Amazing Animal Facts!

I know many incredible things about the inhabitants of the animal kingdom. Here's some of them:

• Over the course of its lifetime, every dog eats its own weight in phone books.
• Benjamin Franklin invented bifocals, the odometer and the giraffe.
• Chickens can fly. They simply refuse to apply themselves.
• I have no information regarding the two animals featured here. I think they might be cats of some sort. One of them looks sort of pissed off, which would further support that hypotheses.
• Zebras lack the ability to intelligently discuss the Monroe Doctrine. However, they have some interesting views on the Magna Carta.
• Muskrats are used as currency in Sri Lanka, with a live muskrat being worth approximately twice as much as a dead one (depending on the strength of the Yen at the given time).
• Flocks of bloodthirsty dolphins roaming the Amazon River and the Himalayan Alps have been known to devour animals alive, using their razor sharp teeth to strip the carcass to nothing but bone in mere seconds.
• The dolphin’s only known enemy is the Silverback Gorilla.
• Lemurs believe that Ayn Rand is vastly overrated.
• Lemurs are right.
• While many disabled people employ the use of "helper monkeys" to assist them with day-to-day chores, many non-disabled people employ the use of "hinder monkeys" to keep things balanced.
• Lobsters are the only animals that can be seen from space.
• In space, no one can hear you scream…except for lobsters.
• There are no lobsters in space…except one: the constellation Cancer.
• Contrary to popular belief and scientific theory, the constellation Cancer is not totally deaf. Rather, it is merely indifferent to your incessant screaming.

So the folks at AC Nielsen are pissed off at me...

...which is kinda what I was going for, but not like this.
Let me explain.
A while back, on the referral from a friend, I signed up to serve on a research panel for the AC Nielsen company. I know that they're the company that records ratings for television shows and I thought that this would be an opportunity to have some sort of impact in that regard. I get so tired of good tv shows like 'NewsRadio', 'Arrested Development' and 'The Knights Of Prosperity' getting cancelled because they have poor ratings while mind-numbing dreck like 'According To Jim' gets renewed perpetually. I don't take a stand on many issues (just yesterday R was talking to me about the presidential debates on YouTube; I told her worrying about the presidential election now is like worrying what place the Devil Rays are in during April) but when it's something important, damn it, like television, I am a force to be reckoned with.
As it turns out, AC Nielsen does all kinds of market research and they wanted me to do consumer shopping instead of tv viewing, so they sent me a hand-held bar code scanner and told me to go shopping. I was disappointed but figured what the hell. Because I'm a closet anarchist who's always fantasized about bringing The System to it's knees, I figured maybe I could artificially skew some sales trends and cause some chaos:

President and CEO of United Business Company, Inc.: "Look at these marketing reports! Blank VHS tapes, clamato juice and lutefisk are suddenly incredibly popular in the southeast, specifically the Tampa Bay region! Double...no, triple our production and distribution of those products there!"

Ha ha! Anarchy!

Alas, this was not to be either. For one thing, it's impossible to cheat The System; you actually have to buy the stuff you scan in and I ain't wasting my money on that crap. Too expensive. Secondly, you don't get to scan everything you buy. They tell you from week to week which products they're looking for and which stores to shop at. One week it might be cleaning products from Publix, the next it might be pet foods from Albertson's. Screw that. Too regimented. Thirdly, the scanner doesn't work very well. I tried several times...well,I tried once, for several minutes...but I could not get the thing to work (and I happen to be excellent at scanning things). It would scan maybe every fifth item or so. Too difficult and time consuming. So I just didn't do it. The scanner sits in it's box on the floor in my kitchen. The AC Nielsen people started calling every couple of weeks, wondering why they weren't getting reports from me. I would lie and tell them I hadn't been shopping. That worked for about two months.

AC NIELSEN: "What do you mean, you haven't been shopping?"
ME: "Yeah, I had an accident. Doctor says I'm not allowed to shop."
AC NIELSEN: "How is that possible? What do you do for groceries and supplies?"
ME: "I eat at other people's houses. And I go to the bathroom at work and stuff"
AC NIELSEN: "Oh. Ok. Well, take care."
ME: "See ya."

I couldn't believe that even worked once. But they either eventually figured out I was full of crap or just got tired of not getting any info from me.

AC NIELSEN: "Hello, Mr. Brooks"
ME: "Yeah, hi. Listen, I'm still laid up and haven't been able to..."
AC NIELSEN: Mr. Brooks, you've been dropped from the program."
ME: "Dropped?"
AC NIELSEN: "Yes sir. We want our scanner back."
ME: "Oh. Ok. Well, sure. Sure thing. I'll get that right out to you."

That conversation has taken place about four times now because I never sent it back. It's still sitting there. The last time they called, they pretty much begged for the return of their scanner, even offering to send me a pre-addressed, postage paid box to ship it in.
Ha ha! Anarchy!

Mansontastic!

I had a chance to go see Marilyn Manson in concert tonight and I declined. Not because I dislike Marilyn Manson but basically because I'm lazy. I just didn't feel like going to a concert tonight. For one thing, it was at the amphitheatre clear across town and for another thing, I've attended a couple of concerts lately, where I was designated driver for K & R. This worked out well because they got to see concerts and I got to see them drunk. But I just didn't feel like going out tonight. Going to concerts takes effort and as I mentioned earlier, I am lazy.

But I do enjoy Marilyn Manson. I'm not goth and I don't live anything remotely resembling the lifestyle one would associate with a Marilyn Manson fan (whatever that is). But I kind of dig some of his music and the whole creepy Halloween thing he has going on is very entertaining and I appreciate showmanship. I've worked a couple of Manson concerts and have found that for the most part, the people he attracts, while admittedly scary looking, are actually pretty polite and well-behaved. Plus, I can't explain it but I think he and I could hang out, in spite of our many inherent differences. Like I said, I don't know why I think that, just a gut feeling I guess. But we could probably go out for late breakfast:

ME: Mmm, I think I'll have a Denver omelet, hash browns and coffee please.

WAITRESS: And you sugar?

MARILYN: I would like to defecate on a crucifix and then drink baby's blood from a goblet fashioned out of a human skull.

ME: Marilyn! Dude!

WAITRESS: Uhh, I don't think...Oh dear...I-I mean, I think we're out of...

MARILYN: Relax, I'm just messing with you. Short stack and a glass of whole milk please.

(Everyone laughs)

ME: Ah, I love ya, you crazy, two-different-colored eyes, breast-implanted bastard!

MARILYN: Back atcha!

(Everyone laughs again)

So anyway, if my inner sloth hadn't overridden my inner goth, I wouldn't have minded going to see Manson tonight. My boss went though. He just text messaged me a few minutes ago with the declaration "I am a star in the dope show!! I am a star in the dope show!!". Damn. Once again, I have blown an opportunity to be a star in the dope show.

Sayonara soon, suckers

Looks like your boy Clark and his office mate Billy will be heading for Hollywood very, very soon.

