower of pushpins or paperclips or bottlecaps or boxes he's thrown at me. Sometimes he punches me or puts me in a chokehold. I don't want to give anybody the wrong idea: I'm not a passive victim and am certainly capable of giving as good as receiving...I'm just saying he (always) starts it.

The other day I was working on something and was enjoying an ice-cold bottle of Coke. I had only finished about half of it when Billy came over (completely unprovoked) and put three or four paperclips in it. He laughed and I threw a stapler at him. Afterwards, we mutuially agreed that the Coke was no longer potable so we might as well put it to good use and decided to conduct a science experiment. You know the old urban legend about the incredible acidic properties of Coca Cola? The version I remember from childhood consisted of some kid soaking his bike chain in a pan of it to remove rust, but leaving it in too long and finding the entire chain itself dissolved. Anyway, we decided to see for ourselves if it were true. If I was to be deprived of icy refreshment, at least maybe mankind could benefit from our work. We left the paperclips in there and, as our control, we put some in a bottle of water and screwed the caps tightly on both bottles. We took Post-It notes and labeled them scientifically as A and B. We also added other elements to both bottles to see how this would affect things: some breath mints (this frightened one of our interns who worried that Bottle A would explode. Billy dismissed his fears reassuringly by saying "That's Mentos, not Ice Breakers, dumbass"), a couple of Sudafeds (I have a cold...again), some peanuts and a squirt or two of hand lotion (not sure why we did that exactly). Some have tried to dismiss our work as less-than-scientific:

• Co-worker: What's your hypotheses anyway?
• US: Huh? Whazzat?
• Co-worker: Your point. What are you trying to prove?
• Billy: That something bad is going to happen to those paperclips.
• Co-worker: That's stupid. They're just going to rust.
• Me: You are a cro-mag, unworthy of reaping the benefits that will eventually result from our research.
• Co-worker: That isn't even how you conduct an experiment. You aren't measuring data...
• Me: Heretic! We have see-through bottles! We have Post-Its! Leave this laboratory at once!
• Billy: Yeah, get your ass out of here.

Admittedly, the hypothowhatever has changed to "What's inside these bottles is totally going to reak" now that we've gotten bored with waiting for the paperclips to rust (they're not) and have just been opening them up every day to add more stuff (non-dairy creamer, sliced beets), but I guess that's the ever-evolving nature of science.

And the award goes to...

The Oscar red carpet interview show that takes place before the actual awards ceremony is officially the dumbest thing on television.

Good god.

The insipid, vacuous fawning over celebrities great and small (mostly small...it seems like the BIG names don't allow themselves to indulge in such twaddle) was so dialed up that I wasn't even watching it but I had it on in the other room and I still think I could actually hear my own individual brain cells dying. I may actually now be too stupid to get up from this chair by myself and go to bed. Of course, I think I only saw three movies this past year, Borat, the new James Bond and the one where Will Farrell plays a stock car driver, so that may have already been the case.

The Panties-In-A-Bunch-O-Meter

Let's see what has people all bent out of shape this week, shall we?

This guy, who is a caucasian college student names Chad, Troy or Jason or all three, is no longer allowed to dress as a Native American chief named Chief Illiniwek and perform at University of Illinois athletic events. I rate this one a big whooping zero out of a possible ten rat's asses.

This guy started crying while rendering legal judgement during the Anna Nicole Smith baby custody trial. On one hand, I care because it's so wildly inappropriate for a judge to behave in such a way. For example, can you imagine if a referee started crying while calling an illegal procedure penalty during the Super Bowl? They'd convene a congressional hearing. On the other hand, this outburst was just another ploy for attention from a noted gloryhound and by all accounts, one of the worst judges in south Florida...which is saying something. So no rat's asses for you, Judge Douchebag.

This guy refused to make jokes at the expense of Britney Spears on his late night talk show and used his opening monologue to explain his coming to terms with the fact that celebrities are also people with real emotions and real problems. That's admirable but unfortunately no human being has ever seen this show so it gets an automatic zero.