You see, we have pitched our first television show idea to the Fox network and they have yet to say no, which means the same things as saying yes. Emphatically. I have a feeling that what I like to call 'Reality TV' is going to be the next big thing and I am going to be on the cusp of that first wave so big, big things are going to be happening for me. Here's a copy of the email I sent to the folks at Fox:

Dear Fox,
My name is Clark Brooks. I share an office here in Tampa with a guy named Bill. We have an idea for a fantastic (ie: best ever) new reality show. It's called "Clark and Bill Run Margie's Life" (we're not 100% committed to the name; how about "ruin" instead of "run"?). Basically, what would happen is every week Bill and I would tell Margie (a woman who works here in the same building with us) what to do and she would do it. We have lots of great ideas. Like making her quit her job here and take jobs at other places, such as a strip club (I'm sure you know Tampa is the home of lots of strip clubs) or a restaurant or as a crane operator or maybe at the dog track and then begging for her original job back here after a couple of weeks. We could also make her dye her hair or make prank phone calls or wear weird clothes or go on blind dates with people we pick out for her, specifically ugly guys, weird guys and women. We think this show would be hilarious, because almost nothing we come up with would be a good idea as far as Margie is concerned. But since it's a show, she would have to do it or get sued back to the stone age by Fox (you guys). Margie is a very nice person who in no way dserves to have terrible things happen to her. Bill and I are not so much. And that's why it would be great television. As an added bonus, we (Bill and I) get in fights (usually physical) at least once a day and I promise we will fight often on this show.

We are fully prepared to call in sick tomorrow or whenever to come out to LA and talk to you some more about this. Let us know, our calendars are surprisingly wide open right now.
Enclosed please find a picture of us, me and Bob, in full-on pimp status. We don't have any of Margie yet.
Also, please do not steal this concept and put it on the air with Pauly freakin' Shore or Andy freakin' Dick or two other idiots because we will be watching. And then the sue (ha ha!) will be on the other foot, my friends.
PS: We would be cool with being on FX, if that's a better fit.

Sincerely,
Your next breakout TV geniuses,
Clark and Bill

Pretty hot, right? Yeah I know!

You're probably wondering how this idea started. Well, Margie made the mistake of mentioning that her high school reunion is coming up soon and she probably wasn't going because there's so much pressure to show up with spouses and kids and such, none of which she currently has. That's when I came up with the brilliant idea of having Billy go with her, pretending to be her husband, a navy SEAL, home on leave between assignments. Halfway through the reunion, I would break in dressed as a terrorist, screaming "Death to you all! I am here for to make the Nine Eleven!". Billy would then (pretend to) defeat me in a sword battle and become a hero to everyone at the reunion, and they would all think Margie had the greatest husband ever. Billy liked the idea because he figured it would be a great opportunity to meet chicks (he's right). I liked the idea because, well, it's my idea. Oddly enough, the only one who didn't like the idea was Margie. And by "didn't like", I mean "was horrified by". That's when it occurred to me that Billy and I could easily come up with all kinds of great ideas if Margie would just let us make her do them. From there it was a hop, skip and jump to putting it all on television.

Anyway, my plan is to split time between the two coasts for a little while but I'll probably be in California full-time eventually. I'll keep you posted.

Finally!

Tampa Police has a motorcycle cop at the corner of Kennedy and Morgan this morning, writing tickets to the inconsiderate morons traveling westbound on Kennedy who routinely block the intersection by trying to stretch the light. Inconsiderate, in that they don't seem to care that they're inconveniencing the people on Morgan. Morons, in that they don't seem to understand that whether they're sitting in the middle of an intersection or at the light a few feet behind them, they're still sitting at the end of a long line of cars and not getting where they're going any faster. This is not uncommon anywhere you go, but for some reason it's a standard occurrence at this particular intersection. It's like a Bermuda Triangle where common sense and courtesy disappear for no apparent reason. At least TPD is doing something about it today.


(Cross posted at Sticks Of Fire)

Sometimes, buying a new CD is difficult

I am a huge Prince fan. I’ve spent big bucks to see him perform, have every album he’s ever released (including spin-off and side projects like The Family and Jill Jones) and can quote lyrics from even his most obscure album cuts. Yet, his new album came out today and I’m just now, at 10:30PM, listening to it for the first time. How is this possible? Let me explain…

Last night, 11:30PM: I suppose it’s possible I could go find a late-night music store that has the album available at midnight. Problem is I’m not aware of any music stores in Tampa hip enough to be open past 10:00. Heck, Prince doesn’t swear any more so I might even be able to get it at Wal Mart. But I have to work in the morning and I’m too old to be buying CDs at midnight.

This morning, 8:00AM: I could swing by the Wal Mart (I think I pass four of them on my way) but I will be lucky not to be late for work after I stop at the dry cleaners (there are no dry cleaners on my way) as it is so I’d better wait until later.

Today, lunchtime: There are no stores in the vicinity of downtown Tampa that sell CDs.

Tonight, 6:30PM: I have to do laundry tonight, no excuses, no options. So I plan on starting the clothes before going back upstairs and opening my mail. Then I’ll start boiling the water for spaghetti before I run downstairs and throw the clothes in the dryer. Then I'll finish making dinner, eat it and wait for the clothes to dry. After I eat, I’ll fold the clothes and shoot up to Borders (I have a 30% off coupon!) and grab the CD. This will work out perfectly!

7:10PM: Uh-oh, every dryer is occupied, including some where the cycles have ended and the dry clothes are just sitting there waiting to be emptied. I ain't touchin’ nobody else’s draw’s, clean or dirty, so I wait, patiently and then impatiently. Meanwhile, I worry that the water I put on the stove is almost certainly boiling over. But if I leave now and the inconsiderate jerks show up and empty their dryers, somebody is liable to jump in ahead of me. I agonize over this for a few minutes before I finally give up and hustle back to the apartment and turn the stove off. I go back to the laundry room and thankfully nobody has cut in front of me, but the dryers are still sitting there, full of dry clothes. Ten minutes later, a woman shows up with at least, I’m not exaggerating, seven kids. No wonder every machine is in use. If each kid is good for one load of clothes each, which is probably a conservative estimate judging by the appearance of the grubby little ankle biters, she’s going to be here all night as it is.

7:40PM: I finally get my clothes in the dryer and go back upstairs to fix dinner. Of course, the water is cold now and I have to start over.

9:20PM: I am done with dinner and the laundry so I finally set out for Borders.

10:00PM: I get home for the night and finally put the CD in the player.

And that’s how that works.

Sometimes Billy absolutely amazes me

Billy the Kid, my office mate, informed me this week that he didn't know his girlfriend's last name. His defense being that in spite of his dating her (in every sense of the world), she wasn't actually his "girlfriend", so it's really no big deal that he didn't know her last name. "Besides", he said, "I think I knew what it was but I forgot". I asked how long he's known the young lady and he answered, "eight years". How is that even possible? I think the only way you can know somebody that long and not know their last name is if they don't have one, like Cher, Prince or Madonna. Somehow, Billy pulls it off though.

Tabloid Bay

One of the things I don't really like about where I live is this strange envy of other metropolitan areas that we seem to have. It's like we're not happy enough with what we have and feel this need to justify our existence as a "real" city, whatever that means. In that way, Tampa Bay is a lot like a small child impulsively begging for a puppy. Chicago has an aquarium; we want an aquarium. Cleveland has a major league baseball team; we want a major league baseball team. Detroit has a convention center; we want a convention center. New York has the New York Post a daily tabloid newspaper with lurid, sleazy headlines; we have TBT, which is a smaller, racier, tabloid version of the St. Petersburg Times.
A couple of weeks ago TBT devoted it's daily front pages to the Elijah Dukes "baby mama" saga. This week, we were treated to big, red headlines that screamed "SHE WAS HIS SEX SLAVE" (Thursday, 6/12) and "WHO IS MASTER DREW?" (Friday, 6/13). The story being, some guy named Andrew Kobik (Master Drew), had signed a 19-year-old woman named Alyssandra Cardillo with a history of mental illness to a 10-page, five-year contract to be his sex slave and was arrested on prostitution charges by Pasco County sheriff's deputies acting on a tip (there's more to it, of course, but that's the gist).
Apparently, much like craftsmen who hang drywall or install plumbing, sex slaves are contractual labor. Huh. Who knew? Although, in spite of the fact that the woman wasn't paid for her services, I'm not sure "slave" is an accurate depiction of her position. After all, in order for there to be an executed contract with terms, provisions and opt-out clauses, there has to be some sort of agreement between the two parties, which would imply some level of mutual consent, an element missing in what we traditionally think of as slavery. But I guess it's a sign of the litigious society in which we live today. After all, you have to have legal protection in the event that the services provided are not satisfactory and you want to be protected if you decide to withhold non-payment to your sex slave.
But yet again, I digress.
I'm not a prude. At least, I like to think I'm not. Seeing this kind of thing on the front of a newspaper really doesn't bother me at all. I'm very much an advocate for free speech and I vehemently oppose censorship, especially in the guise of morality or decency standards. Yet, I feel for parents of small children who have to answer questions from their wee ones who are phonetically savvy enough to pronounce the words "sex slave" and want to know what that means. That can't be much fun. But I guess that's just life in a "real" city.


(Cross posted at Sticks Of Fire)

A Dome by any other name

It's with a little tinge of sadness that I chuckle at the goings on over at USF over the naming rights of the Sun Dome. Sadness, because I worked there from 1999 to 2006 and for the majority of those seven years, it was easily the best job I had ever had. But I chuckle because the people running things there now are the reason I left and I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. I'm only surprised that it took this long.

Sometimes I forget how to read

I've only lived in this country a short time (my whole life, but I'm really not that old) and every now and then I still have trouble with the words you people use to express yourselves. For example, this picture shows a sign that's right outside the main gate of my apartment complex, a sign that had me confused for the better part of the past week. Specifically, the web site address, which is www.raisingliving.com. Obviously, I didn't read the whole sign, or maybe I was just hungry at the time but I could not figure out for the life of me what a property management company's web site would have to do with raisins. Maybe they're diversified? Maybe they just like 'em? But what's "gliving"? Is it something you do to raisins, some sort of food preservation or flavor enhancement process? I didn't know. I just knew I didn't understand. It didn't hit me until days later that it was "Raising Living" and not "Raisin Gliving". Duh.
I remember something similar happening to me in grade school, when I came across the word "understand" on a list of spelling words. I read it and in my mind it came out as understand, instead of understand and I thought it was a piece of furniture, maybe a small table that fits under a dresser or something. I didn't know. I was pretty sure we didn't have one at home so I asked the teacher, in front of the whole class, to explain what it was to me, which is like asking someone to explain what an explanation is. So this isn't new territory for me.
Not that that "Raising Living" isn't a pretty stupid slogan anyway. Not as stupid as "Raisin Gliving" maybe, but still, pretty dumb. I'm not sure I even know what it's supposed to mean. I mean, they've painted and cleaned up around here and it's nice but it's not like they introduced the concepts of waste disposal and refrigerated food to savages in Borneo.
But I'm still an idiot. Again.

Adventures in dining, Tampa style

In spite of having lived in the Tampa Bay area for over 20 years now, there are still bars and restaurants I've passed hundreds of times that I've always wanted to visit but have just never gotten around to actually doing so. That list got a little shorter today when I stopped for lunch at Nicko's diner.
It's one of those classic "railroad car"-style diners covered in stainless steel. Between that and the fact that they serve breakfast very late (I was able to get an excellent Greek omelet and hash browns after 12:00 noon), I liked the place immediately. The service was very quick and efficient, with plenty of attention in the way of coffee refills which is always a huge plus. Further enhancing the experience was getting to sit at the same booth where Elvis Presley dined after a show at the Fort Homer Hesterly Armory back in 1956. I'm not the world's biggest Elvis fan so I had no idea until I sat down and saw the commemorative plaque, but it was still cool.
What wasn't so cool was once again, being revealed as the schlimazel I truly am. I learned from watching Laverne & Shirley as a child that a schlemiel is someone who spills their soup in a diner and a schlimazel is someone who has soup spilled on them in a diner (the fact that I'm able to retain life lessons learned from Yiddish speaking Italian-American sitcom characters but couldn't tell you the value of X with a full pad of paper, a sharp pencil and a scientific calculator will give you a little clue about my level of intelligence). Only in my case, today, it was ketchup that somehow wound up being spilled on me (see the photo of my shirt). I still don't know if the people eating at the booth behind me were startled by a hornet or what happened exactly. This is the kind of thing that happens fairly regularly to me but probably never, ever happened to Elvis, even though we both sat in the same booth. But my waitress graciously comped part of my bill and the food was excellent, so overall, I would recommend Nicko's highly to anyone. Just be careful when they're passing the condiments, unless you happen to be The King of Rock and Roll.


(Cross posted at Sticks Of Fire)

"Be glad that you are free..."

I got an email forwarded to me yesterday, July 4th, as in The Fourth Of July, as in Independence Day, titled "Proud To Be White". I'd actually seen it a few times before over the years but yesterday for some reason, I actually felt like commenting on it. Now, I don't do so out of some high-minded belief that I'm more enlightened than anybody else on the planet. It's just that, well, I don't really care about people whining about how bad they've got it. But sometimes the people who do, like whoever wrote this originally, get on my nerves and I feel the urge to mouth off about it. Besides, diversity is vastly overrated and similarity is greatly underappreciated. So for better or worse, the content of that email, and my comments (in bold), are posted below.

Are You Proud To Be White? Someone finally said it.
Did they say it while wearing a white robe and hood or maybe an armband with a swastika on it? I'm as proud to be white as I am of being righthanded or anything else I have no control over.

You pass me on the street and sneer in my direction.
To whom does this ever happen? It's never happened to me. Or are dark skinned people walking around constantly sneering at me and I'm just not noticing? I'm pretty self-conscious and I think I'd notice that. I'm pretty sure the last time anybody sneered in my direction, it was because I had some dog poop on my shoe. I was sneering too.

You Call me "White boy," "Cracker," "Honkey," "Whitey," "Caveman" . And that's OK.
It is? Who says that's ok? It's certainly not very nice.
And 'caveman'? Seriously? 'Caveman' is a slur against white people now? I think someone needs to inform the author that the Geico commercials are not reality tv.

But when I call you, Nigger, Kike, Towel head, Sand-nigger, camel Jockey, Beaner, Gook, or Chink . You call me a racist.
Racist or not, addressing people with insults makes the author, at best, an asshole. See above (re: It's not very nice)

You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you, so why are the ghettos the most dangerous places to live?
This statement makes the assumption that a) only non-whites live in ghettos and b) any neighborhood comprised of a predominantly non-white population is a ghetto. Neither of these things are accurate so beliefs to the contrary are predicated entirely on prejudice. I hate to break it to you but those would qualify as rascist beliefs.
Besides, who says ghettos aren't dangerous? I recently took a wrong turn and had to drive through a housing project that could be classified as a ghetto and I was scared. I didn't know what I was going to do if my car broke down ("Can you come get me? Just drive into the ghetto until you're afraid for your life and then go another 500 feet or so. That's where I'll be.") I was amazed to see speed bumps. There should not be anything in the ghetto that restricts your ability to get out as soon as possible. Instead of speed bumps, they should have spinners like a pinball machine to launch your ass out of there in a hurry. But I digress...