These guys were playing a game of hockey with playoff implications when a series of huge brawls broke out all over the ice. Finally something important happened. This is a rock-solid ten out of ten.

Google ranks THIS BLOG #1!

When you type in the query "whatever happened to brian baschnagel", guess what site comes up first? You'd better believe it's THIS ONE, baby!! Yeah!!!! (note: I have no idea whatever happened to Brian Baschnagel, but now I'm kind of curious. So if you know, give me a shout.)
So listen up, big business; if you're just not reaching that highly coveted late 1970's Chicago Bears fan demographic, then THIS is where you need to advertise. Believe me, for the right amount of money (ie: plenty), everything here is for sale.

Sincerely,
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We get what we deserve

I attended a focus group tonight about how there is work afoot to bolster the Clean Water Act, which has been eroded over the years by government entities, mainly the Army Corps of Engineers, reclassifying bodies of water which allows for looser restrictions on pollution (for example, the Hillsborough River, which is so filthy that people shouldn't eat the fish caught out of it, is actually classified as a channel, not a river). What's funny (aka sad) about that is Florida also has something called the Clean Indoor Air Act, which outlaws smoking in over 90% of Florida's commercial buildings and that (after some initial resistance) has been followed without question. We can legislate a habit but we can't protect a natural resource every single one of us needs to stay alive?
Anyway, many people there were appalled and had no idea this was taking place right under their noses. They said the media should do a better job of making people aware of situations like this. However, people don't understand, or don't want to understand, that the media is in the advertising business, not public service. For example, I just watched an in-depth report on Britney Spears shaving her head on our local Fox affiliate. Now, honestly, which news item is likely to draw more potential Dodge Ram, Pizza Hut, cell phone plan purchasing viewers? The info is out there; if you see something wrong (like the major source of fresh water for a major metropolitan area being choked with filth, for instance), ask your own questions and find out for yourself what's going on. Or we can all just sit here in our own filth and wait for the next Anna Nicole update. We must like it; why else would we put up with it?

State Fair

We went to the state fair this week. We had fun.

That's it, I got nothin' else. You can't make fun of the state fair. When something as over-the-top tacky as the state fair makes no pretense about being anything else, it renders itself totally immune from snark or any other form of criticism. You just can't do it. It would be like making fun of someone for being blonde...ok, bad example. The point is you're not likely to find anybody who is full of shit to be working in a neon-covered trailer selling corn dogs, so there is no point.

Anyway, we went and enjoyed the vendors, games and (in pretty respectable moderation, I must say) the awful (aka AWESOME!) food. For what it's worth, I found this year's new fried item, Pepsi, to be disappointing. The rest of the group disagreed. However, the ribs, and the two guys from Memphis preparing them, were unanimously popular.

We can't wait for the Strawberry Festival!

Et tu, Jiff?

Apparently, tainted peanut butter is responsible for an outbreak of salmonella that has affected nearly 300 people in 39 states.

Are you kidding me? Peanut butter?!?

If peanut butter can't be trusted, then it's official; my entire childhood, and hence, my entire life, is built on a foundation of duplicity and deceit. First I have my 3rd grade teacher announce in class that Santa Claus isn't real, now this. Peanut butter has always been the ULTIMATE comfort food! Whether it's eating a delicious sandwich (co-starring peanut butter's vastly underrated sidekick, jelly) or feeding a spoonful of it to a dog, from the time I was a small child peanut butter has NEVER failed to lift my spirits. Now, it seems that just beneath it's chunky or smooth surface lies diarrhea, fever, dehydration, abdominal pain and vomiting.

Just like everything else in life.

Time for another plug...

Check it out; we have an actual trailer!!!

Tampa: Standard bearer of taste and decorum

I notice a lot of things while I drive, which sounds like I'm not paying attention to operating my vehicle safely. But don't worry about it because I'm really good at it. I can not pay attention to five or six things at the same time. On my drive in to work this morning, I noticed a new strip club opening soon. The sign says this new establishment will be called "Liquor Box". I'll pause a minute to let that sink in.