You have the United Negro College Fund. You have Martin Luther King Day.You have Black History Month.You have Cesar Chavez Day.You have Yom Hashoah.You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi.You have the NAACP.You have BET.
I don't know who the "you" is that this is addressed to, but if there's any one person who has all that going for them, they probably get a whole lot of days off from work and have the world's most interesting album of family photos.

If we had WET (White Entertainment Television) We'd be racists.
I think there is a WET channel...it's one of those you have to pay extra for and I don't think it has anything to do with White Pride (Bow chicka bow bow)

If we had a White Pride Day . You would call us racists. If we had White History Month . We'd be racists. If we had any organization for only whites to "advance" OUR Lives we'd be racists. There are organizations for the advancement of whites only. Lots of them. They're comprised of self-avowed rascists. Don't take my word for it, ask them. They'll tell you themselves. They're downright (dare I say it?) proud of that fact.

We have a Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, a Black Chamber of Commerce,and then we just have the plain Chamber of Commerce.Wonder who pays for that?
Ooh I know, I know! They do! Err, I mean, you do! We do? The author has changed subjects and now I'm really confused as to who's being addressed. At any rate, it's the dues paying members of a given chamber of commerce that pay for it.

If we had a college fund that only gave white students scholarships ... You know we'd be racists. There are over 60 openly proclaimed Black Colleges in the US, yet if there were "White colleges". THAT would be a racist college.
Whites are not prohibited from attending any of those schools. In fact, the Bethune Cookman College baseball team actually has more white players than black players. Besides, what would be the point of an all-white college? Their team colors (white) would be boring and they would suck at all sports except lacross and hockey.

In the Million Man March, you believed that you were marching for your race and rights. If we marched for our race and rights, you would call us racists
The author has changed subjects again, back to addressing the mysterious "you", but what confuses me even more is exactly what rights are we (honkies) being denied that we (white boys) think we (crackers) need to march for? I'm guessing a million of us (cavemen) don't think the right to call people names without facing some sort of consequences is march-worthy.

You are proud to be black, brown, yellow and orange, and you're not afraid to announce it. But when we announce our white pride. You call us racists.
That's probably because whenever anybody is giving a shout-out to White Pride, they seem to either be setting a cross on fire or giving the Sieg Heil salute. And where the hell did these orange people come from? Syracuse?

You rob us, carjack us, and shoot at us. But, when a white police officer shoots a black gang member or beats up a black drug-dealer running from the law and posing a threat to society you call him a racist.
That's a little oversimplified, don't you think? What does one have to do with the other anyway? These are just two inflammatory statements that have nothing to do with each other. It's like saying "A = B but C = D. Therefore, B > C." Or something. I suck at algebra.

I am proud. But, you call me a racist.
Congratulations! But again, proud of what? Circumstances of birth over which you have no control? Way to go, I guess. I know, the argument coming back is 'But they get to do it!'. That argument didn't hold water when you were 11 and your mom wouldn't let you watch R-rated movies. What makes you think it's valid now?
Anyway, so what? They're knuckleheads too, ok? Yay! Common ground at last! You're both knuckleheads. Now all of you go off and sew a knucklehead quilt for the big Knucklehead Pride rally and leave the rest of us, who are wrapped up in balancing our day-to-day lives and the inherent difficulties that come with that, alone already because we really don't think that your whining about not being allowed to call people niggers without there being consequences (which, let's be honest, is really what this is all about) qualifies as oppression.

Why is it that only whites can be racists?
Because you're a honkey, ok? Jesus!

There is nothing improper about this e-mail.
Cracker!

Let's see which of you are proud enough to send it on.
Let's wonder why the author didn't sign their name.

See, here's the thing the author doesn't understand or, more likely, refuses to acknowledge: Nobody who feels this way is being oppressed. Nobody who feels this way is going to be thrown in jail for expressing these views. Say whatever you want. Make a poster, set up a web site, put it in an email (anonymously, of course). Whatever. That's freedom of speech and you're entitled to it. But that doesn't mean that everybody has to agree with what you say. That's what's called "tough shit" and unless you went through your entire childhood always getting your way every single time you wanted something, you should already be familiar with the concept.
How freedom of speech works is you get to say whatever you want. Now, if someone disagrees, they get to retort and object. That's also freedom of speech. If you say something objectionable and someone punches you in the face, well then you have the right to press charges against them for assault. But then I have the right to say that I'm glad you got punched in the face and I hope the guy who did it gets off. See how great the system is?

So Happy 4th of July and enjoy your freedom!

Gotta love weekend TV

I was flipping channels Saturday and came across some interesting programming on Spike TV. Spike, formerly the Nashville Network, bills itself as "TV for men". Ok, I get it. TV for men, as in TV not for women. Spike. Ha ha!
I guess they couldn't call it Dick TV, although that would have kept them from being sued by Spike Lee. I'm also a little surprised that the phalus arrow in the logo points downward, but whatever. Sometimes a logo is just a logo, right? Anyway, in spite of being a man, I rarely watch the ol' Spike tv because it seems like most of the time when I go there, it's either re-runs of Star Trek or one of the CSIs (I don't know which one) or it's some ultimate fighting thing, none of which appeals to me in the least. However, when I was scanning the channels on Saturday the little preview box at the bottom of the screen said "EXPLOSIONS".

Wahooo!
Q: What's better than watching explosions on television?
A: Two things; 1) watching explosions in person and 2) nothing.

So I immediately stopped and watched. I had forgotten that the one other thing Spike shows is things like explosions, car chases and riots in 3rd world countries caught on video. On these shows, they always have a narrator throw in just enough trivia about the given topic so it can seem like there's actually some educational benefit to watching these things. But in reality, it's just wild stuff caught on tape and the value is in having it beamed into your living room where you can sit back with some popcorn and gawk at it without people thinking you're some kind of freak.
For instance, the Explosions show was followed by a show on train wrecks. Same format, different calamity. The train wreck show, narrated by John Bunnell, former sherriff of Multnomah County, Oregon and current narrator of any "World's Wildest Caught On Video" extravaganza that comes down the pike offered brilliant, bite-sized observations like "trains are big and fast" and "don't cross railroad tracks when trains are coming" between clip after clip of freight trains plowing into cars and trucks at high speeds, which helps the producers feel that they're performing some sort of public service.
Unfortunately, the explosions show was almost over so I only caught the last 20 minutes. But that was enough for me to learn two "facts" (as stated by the narrator); 1) "Explosions can't be prevented" 2) "Explosions can't be avoided". Really? In that case, I guess I would like to take this opportunity to thank every gas station I have ever been to in my life for doing a good job of preventing and avoiding the unpreventable and unavoidable...so far.

Some hypothetical questions about karma

Yeah, I was just wondering, um, hypothetically, if something bad happens to someone who you think sorta had it coming, even if you didn't actually wish that upon them, but you still feel kinda, I don't know, not happy per se, but maybe...validated?...will that generate bad karma? How about just making the observation that this hypothetical bad thing happening is itself an example of bad karma? Is that inviting bad karma? Or should someone maybe just not acknowledge karma at all and let these things work themselves out in the hope that karma doesn't notice you smirking in the corner and come over and kick your ass, hypothetically speaking? Because if bad karma happens to people who ask for it, then turning around and asking it for yourself in response isn't very smart, is it? On the other hand, if the karmic wheel spins as surely if you nudge it as it does when you shove it hard, I'm thinking I might as well grab it (hypothetically) with both hands and give it a big ol' Price Is Right Showcase Showdown twirl and at least get the fleeting satisfaction of pointing and laughing before paying for it with some hideous misfortune of my own. Because I'd really enjoy that since this particular hypothetical asshole I know definitely had it coming. Unless, you know, that's not a good idea, in which case I'll just say "Peace, Love, One with the universe", whistle a happy tune and walk away, minding my own business.

I got email from Paul Newman today

I, like you, like a lot of people, I suspect, get lots of email from people whose name is their email address. Why, just today I got emails from Durante Urban, Ignatz Heike, Brice Hart, Emmerson Solomon, Allen Roderick, Stewart Courteney, Salome Aisha and Robby Gregory. I have no idea who any of those people are. I know they're trying to sell me goods and services of a dubious, at best, nature because it says so in the subject line. Even if their intent wasn't spelled out there, I'd have no trouble deleting these emails because I simply don't know that many people. Even better, there are very few of the people I like well enough to read what they have to say in an email. But when I saw an email from Paul Newman, I got very excited. I don't know Mr. Newman but I'm certainly familiar with him. I'd go so far as to say I am a fan of his. I loved The Sting, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Verdict, Cool Hand Luke, The Hustler, Slapshot, The Hudsucker Proxy and Nobody's Fool. I despised Mr. and Mrs. Bridge, but that's ok because I love his brand of spaghetti sauces, particularly the Sockarooni. And I've always thought Paul Newman was vastly underrated on the cool scale, as opposed to Jack Nicholson who is vastly overrated in that area (in my opinion). So I was pretty eager to see what Paul Newman had to say to me. Maybe he was going to share his thoughts on his recent decision to retire from acting or maybe he'd just wanted to share an excellent video of a chimpanzee bathing a cat he'd found on YouTube.
As it turned out, I was really disappointed to see it was just some plea to get involved with the Democratic Party. I didn't read it all but it was all don't-just-sit-there-and-accept-the-status-quo this, demand-accountability-from-government that, yak yak, blah blah. Maybe it wasn't some useless, rip-off offer for free Six Flags passes, discount cigarettes or a new way to meet thousands of local women with pictures and phone numbers waiting to hear from me RIGHT NOW, but it was still just a sales pitch. What use have I for active participation in an accountable government in my never-ending quest to date thousands of thrifty, local, cigarette smoking female roller coaster enthusiasts? None! So I deleted it. It would have been nice if he'd put an e-coupon in there for some Sockarooni spaghetti sauce.

Why I don't work with kids

So I come home from the store tonight with $52.00 worth of groceries. I don't care how expensive food has gotten, you can still get a whole lot of very heavy stuff for $52.00. It's even heavier if you live on the second floor. I was tired after working all day plus I'm lazy, so when I saw one of the local urchins hanging out in the parking lot, I saw an opportunity.

ME: Hey, you wanna make $5?
KID: Doin' what?
ME: Carry these groceries up the stairs to that apartment.
KID: $5 a trip? It's gonna take me more than one trip.
ME: No, not $5 a trip. $5. I don't care how many trips.
KID: Man, you cheap.
ME: What are you talking about? It'll take you maybe five minutes. That comes out to $60 an hour. Crane operators don't make that.
KID: Hourly wages are for suckers. I'm gonna make salary.
ME: Not carrying my groceries, you aren't. Besides, if you were really smart you'd know that hourly is the way to go. Once you make salary, the company owns you and can work you as much as they want for the same money.
KID: Yeah, but you don't get medical and dental as no hourly employee.
ME: What does a 10-year-old juvenile delinquent like you know about medical and dental benefits?
KID: I'm 11 and I ain't no juvenile delinquent. Why don't you carry your own groceries and stop exploiting children?
ME: Is there a camera hidden somewhere nearby? Am I supposed to be charmed into coaching your Little League team or something?
KID: Man, what are you talking about?
ME: Never mind. So are you going to do this for $5 or what?
KID: I'll do it for a flat $10, no matter how many trips.
ME: $10, but you take my garbage back down wth you when you go...
KID: All right.
ME: ...including used kitty litter.
KID: No way. I ain't carrying no nasty kitty litter.
ME: Fine. No kitty litter.
KID: Deal.

I hate kids.

Not such a funny night after all

Last night, I went down to Sarasota to see Brian Regan doing stand-up at the Van Wezel. As I mentioned previously, I was looking forward to it because he's one of my favorite comedians, and having lived in Sarasota for ten years, it would be fun to see how the place had changed in the eight years since I'd moved away. Well, one out of two ain't bad, right?.
Wrong.
It was bad.
I left straight from work so I got down there early, giving me plenty of time for sightseeing. I came off the interstate on University Parkway and sensory overload set in almost immediately. Where there had been cow pastures there were now Super Target stores, apartment complexes and shopping centers. Heading south on Tamiami Trail was even more shocking with massive condominium towers where there had been motels and shopping centers where there had been vacant lots. I was blown away. I would have to say that there has been proportionately more growth in Sarasota in the last decade than there has been in Tampa. It was apparent the place had changed dramatically. But that didn't prepare me for what I saw next.
I turned off Tamiami Trail to Cocoanut Avenue, to drive by the first house I had lived in when I was married. Times were good back then between us. I wanted to see if it still looked the same, maybe see who was living there now...but it was gone. Torn down, and apparently some time ago because there's no trace of the house remaining. The only thing there is the driveway that had led to the garage. I wasn't sure exactly why at the time, but this literally hit me, and I mean hard. There's no other way to describe it; I felt just like I had been punched in the face. I pulled into the driveway, got out of the car and stood in the middle of the vacant lot and looked around. At nothing. But I knew this was the exact spot in the living room where we had a recliner. It sat next to the sofa there and faced the TV over against that wall. To the left there was the kitchen and back behind me was where the bathroom and bedrooms were. And I think that's when I figured out why this had such an effect on me; since the house itself no longer existed, there was no evidence aside from my own memories that it, and the life and the happy memories it had contained, had ever existed. I couldn't even drive by with friends now and show them where I had lived. There's nothing there. Grass now grows and dies and grows again next year where a house stood in which I had once shared my life with someone I loved. I suddenly felt very, very much alone.
I got back in the car and drove the two blocks to the Van Wezel and watched the show. Brian Regan was funny and I laughed aloud a few times but I was pretty much numb and empty just sitting there.
After the show, I drove around aimlessly for awhile, but my heart was definitely not in it. Further dragging me down was a text message I had received from R asking if I'd like to go to Pleasure Island Saturday night. By all means, a trip to Pleasure Island would be a perfect remedy to pull me out of a funk like this. So yes, more than just about anything in the world, I would love to go with you to Pleasure Island, R. Unfortunately, the reality is that I have to work Saturday night so I have no choice but to decline. R's very kind and thoughtful invitation had inadvertently darkened my mood even more and I started contemplating the pros (many) and cons (few) of driving my car into a phone pole at 70mph. But lacking a flair for the (overly) dramatic gesture, I just drove home to Tampa and went to bed, with serious intentions of staying there until I had to go to work Saturday night and then immediately getting back in bed and staying there until Monday morning.
That plan was working well until 11:00 this morning when my phone rang. It was my friend W, asking me to come over tonight after work because she's struggling with some personal problems of her own. I didn't know how much help I would be, having dedicated myself to being depressed and all and that this would seriously cut into my laying-around-and-being-pathetic time, but what the hell, I told her I would definitely stop by. After hanging up, I laid there and stared at the ceiling for a while and thought about everything, all at the same time. What eventually came of that was the realization that somebody who was hurting was seeking help from me. This provided some motivation to you know, be alive. So I got out of bed, pulled my head out of my ass and got ready for work.
I think the rest of the weekend will be better than Friday night.