...

This isn't in some seedy part of town; it's right on Dale Mabry, which is the main north-south highway. Actually, it's within walking distance of three or four other strip clubs, so I guess it actually is kind of seedy. But it's also right across the street from a Borders and within a mile or two of a Rooms-To-Go and a Target, not to mention Raymond James Stadium and the Yankees spring training complex. I don't consider myself a prude (well, in some areas maybe) but does anybody really think it's a good idea to have a joint called "Liquor Box" right on the main drag? This particular building has always been a strip club and has previoulsy been named "Ponytails" and "Skorez". Whatever happened to a little discretion and imagination? "The Kit Kat Club" would sound downright upscale by comparison.

The Other Others

If you have found this message floating in a bottle, please forward the information below to my family and friends. I just want them to know I'm ok.

Actually, 'ok' is probably understating it. I'm great!

I know you were worried when you heard that Oceanic flight 815, the flight I was on from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, had disappeared somewhere over the Pacific. Well, what happened was the plane basically cracked in half and crashed on some uncharted island. I have to admit, that kind of sucked. Lots of people on board were killed and all our luggage and stuff was scattered up and down the beach. The good news is that a bunch of us survived and, even better, we now live on a tropical island! Seriously, this place is fantastic. The weather is gorgeous, it's scenic as hell and for some strange reason we seem to have plenty of food and fresh water. Don't get me wrong, there are a few drawbacks. There's a small clique of survivors from our flight, seemingly all the pretty ones, who've decided that they're in charge or something. They make a lot of racket, what with the fighting among themselves, having flashbacks, blowing things up and getting killed. There's also apparently another group of folks who live on the other side of the island who seem hell bent on making the clique miserable. The clique's leader, a guy named Jack says these people are bad guys but one of the first things they did was the favor of taking all the children from our group over to their side of the island, so I think Jack is full of crap.

Whatever. As long as both groups leave me out of it (and so far, they have), I could honestly care less what they do to each other. Meanwhile, my days consist of sleeping until whenever I feel like getting up, hanging out on the beach, maybe doing a little fishing and watching the most incredible sunsets you've ever seen. I have to tell you, in spite of what appears to be a flock of angry polar bears living in the jungle who may or may not decide to drag me off and devour me with no notice whatsoever, I've never felt so relaxed in my whole life.

Bottom line: Please don't rescue me.

Thanks.

A short conversation about taking a stand on difficult issues

"You were really calm and composed during dinner when Sam's nephew 'came out'. That was a really awkward, tense situation and you handled it so maturely. I was really impressed by that."

"Darlene, when it comes to things like that, I just don't care."

"That's admirable. More people should follow your example."

"Well, thanks. But I'm not sure you understand. When I say 'I don't care', I don't mean 'I don't care' while banging on a podium with outrage and indignation, I mean more like 'I don't care' while shrugging my shoulders with ambivalence and boredom"

"Oh. Wait...wait a minute. What?"

"Yeah, I just don't care about stuff that other people do that doesn't directly affect me. So once it was clear that Sam's nephew was gay, but with no intention of having sex with me, I just kinda lost interest in the whole conversation."

"Oh, and why is that? Are you too busy to care?"

"Hmmm, if it's possible to be busy being apathetic, yeah, that's me."

Astronaut Love Triangle

Ladies and gentlemen, it's only February and we already have the story of the year. For those who don't click links, please allow me to sum up: Astronaut girlfriend (or astronutjob, for brevity's sake) in Texas finds out that her astronaut boyfriend or (astronaughtyboy, for brevity's sake) in Florida is cheating on her with some astronaut slut (or astroslut, for brevity's sake). Astronutjob hops in her car and sets out for Florida in a diaper (because she didn't want to stop along the way to relieve herself), a trenchcoat (because that's what psychos preparing to wage bloody vengeance wear...which must make it tough for the PR people in the trenchcoat business) and a wig (because she...didn't want to be noticed?) and a whoooole bunch of weapons with the intent of teaching astroslut and astronaughtyboy some very serious life lessons about fidelity.