It must be hard to be humble

I stopped at a gas station on the way home tonight and I was thirsty, so I went inside to grab something to drink. There I found a canned beverage comprised of half iced tea and half lemonade named after Arnold Palmer. I don't know a whole lot about Mr. Palmer...I mean aside from the obvious facts that everyone knows; that he was one of America's greatest astronauts, became president of the United States and invented the umbrella. But when it comes to personal info, well, I guess I'm just not up to par. Because I had no idea that he enjoyed this concoction so much that they named it after him. Just like how they name sandwiches after celebrities in New York delis. I can only imagine that's gotta be just a massive ego trip. The closest I've ever come to having a sandwich named after me is when they write my name on the bag when I call in for take-out. Of course, I can't complain. I've never done anything worthy of having any foodstuffs named after me. By which I mean I've never done anything. At all.


However, here in Tampa Bay, we're fortunate to have a resident who has several things named after him: Football Hall of Famer Lee Roy Selmon. At one time or another, Mr. Selmon has had a barbecue sauce, a chain of restaurants and a major expressway named in his honor. He's as famous for conducting himself with grace, class and dignity as he is for anything he accomplished during his storied athletic career. I don't know how he does it because I'm telling you right now, I couldn't do it without being downright insufferable. Why, if I were in Lee Roy Selmon's position...

• During commencement speech at Jefferson High School: "Congratulations, graduating class of 2007! This is a tremendous accomplishment in your young lives and deserves a celebration. Grab mom, dad, grandma and grampa and let's all go over to Me and have a big, family-style feast! My portions are generous and sharing is encouraged. Bring your diplomas...and your appetites!"


• Approaching a group of shoppers talking amongst themselves at Brandon Town Center Mall: "Say folks, were you just debating what the best, quickest way to get from here to Gandy Boulevard is? That's easy! Just hop on The Me and you'll be there in no time! There's a nominal fee, but I'm well worth it!"


• Climbing over someone's backyard fence in Carrollwood: "Mmm-mm, that smells really good! But you know what would take those ribs up to Hall of Fame-level delicious? Spread some Me Sauce on them! Go ahead, don't be stingy with my smooth, smokey goodness. And next time, marinate that meat in Me overnight for even more of a kick!"

Yeah, all things considered, I think the people in charge of naming stuff after people probably have it right.

(Cross posted at Sticks Of Fire)

Funny stuff this Friday

I'm going down to Sarasota this Friday night to see my favorite stand-up comedian, Brian Regan, live in concert. I've seen him live once before (last year at Lakeland), have his CD and try to catch him any time Comedy Central airs one of his specials. Even if you've seen his stuff before, it's still funny when you see him do it again. In fact, what's become a regular occurence at his shows is after he wraps up the night with his current material, audience members call out their favorite older bits and he runs through them. Regan refers to this as "comedy jukebox". Amazingly, he works 100% clean. No swear words, no routines that cause audience members to squirm. Not that there's anything wrong with that kind of comedy (my all-time favorite comedian is still Richard Pryor, the undisputed heavyweight champion of inducing squirms and spitting profanity everywhere), it's just that Regan can be funny without doing it so he doesn't do it.

Anyway, it should be a fun night. I lived in Sarasota for about ten years and haven't been back in a while so I'm looking forward to that part of the evening as well. If you're going to be in the area and you want to meet at Caragiulo's or Patrick's after the show, let me know and I will see you there.

Phone Phun

To most people, wrong numbers are an annoyance. To me, they're an opportunity. Here's a call that I took at work the other day:

AUTOMATED VOICE: This is Blah Blah Mortgage Bankers, Inc. if you'd like exciting new information about refinancing your mortgage, press one!

(Pressing one): Beep.

SANDRA: Hello, this is Sandra. Would you like information on refinancing your mortgage today?

ME (in a "foreign" accent that sort of sounds like a bastardized cross between Indian and Transylvanian): Oh yes, very much please.

SANDRA: Ok, great! And what is your name, sir?

ME: My name is Dioner Navarro

SANDRA: Ok then. Is this a single family home, Mr. Navarro?

ME: Doctor Navarro.

SANDRA: Oh, I'm sorry Dr. Navarro. Is this a single family home, sir?

ME: Well yes it is. However, there are currently several families living in it.

SANDRA: That's fine. How many bedrooms?

ME: Right now, all the rooms are bedrooms.

SANDRA: I see. How many rooms would you say are supposed to be designated as bedrooms?

ME: Hmmm. Probably three.

SANDRA: Great. And how many baths?

ME: For me, personally? I take shower.

SANDRA: No no, how many bathrooms. In the home.

ME: Ah! Ok. Two rooms for bathing. Plus one extra with only toilet and sink. Or two toilets if you need.

SANDRA: Great. And what did you pay for the home?

ME: $125,000

SANDRA: And how much is still owed?

ME: $124,000

SANDRA: You still owe $124,000 on a $125,000 purchase?

ME: I have only had for three weeks.

SANDRA: Oh ok, I see. Well, unfortunately you have to have owned the home for at least a year to be eligible for this offer.

ME: But I think I signed bad deal and want to make do-over, please?

SANDRA: We can talk again after you've owned the home for a year.

ME: All right then. I will call you?

SANDRA: No no, we will call you, Dr. Navarro.

ME: Okay. The number will be the same unless it changes.

SANDRA: Great. We'll talk to you again soon.

ME: I can hardly wait!

OCD? More like O So Fun!

I am afflicted, mildly, with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and a dash of paranoia. I'm not like Monk on television. I don't feel the need to wash my hands all the time. I sometimes go days, weeks even, without washing my hands (just kidding...shake on it?). Sometimes I actually wish I had it worse than I do. I think the socially crippling aspects of having the disorder would be counterbalanced by how orderly and efficient I would be. But for me, it seems to be kind of selective. I'm not OCD about everything, just certain button-pushing things. But, oh, when those buttons get pushed, look out! For example, here's how Saturday's trip to the grocery store went:

• IN THE PARKING LOT: After getting out of my car, I put my keys in my right front pants pocket.
• I then locked the car doors and felt my pocket to verify the keys were there.
• They were.
• I then looked at all four car doors to verify they were locked.
• I then took my keys out of my pocket, held them in my hand and looked at them before actually closing the locked door.
• I then looked at the keys again before putting them in my pocket and going inside.
• INSIDE THE STORE: Nothing happened.
• BACK IN THE PARKING LOT: I loaded my groceries in the trunk and underwent the above ritual with the keys before closing it.
• I noticed a plastic ringed six-pack holder that someone had thrown on the ground.
• I picked it up and put in my pocket and took it home with me to cut all the rings so there would be no loops.
• Why? Because I have been told that these six-pack holders often find their way into waterways where birds, turtles and other animals get tangled up in them, strangle themselves and die.
• Could I have just taken the stupid thing and just put it in the trash? Of course I could have. But here's where the paranoia kicks in. What guarantee is there that whatever trash I drop it into actually gets disposed of properly? Maybe it snags on something when they're emptying it; maybe somebody going through the trash looking for items they can use to steal someone's (my) identity tosses it back on the ground. At any rate, the odds of me being there when (not if) that happens to do something about it are pretty slim...so I must destroy it so it's relatively harmless when (not if) it ends up in the Gulf of Mexico.
• I do so, and then throw it away in my garbage, which I always make sure to double-knot (again, there are no guarantees, but this feels good enough).