I don't care what else happens this year, nothing is going to top this. Astronauts, sex, betrayal, diapers, murder, astronauts and astronauts. This story has it all!

You can hear the talkshows now; pundits and common citizens alike are going to be wringing their hands and wondering whether or not NASA does any kind of pre-astronaut training mental health screenings whatsoever. Of course, it's obvious that they do. And you can bet that somewhere in Lisa Nowak's (astronutjob's real name) file, next to the question "Is subject insane enough to want to be stuffed into a bucket and propelled by rockets into an empty, endless void?", there's an emphatic "YES!!!" in double bold, red Sharpie.

PS: I think Astronaut Love Triangle would be an excellent name for the punk band I will form some day.

Am I on MySpace?

Because I've been asked, I will answer: Yes.
Go there if you feel you must, but trust me, there isn't much there. No music, no videos, no photos. Probably the only useful thing there is a link to back here. And if you're already looking to leave here, this is just going to trap you in an endless circular loop of self-perpetuating disappointment. Sorry, but I only signed up to get access to other people's pages which isn't as creepy as it sounds.
Ok, it is.
But I don't go there very often.
So anyway.

Today is my birthday

Don't worry about it if you didn't send a card or a present. Seriously, that's fine. I don't make a big deal out of my birthday. I'm not weird about it or anything, I just don't make a big deal about...well, anything...when it comes to personal matters. My favorite birthday activity would be spending some low key time with my friends, which is no different from what I enjoy the other 364 days of the year. My friends also know me well enough to know better than to sic a pack of singing waitstaff on me at dinner, something about which I am phobic. I would rather dive out of a third story window than be serenaded by one group of strangers and drawing the focus of other strangers, all of whom, I'm sure, would much rather not be bothered. I don't like being the object of attention in social situations when I don't have control over my level of participation (which is a big reason why I generally don't socialize with people outside of a very tight circle of trust). Some people just don't get that and try to force birthday fun on you. They're just trying to be nice, I know; it's just that I'd rather not play, thank you. Unfortunately, these people can be quite persistent. So I sometimes have to go to the extreme of being a dick while guarding my boundaries:

"Happy Birthday, Clark!"
"Yeah? Tell my mom. She did all the work."

"Cumpleaños Felices, Clark (Happy Birthday in Spanish)"
"I don't speak that language so I have no idea what you said. Therefor, I have no choice but to accept it as an insult to my racial heritage."

"Happy Birthday, Clark!"
"Thank you, but my religion doesn't recognize traditional celebrations of annual occurences."
"Oh, I'm sorry. What religion are you?"
"Um, Methodist?"
"Really? I am too! But we celebrate..."
"I'm sorry, I meant that other fruity cult of wacko pinheads. Scientoligists. Yeah, that's me."

"Happy Birthday, Cl...(would-be well-wisher is interrupted by punch in the face)"

Bear Down!

As I mentioned here previously, I was going to make a concerted effort to get into football this year, particularly in regard to the Buccaneers. Well, as it turns out, I picked a pretty lousy year to do that. The Bucs record (4-12) was awful, but worse than that, they were boring. I've sat through 50 loss seasons by the Lightning and 100 loss seasons by the Devil Rays but they at least managed to provide some entertainment in the process. The Bucs weren't even interesting. I pity the poor schmuck who has to put together a highlight video from this year. He's going to be wading through an awful lot of two yard runs up the middle and incomplete passes.

That said, I am looking forward to the Superbowl today. I'm no longer the Bears fanatic I was when I was a kid (I have Brian Baschnagel's autograph on a football card) but I do still feel a connection so I'll be rooting for them. Their presence in the big game has brought a lot of attention to the rioutous '85 team that destroyed the Patriots in Superbowl XX so it's been fun to stroll memory lane. Plus, they're underdogs which makes them appealing to root for, although I won't be sad if Tony Dungy's Colts win. Both teams play an entertaining (they're the anti-Buccaneers) brand of football so it should be a pretty good game to watch. Plus, Prince is performing at halftime!

Thomas Harris: Coasting

When exactly did author Thomas Harris start phoning it in? Well, this abridged diary I just made up might shed some light.

• 1985: They're going to begin filming the adaptation of my novel "Red Dragon", although they are changing the title to "Manhunter". Whatever. This will not compromise my integrity as an author and I reserve the right to release a novel whenever I feel like it and not at the whims of the marketplace. Every six or seven years or so sounds about right.

• 1986: Well, it looks like "Manhunter" was a flop, I can't say that I'm surprised; why would Micheal Mann cast William L. Peterson as Will Graham?!? He's not leading man material! I do applaud his inspired choice of Brian Cox as Hannibal Lecter, however. His portrayal was definitive and as a result he will forever be associated with this character. At any rate, as always, the goings-on in Hollywood have no influence on my writing and I continue to craft my next novel, "The Silence Of The Lambs". Another two years and I should be done.

• 1990: "The Silence Of The Lambs" will be released as a movie next year and I have to say that the foolhardy casting of Jodie Foster and some nobody is disappointing at best. I have refused all requests to assist with the screenplay as I want nothing to do with this inevitable epic failure nor the business of movie making in general.

• 1991: Wow, $272 million worldwide gross and five Academy Awards! Maybe I should send a few cases of wine to the cast and crew.

• 1997: I am sick and tired of being pressured to write a sequel to "Silence..." so I am putting the final touches on my next Hannibal Lecter novel, which should shut them up. I don't think they'll be pleased though; it features man-eating pigs and a character eating his own brain! Ha ha! Good luck filming that, Hollywood!! At least they'll be off my back and I won't have to deal with the film industry anymore.

• 2001: Holy shit, "Hannibal" pulled in $357 million worldwide gross??

• 2006: I can't wait to see "Hannibal Rising", the story of Hannibal Lecter as a teenager, on the big screen! After the premiere, I will only go to Diddy's party for a few hours and then it's back to work on "Baby Hannibal", "I Was A Teenage Hannibal", "Elderly Hannibal" and "Hannibalette" (what if Lecter was a woman? Mindblowing!!), all of which will be released as novels and movies in 2007.

I got a haircut today

I went to my barbershop for my every-three-weeks-whether-I-need-it-or-not haircut. My barbershop is in the heart of West Tampa, which is predominantly Cuban in the same way that a baseball is predominantly round, which means I am frequently the only person in there who speaks English. I've been going to this barbershop off and on for the last 20 years and every time I go there, there's always a group of four to six old guys arguing about stuff in Spanish. I don't know if it's the same guys who've been arguing for more than two decades, but I'm seriously considering learning Spanish so I can join in someday. That way I'll have something to do when I get old.

I love my barbershop. For one thing, it's cheap ($12, which is only $2 more than when I started going there). For another thing, they take their time and do a good job. You wouldn't think it would take more than three minutes to cut my hair, but they take at least a half hour every time I go. It's a very no-nonsense, working class, neighborhood place. I don't know what the Spanish word for metrosexual is but I'm sure it's never been uttered there. The whole experience is very old time-y and I like that.

One thing I don't get about haircuts is the part where they turn you around in the chair so you're facing the mirror and then they hold up a mirror behind you so you can see the back of your head. I'm never exactly sure what I'm supposed to be looking for. Because of the natural order of things, there are certain areas of your body you're just not supposed to see, such as your internal organs, the bottoms of your feet and the back of your head. A pretty good rule of thumb is that if you do see these things, there's a pretty good chance that you might need some immediate medical attention. So when the barber shows me a reflection of the back of my own head, they might as well be showing me a photo of what's on the dark side of the moon, because I have no idea what's there or even what it's supposed to look like. I just kind of act like I'm checking it out, maybe furrow my brow a little and then nod my approval; "Yeah, I guess that'll do". For all I know, it's been all jacked up back there for the last 20 years and everybody is in on the joke except me....which would explain a lot, actually, now that I think about it.