Now, do you think cutting that thing up and thereby possibly saving some poor animal from an untimely death made me feel superior to the careless slobs who threw it on the ground without thought to the ramifications of their actions? Nope. This just allowed me to not hate myself as much because I would be able to go to sleep later knowing I had not done anything that day to directly cause the inadvertent and unnecessary deaths of any sea creatures. See, the fact that it was litter in the first place wouldn't have caused any problems; me leaving it laying there would have. Got it?

Hmmm...

If you've seen any baseball today and noticed all the blue (ribbons, wristbands, umpire shirts, etc.) and wondered what was going on, it's a Father's Day campaign to increase awareness about prostate cancer. It's a very worthwhile cause and I applaud Major League Baseball for getting involved and promoting it as heavily as they do. So I almost feel bad pointing out that I have a slight problem with a certain aspect of it. That being the 'Home Run Challenge', a pledge drive where fans will be able to make monetary donations at www.prostatecancerfoundation.org for each home run hit during 60 select MLB games ranging from June 6 through June 17, including all games played on Father's Day. The 'Home Run Challenge' has raised more than $27 million since it's inception and that's fantastic. But there's something about it that just doesn't sit well with me. I think it's because it's like attaching a certain amount of random chance, if not outright gambling to what should be a pure fundraising effort. Maybe I'm making something out of nothing but think about it:

• What do you tell the struggling pitcher who's trying to hang on to his spot on the rotation if he happens to draw the starting assignment for one of these designated games? "Hey kid, you've been giving up a lot of homers lately and we just can't have that. Of course, if it happens today, you'll be helping the ongoing effort to treat and eventually find a cure for prostate cancer. But that won't stop me from sending your ass back to Durham tomorrow morning. Well, good luck out there today!"
• How does a manager with any kind of social conscience whatsoever call for a sac bunt to move a runner into scoring position late in a tied game? You know how much is donated for sac bunts? Zippo. Does the socially conscientious batter ignore the sign and swing for the fences? Does the manager then dare to fine the conscientous slugger when he grounds into a rally snuffing double play because he's Ben Zobrist and has no business trying to hit heroic home runs under any circumstances, life-saving or otherwise?
• How is Gary Matthews Jr. supposed to feel after he robs somebody by making one of his spectacular leaping catches at the wall? I guess it's great for the Anaheim Angels; too bad for prostate cancer research. "Daddy, why does Gary Matthews Jr. want you to die?"

Actually, I have less of a problem with the 'Home Run Challenge' than I do with some other fundraising efforts because it's fundamentally about ordinary joe fans pledging what money they can from their own pockets. What really bothers me are certain corporate initiatives, things like Yoplait Yogurt's 'Save Lids to Save Lives' program, which benefits efforts to cure breast cancer. Again, an inarguably worthy cause to be sure and any company that gets involved deserves kudos. But the way this one works is you buy Yoplait brand yogurt with pink foil lids, you save those lids (you'll want to clean them) and then send them back to the people at Yoplait. For every lid they receive back, they donate 10 cents to the Susan G. Komen Foundation, a minimum of $500,000 and "up to" $1.5 million. That's a lot of money and it's fantastic that a company is willing to do that. But if you're willing to donate "up to" a million and a half bucks...well, how about just doing it? Why tie it to the ability of consumers to store little pieces of pink tinfoil and then eventually mail them back to you? You already have the lids there; if you really want them that bad, just keep them and write a check. I promise, we'll still buy your delicious yogurt. It's delicious! I mean, is there really somebody there at the Yoplait home office with a balance sheet keeping a count on the lids that come in? And if so, would that person really nickel and (literally) dime the Susan G. Komen Foundation?

Yoplait: "We collected 14,876,238 lids and so you may expect a donation from us in the amount of exactly $1,487623.80 and not a penny more."

Susan G Komen Foundation: "Hey, that is really great and we sincerely appreciate it, as always. Of course (heh-heh), you know we could find a pretty good use for another $12 thousand if you still..."

Yoplait: "Not a penny more!!"

Geez, I would certainly hope not.

LIES LIES LIES

I just saw a TV commercial that featured some pick-up truck...excuse, me Sport Utility Vehicle...whatever...driving up the sides of buildings, leaping across rooftops and basically flying all over the place. Sometimes upside down. Beneath all these obviously computer generated special effects images in very small print was the word "FICTIONALIZATION".

That's it? That's all you have to do to cover your ass when you put something out there that's obviously impossible and completely untrue? You have to be kidding me! I don't think that's even a real word. I've never heard that word used before. I'll bet when I go to post this, spellcheck is going to flag it. Yet, somebody's lawyers determined that this is valid legal protection in the event that some idiot buys one of these things and gets upset (and/or killed) when it doesn't navigate a 90 degree turn straight up and drive up a wall? Well, that's awesome if that's the case, because this opens up all kinds of opportunities for me. I'm going to make up my own words, have them printed up in a tiny typeface on business cards and hold them up below my chin whenever I tell lies.

• "I'm not coming in today. I have the flu real bad" - BULLSHITTERY
• "You must have received my payment. I mailed the check over a week ago." - FALSITIVITY
• "Of course I went to college." - DECEPTICONJUNCTIVITIS
• "I attend church services regularly" - TRUTHESQUE
• "Wow, you look great!" - MADEUPALUFAGUS

Billy is very angry with me right now

Billy, my office mate (previously discussed here and here and here and here) is pretty upset with something I did today. Here's what happened: Billy likes Staci (who also works with us) but Staci already has a boyfriend (who also works with us). The three of us had a discussion about The Intern and his girlfriend. Before we go further, I should point out that I don't care much for The Intern and so I speak and refer to it like an inanimate object (ie: "It puts the paperwork in the folder in the correct order. It does this with a minimum of talking. When it's done, it may go fetch itself some lunch.") Anyway, apparently The Intern's girlfriend is quite attractive. Disproportionately so, in two out of three people's opinion (the third person...me...has never seen her but I have no reason to challenge their assessment). This, according to Billy, is a condition that is prevalent in our office: unattractive males undeservedly involved with attractive females. Seeing an opportunity to make Billy angry, the kind of opportunity that only comes along a couple of times a day, I seized it. "Like who, Billy? Could you please cite some examples?" Billy named a couple that we all knew. I said, "who else?" and he named another couple that we knew. "Uh-huh, and who else?" and he mentioned a couple of names that neither Staci and I had heard of (I think he made them up). "This is fun. More! More!" Billy looked at his computer screen and said, "I have to go" and bolted out of the office.
Later, after Staci left he came back and said it was the worst thing I had ever done to him and he punched me, hard, in the arm twice (remember, I have sunburn).
Yes, this is how I get my kicks. Thanks for asking.

Seriously, who cares?