A short conversation about pleasant surprises

"Hey, guess what happened to me the other day. I was doing laundry and found a $20 bill in a pants pocket! I love it when that happens, it's like, hey, free money!"

"Oh yeah! That's like this one time when I was going through my closet and found some old shrimp tails in the pocket of a pair of old jeans. One of them still had some meat in it! Sure, it would have been nice to find a tube sock filled with cocktail sauce, but still, hey, free shrimp!"

This has been a bad week to be homeless...

...as opposed to all the good weeks to be homeless. But this week, we had St. Petersburg police destroying the tents of homeless people as well as the unsolved murders of two homeless men. Homelessness is a problem everywhere but Florida draws a lot of them because it's possible to spend lots of time outside without, you know, freezing to death. I know, homeless people are a drag; their presence generally detracts from the overall quality of life for everyone else. On the other hand, they're human beings and it's more than a little scary to watch members of law enforcement ransacking and destroying someone's domicile and personal posessions, especially if you're someone who places value in the constitution and the rights and freedoms granted therein. Of course, there's people who will dismiss all of this by saying "They should just get a job", to which I say you're right; they should get a job. Your job. And then you can try living on the street. Ass.

Can't beat fun at the ol' monster truck jam

One of the annual entertainment extravaganzas we have here in Tampa Bay is the Superbowl of Motor Sports, which features the purely American phenomenon of monster trucks, outlandishly huge vehicles driving over and crushing other vehicles. There is no way on earth that people from other countries can even comprehend why we do this so it doesn't matter that none of us can explain it. One of my all time favorite entertainment industry stories occurred at a monster truck event at the old Tampa Stadium back in 1986 0r 1987, when two guys came down one of the ramps pushing an empty wheelchair. They had apparently gotten in an argument with their friend at some point and now couldn't find him. I helpfully pointed out that he wherever he was, he probably wasn't far away. They left to go look for him and I told our staff that they should probably listen for muffled cries for help from one of the upper concourse restrooms some time the following Monday.

This year the event was re-named Monster Jam and it was sponsored by Dairy Queen. They got the guy with the impossibly deep, growly voice who does all the bad ass TV voice overs to do the event's TV ads. But I don't care how impossibly deep and growly your voice is, it's impossible to sound like a bad ass when saying the phrase "brought to you by Dairy Queen".

Anyway, I worked there this year to make a couple of bucks spending money and this was an actual interaction I had with a customer at the ticket window:

CUSTOMER: What seats you got left?

ME: We're sold out of seats. All we have left is standing room only tickets.

CUSTOMER: So, where do I sit?

ME: You don't. You stand up.

CUSTOMER: I don't understand. What does that mean?

ME: Ok, you know how it is when you sit down? Like, you're not standing up and you're in a chair of some sort, sitting on it? Well, picture yourself inside the stadium and not doing that. Now picture yourself not doing that the whole time you're in there. That's what that means.

CUSTOMER: Y'all ain't got enough chairs.

ME: Hmmm, I'd say it's more of a problem with an over-abundance of butts, not a paucity of chairs.

CUSTOMER: What about these pit passes? What's in the pits?

ME: Tar. Really hot tar. I saw some dinosaurs in there earlier. I don't think they were enjoying themselves.

CUSTOMER: You're kind of a smartass.

ME: Well, somebody's gotta balance things out, sir.

How close did I come to quitting my job today?

Hold your hand up with your index finger and your thumb about an inch apart. Now, move them closer to each other to the point where they are pressed firmly against each other and there is no space whatsoever between them. That's pretty damn close, isn't it?

Q: How awesome are the Geico cavemen?

A: So awesome I can't even tell you. Better written and more culturally relevant than most shows on television, these commercials make me want to buy car insurance and the roast duck with mango salsa.

Baby, let's cruise...