I was off for three days during last week and didn't find out about all the Paris Hilton nonsense until K & R told me about it on our way to Orlando Friday evening. I don't know if I didn't have the television on or if I just instinctively changed channels as soon as she was mentioned because that's how much she annoys me. Intensely. For one thing, I don't find her remotely attractive in any way, shape or form. For another, I have no use for people who are famous for being famous. I know, she annoys lots of people for the same reasons. I'm not covering any new ground here. At any rate, I didn't hear a word about it, in spite of it apparently being everywhere. I'm caught up now, though. And still just as disinterested. All I know is that for all of the problems we have in Florida, I'm awfully glad I don't live, and pay taxes, in California. What a joke their judicial system is. First you had O.J., then Robert Blake. Then came the Michael Jackson circus. And now this. With all the resources, dollars and manpower, being thrown at chasing celebrities around, you'd think all other crimes like burglary, rape, etc. had been eliminated. Somehow, I don't think that's the case. I'm not saying celebrities are above the law and shouldn't be prosecuted when they screw up. Far from it, in fact. But it seems like they ought to be able to get it right once in a while, don't you think? And if not, then maybe they should give it up and devote their efforts to something worthwhile. Because, I'm sorry, but even with O.J. and Robert Blake on the loose, parents lining up to put their kids in Michael Jackson's hands and Paris Hilton driving drunk, terrible, stupid, selfish and senseless people all, I'm still more afraid of the lowlife predators out there intent on doing harm to as many people as possible.

It's not often that we in Florida get to point and laugh, but you people in California? Man, y'all are screwed up.

Burnt!

Yowza, I am in pain today. Actually, I've been in pain since Saturday afternoon. You see, I just got back (Sunday) from a mini-vacation, a small portion of which was spent outdoors at a pool...where I got sunburned.
This is completely unacceptable for a variety of reasons:
A) I live in Florida and should know better. True. I've lived in Florida for over 20 years now.
B) I live on planet Earth and should know better. It's not like Florida is the only place you can get a sunburn. I've gotten sunburns in Michigan, Illinois, Kentucky and Frankfurt, Germany and they all hurt about the same.
C.) It's not fair, I don't deserve this. Also true. Nobody I was with got burnt. "Well, I'm a little red right around this one inch area near my shoulder, see, where I slide the strap over a little...". No. That doesn't count. If you don't feel like every raw nerve ending in your body is poking through your skin like hairs, you are not burnt like I am burnt.

Here's the thing; I do know better and took numerous precautions to prevent this from happening. Ok, I did forget that the sun is close enough to where I live during the summer time to be eligible for an 813 area code, but I honestly wasn't out that long. When I was, I applied liberal amounts of waterproof SPF35 sun block all over and had a shirt on the whole time I was out of the pool. Plus, I'm not fair skinned. I mean, I'm white but I'm not like some people whose skin hue is about the same as a fluorescent tube. You wouldn't think I'd be the kind of person who's overly susceptible to getting burnt. I guess this is just another one of those things.
So what happens when you're suffering from sunburn, and what I'm going through right now, is your skin gets really, really tight. Drawn over your body like the head of a snare drum tight. It hurts to move, so you try not to. You spend long periods of time in one position. This inactivity causes your muscles to tighten up. The result being when you do have to move, and unless you're one of those lucky bastards in a coma, you will eventually have to move, your entire body aches, skin and muscles working together to painfully remind you what a dumbass you are.
The beauty, and by beauty I mean ironic agony, is there's nothing you can do about it other than wait it out and let it heal. I've gone through almost half a large bottle of aloe lotion, but that's momentary relief at best. I'm going to start keeping mine in the fridge. You can also take cool showers. However, standard toweling off is not recommended. Your options are strategic dabbing or air drying. Then there's the whole issue of avoiding touching someone or being touched by someone, which is almost impossible unless you live by yourself out in the desert or some tropical jungle...places that don't have aloe lotion.

Why is this here?

The picture featured here is a bus stop I noticed today. It's on westbound Hillsborough Avenue near Benjamin Road. I have a feeling this might be the worst bus stop in Hillsborough County. For starters, well, look at it. There's no shelter or shade whatsoever and the bench itself is sitting at a crazy, cockeyed angle in a weed-choked culvert. This ergonomic nightmare would pose a triple threat of severe sunburn, excruciating backache and snake bites if not for the fact that it's position right at the end of Tampa International's busiest runway (the one that planes approach from the north) guarantees that anybody sitting there for more than five minutes will be sucked into a jet engine like a star-crossed Canadian goose. If you're wondering why you never hear about this happening is probably because no human being has ever actually used this bus stop. The only things remotely close by are the Pin Chasers Bowling Alley about 200 yards to the east and the Beaumont Business Center about half a mile to the west, both of which have bus stops in front of them. I'm sure the company who bought advertising on the bench is thrilled by the exposure this gets them. Of course, I guess they don't have to worry about anybody ever sitting on their ad and obscuring it.

(Cross posted at Sticks Of Fire)

The Rays, they are a-changin'...again.

Well, it looks like it's pretty close to official: in another step towards remaking the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, team management has received permission from Major League Baseball to change team colors to blue and gold and change the team's name officially to Rays next year. This bothers me for a couple of reasons. For starters, I used to work for the Rays in a couple of different capacities, including writing a feature column that ran on their web site, and enjoyed doing so. So I feel a twinge of nostalgic sadness whenever they change anything now (although, strangely, I didn't feel all that nostalgically sad when they removed my old columns, especially the one I wrote where I heralded the arrival of Joe Kennedy as something akin to the second coming of Sandy Koufax. Ouch). Plus, I'm a traditionalist and I don't believe teams should ever change their colors and this will be the second such change in the team's 11 year history. Although, the first time was less a change than a narrowing down, since the original colors were basically three quarters of the entire rainbow.
And you certainly don't change your name. Everybody already calls them the Rays anyway.

I really hope they're just making it official for convenience sake and not as some concession to the occasionally vocal people who find the word "devil" offensive because that would just be silly. After all, the collective "we" (Tampa Bay fans) have been griping about the name since the day it was announced and not because of anything offensive: there would have been griping if the team had been called the Tampa Bay Best Baseball Team Name Evers (which would have been Dodgers, by the way, if it weren't already taken). We're fans. Griping is what we do! We like it and we're not going to stop so don't listen to us when it comes to stuff like this!

I'm also sad because I like the Rays (Devil or otherwise) uniforms the way they are. The Rays jerseys feature the nickname on the front of the home jersey and the city (ok, in our case, region or general vicinity) on the visitors jersey, like a good baseball uniform should. Just like the Giants, Cubs, Dodgers, Pirates and both sets of Sox among others. Of course, there's more to it than that. The Toronto Blue Jays meet that criteria and still have the worst uniforms in baseball. Their logo looks like it belongs to a brand of menthol cigarettes from the 70's (Smoke Jays; They're smooth and refreshing!).

And back to colors, there are currently only two teams that wear green, us and Oakland. Meanwhile there are 17 teams that prominently feature some shade of blue in their uniforms. How boring. Between changing the name and altering their appearance to blend in with others, it's like the Rays are entering baseball's witness relocation program.

I say forget all that. If there have to be changes, keep doing what you're doing to the Trop (the fact that it's clean now illustrates how filthy it used to be). If you want something blue, maybe paint the turf. I mean, it's a domed ballpark. We know it's not real grass. Who says it has to be green? Oh yeah. And get us some relief pitchers. Any color you want, as long as they can hold a five run lead for one inning. Thanks.