Under unwritten Kitchen Cabinet charter by-laws, one member proposing "we should (fill in the name of fun and/or worthwhile activity here)" followed by at least one other member seconding with "hell yeah!" or some other suitably emphatic statement of affirmation is all that is required to begin the process of taking the suggestion from beyond consideration, to the conceptual stage and ultimately to (hopefully) fruition. This is how we have come to find ourselves in limousines, theme parks, some great (and some not-so-great) restaurants and the documentary film business. And it is how we have come to find ourselves considering going on an ocean cruise at some point in the near future. I have no problem admitting that I am the member who seconded "hell yeah!" in this case. Going on a cruise is something I have sort of fantasized about for some time now. The idea of being at sea, completely unreachable by those to whom I want to be unreachable, is definitely attractive...although, being wired the way I am, I have concerns that include, but are not necessarily limited to the following:

• Cruise ships are friggin' huge - How do those things float? They're like buildings...scratch that...cities! How do they not sink? Please don't attempt to explain the concepts of bouyancy, ballast and water displacement to me. I'll just get a headache and I still won't understand.


• "Titanic" - see above


• Pirates - They're still out there


• Giant squids - They're still out there


• Terrorists - Some extremist jamokes infiltrating the crew decide to wreck my vacation by acting a fool and forcing me to go all Jack Bauer on their dumb asses.


• Gambling - Cruise ships have casino gaming, which I love. But that doesn't mean I'm good at it. Cue visions of going broke 90 minutes after we leave the dock, forcing me to spend the rest of the cruise in my cabin reading old news reports about giant squids and pirates.


• Bad food - Cue visions of getting hold of some bad clams 90 minutes after we leave the dock, forcing me to spend the rest of the cruise on the toilet with my pants around my ankles and reading about giant squids and pirates.

Something else to worry about

Forget all the stand up comedy routines and bad sitcoms you've seen on the subject, the great toilet lid up vs lid down debate is over. Now this is apparently old news (I don't know why I'm just learning about it now) but when you flush the toilet, microscopic water droplets from the toilet are expelled into the air where they can hover as a mist for hours before eventually settling on other surfaces in the bathroom. This is completely true! University of Arizona environmental microbiologist Charles Gerba published a paper on it in 1975. Why a single toilet has been built without an automatic lid closer since then is someting the government needs to answer for. Think about it: you take care of your business, leave the lid up and flush your toilet which unleashes a cloud comprised of microscopic droplets of water marinated with your personal home brew that floats around your bathroom before eventually landing on the walls, the floor, the sink, the mirror, the toilet seat, whatever reading material you have laying around, and, oh yeah, YOUR TOOTHBRUSH and YOUR RAZOR. Now think about all the public facilities (I can no longer refer to them as restrooms) with multiple toilets that don't even have lids. Like shopping malls, movie theatres or sports stadiums. You've seen how those places are cleaned; they throw an orange traffic cone in the doorway for a few minutes, empty the trash and drag a filthy mop back and forth over the visible floor areas. This means in all likelihood that every public toilet facility is spackled in coat after coat (one for every flush from every toilet) of collected waste contaminants from the combined populace.

Don't even get me started on urinals.

I hate minivans

Recently I learned that a close relative, my aunt Joan, someone I respect and love, drives a minivan. My reaction upon learning this fact was, I think, something like, "GYAHHHHHHHH!!! Noooooooooo!!!!"

I've often been asked, why do I hate minivans so much? The answer is very simple: I hate them. And does anybody need a reason to hate? Nope. That's the beauty of hatred. It defies, when necessary (or not) all boundaries of reason or logic. Although, I would have to say that there a couple of factors that contribute to my loathing.

• A minivan is not a van. A van is a big Ford Econoline, big enough to carry surfboards, a full-size sleeper couch and some amplifiers. It has a mural of a scantily clad viking warrior princess driving a chariot pulled by dragons airbrushed on the side of it. It's cargo capacity is not limited to a diaper bag, a fold-down bench seat and a DVD player showing "The Lion King". And it definitely is not adorned with a magnetic soccer ball with the name 'Josh' stenciled on it. To use the word 'van' in minivan is a tremendous insult to real vans.
• Secondly, minivans are always in my way. Constantly holding up traffic, coming to a complete stop to execute right turns, driving cautiously. All-around generally stupid behavior. This is undoubtedly because...
• All minivans are driven by idiots. Let me be clear: All idiots do not drive minivans, but all minivans are driven by idiots. Need proof? Okay, who are most minvans sold to? Parents. People who have children. Intentionally! Now, as we all know, the having of children is always a horrendously tragic occurence that destroys lives. Yet, many people still insist on doing this to themselves on purpose! If anything speaks to diminished mental capabilities and generally poor judgement, it's being a parent...the kind of person who drives a minvan.

So anyway, I'm very sad to know that my beloved aunt Joan drives one of these things. My uncle knows a lot of people in the automotive business. Maybe they can find somebody to airbrush a viking mural on the side of that thing.

Post Christmas Wish List

All I want (right now) is...

• A full night's sleep
• A meal not eaten at a desk or behind the wheel of a car
• A five game winning streak by the Lightning (although I would grudgingly settle for 8 points out of a possible ten)
• An open door
• A smidgen of leisure time spent in the company of loved ones
• Simplification

That'll hold me over. Thanks.

(PS: If you have to skimp on anything, don't worry about the Lightning thing)

"Mmmm" is for mullets!

Nearly a year in the making, here's Midway Mullets

Profiles In Greatness: The Stoney Jackson Interview

You may know him better as "that guy from the 80's, with the hair, from that movie" but his real name is Stoney Jackson. I recently had the opportunity to pretend to sit down and interview him (NOTE: Only the interview was pretend. I actually did sit down).

CLARK: Hi Stoney. Welcome to my fabulous estate overlooking both the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf Of Mexico.

STONEY JACKSON: Thanks. It's great to be here. This is really nice.

C: Thank you. First off, let me say how sorry I am that 'Snakes On A Plane' wasn't a bigger success. What do you suppose happened there?

SJ: Ummm, I'm not sure why you're asking me. I wasn't in that.

C: Ha ha! Good one. I don't like to tell people I even saw it! (NOTE: I didn't see it). Let's talk about 'Pulp Fiction'. Big hit. What's Tarantino like? Kinda crazy I'll bet.

SJ: I wasn't in Pulp...Oh wait. I think you're confusing me with Samuel L. Jackson.

C: That's not you?

SJ: Nope, that isn't me.

C: Well, great. I have a whole bunch of questions here I can't even ask then.

SJ: Well, I have appeared in over 40 films and several TV shows. Are you familiar with the movie 'Black Scorpion'?

C: Yeah, I think I did see that...

SJ: Well, I was in Black Scorpion 2.

C: Were you the guy who said "I have had it with these muthafucking scorpions on this muthafucking plane'?

SJ: Wrong movie. Again, that's not me.

C: You should start saying that. That's the kind of thing people remember for a long time.

SJ: Thanks. Good advice. Can I go now?

C: We've established you are not Samuel L. Jackson, star of Pulp Fiction and Snakes On A Plane.

SJ: That is correct.

C: So how long have you been brewing beer? Was it something you turned to when you weren't invited to appear in 'Black Scorpion 3'?

SJ: Actually, 'Black Scorpion' was turned into a series and I was on it but once again, you're thinking of Samuel Jackson, only a different one this time.

C: Well, this has been great. It was nice meeting you and good luck with 'Black Scorpions Brewing Beer On A Plane 3'.

SJ: Thanks! I appreciate it!

A short conversation about hanging

"Hey, did you hear? They hung Saddam Hussein the other day."

"They gave him an enormous penis? That hardly seems fair."

"Um, no. They killed him, by hanging."

"Oh, you mean, they hanged him."

"Yeah, ok, I guess so."

"Well, that seems like a waste of a perfectly good enormous penis."

It's a New Year, everybody!

Once again it's time to reflect a little bit on what has happened this past year, but it's far more important to really focus on what lies ahead. Because every new year carries with it the unlimited promise of hope, prosperity and...and...oh Jesus, what a bunch of crap.