Postpartum Humbug

And so begins the week of dread. The last seven days of the year. The last week of the year is one that I really hate. Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. I think I dislike it mightily. When I was a kid, this week signaled the end of the Christmas season. The wrapping paper is gone, the Christmas songs stored away until next year and only one more party to attend. New Year's is just a formality, just like the fourth quarter of a Super Bowl blowout. You know how it's going to end. I'd be sad that the smiling faces and holiday cheer would drain away and be gone by the time the ball dropped on Times Square.
And I was usually right.
I miss the days when Christmas was more innocent. When there was still a Santa and reindeer and elves cramming that last Light Bright into his bag.
I miss the days when there was still magic.
This year was just empty of that spirit. I had no taste for holiday parties or Christmas cheer. I was certainly not into shopping either. I knew what my kids wanted for Christmas and that was all I was really interested in getting. Nothing else. I didn't want to waste ten or twelve hours shopping for people that wouldn't really care if I got them a gift (I wanted to get a couple of them a lump of coal this year but what with the price of heating fuels going up this winter I couldn't afford it...)
This year I think I may have quite possibly had my most lackluster Christmas ever.
The shine was gone.
I'm not complaining about gifts or anything. Just the overall spirit of the season.
It wasn't there.
It was missing.
I wonder if the media blitz concerning the controversy of Christmas and Nativity scenes and holiday hoopla and sales figures and the deluge of sales and specials and toys, toys, toys and oh the noise, noise!!!
I wonder if any of that had something to do with how I feel?
My heart is down a size and a half.
(And this time, I'll keep it off!)
This week was always the letdown after Christmas. New Year's is right up the block and quickly approaching and then (at least as kid growing in Brooklyn) winter's icy grip and nothing to break the dreary gray skies until spring. Back then the Yankees sucked bigtime so I didn't really look forward to baseball season like I have the last ten years or so.
Remember Mike Pagliarulo?
They would play this really cool italian tune whenever he came up to bat.
He used to play third base for the Yanks. He always had that cool black schmutz under his eyes and this cat like crouch waiting for the hot shot down the line, ready to spear it and loop the ball over to Mattingly in that crazy softball side arm toss that would have had my coach screaming at me for throwing like that.
"But coach, Pags does it and he plays for the Yankees!"
""Well, when you are playing for the Yankees you can do it too."
Ok. My random childhood baseball reverie is over now.
But spring is still along ways off. The air is still cool, though admittedly the Florida is much milder during the winter than Brooklyn but the feeling is still the same. Another year in my life has passed and I wonder how much of it I have wasted.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not going through some mid life crisis thing.
At least I dont think so.
I haven't bought a sports car yet so I think I'm still ok.
(But I was thinking about getting one...)
I wonder where the energy of my youth has gone and why I don't feel a need to push boundaries, to explore my life. I'm soft in the middle these days but I am in fairly decent shape. I just might have a lot of life left to live. So where is the passion.
So what is my mission?
Don't panic.
I am not going to make one of those rediculous New Year's resolutions. Why do people bother making those? They pretend that they have a new lease on life when in actuality, most of them are starting yet another year in the routine.
Hmm. Is that it? Am I Mister Grumpypants because I am starting another year in the routine?
I dont want to make some asinine prediction of all the things I want to do this year like lose weight, buy a new car, pay off that credit card / student loan / gambling debt (insert your particular debt here).
You know what I want?
Something extraordinary.
I want to take deep breaths and enjoy the fact that they are there to be taken. I want to wake up in the morning glad that I have done so. I want to live and feel like I am alive instead of merely existing from day to day.
How's that for a Grandiose New Year's resolution?
I want to live.
I want the passion of the life.
Is that so wrong?
Have you ever been so excited about something that you can actually hear your heartbeat in your ears? That you can feel the blood coursing through your veins. You can feel the expanse of your lungs as you breathe in deeply. Colors are brighter and the feel of the air on your skin is electric.
That is life.
That is living.
That's what I want this year.
Life.
Maybe I will start to exercise. Perhaps I will get serious about my writing instead of treating it like a hobby. Maybe, just maybe, I'll start shooting that short film I keep telling myself I need to get done. Maybe I will finally join the Mile High Club.
Maybe.
But I think that if I can wake up and feel like smiling it would be a great start.
So here's hoping that your new year is infinitely better than the last. Here's hoping that you wake up glad to be alive. Here's hoping that you savor the breath you have been given and the sunrise saved for you. Here's hoping that you have passion in your life. Here is hoping that in the next year you have a life well lived.
Make sure we meet again next year and see how it goes.

Objective Compulsive

Objectivity in the Media?
I suppose you believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy and well I could go on forever...
Yeah.
No such thing.
Jim Caple is a moderately talented writer that sometimes amuses me much the same way that Senator Ted Kennedy does when he shows up to the Senate floor turnip faced, looking very constipated and drunk as a skunk bleating about how much he hates the President.
But at least he doesn't try to hide his jealousy with false neutrality.
And yes. He is jealous of old Dubya. Why you ask? Oh man, its so easy once you think about it. The honorable Senator Kennedy is jealous because in his estimation, how in the blue hell could a "simple minded" village idiot possibly become the most powerful person on the face of the earth!?!
Not once, but twice!
And to make matters worse, ol' Teddy bear couldn't even get his own party to support him.
But I digress.
We are here to discuss one Jim Caple.
The Michale Moore of ESPN.
"Of course it a documentary! I am very objective."
"No. You are not objective."
"Yes I am. By the way, did you see the video of Derek Jeter sacrificing babies to Baal while while peeing in the corn flakes of orphans on Christmas day? I told you he was the antichrist."
"Yeah, but that wasn't Jeter... that looked like Ben Affleck..."
"DAMN YOU! It was Jeter!"
Jimmy baby, stop lying.
Do not deny it.
We don't believe you.
Little Jimmy wants you to believe that he is an upstanding servant of the truth. A journalist of the highest order.
A reporter of impeccable integrity.
You are soooo not.
And to make matters worse he is not as good as Bill Simmons.
But he doesn't patronize the crowd by trying to hide the fact that he hates the Yankees. (Ok... that was a pardoy of some thing that Little Jimmy would right but when I first saw it I though, holy crap! He finally came clean!)
Little Jimmy has envy issues me thinks. (And so does ESPN... check out the side bar half way down the page)
Oh yes.
It's sad and more than a little disturbing.
He dreams about not just beating the Yankees, but of raising the dead and having Yastremski pooping out a "Diamond enctrusted cure for cancer".
Ok. That's just disturbing.
You know, New Yorkers are arrogant and a little high and mighty when it comes to feeling superior in the world of baseball. The Bronx Bombers have perhaps spoiled us.
I am perfectly capable of admitting that.
And yes, I was crushed by the Yankees folding like a paper bag in the 2004 playoffs. What true Yankee fan wasn't devestated by the loss? But we are ok. We know that it isn't over. We are going to eventually win another championship.
We don't hate Boston fans per say.
Really.
I don't even feel sorry for them anymore. They have the '04 Sox and the Patriots to keep them all warm and fuzzy.
To be perfectly honest, most Yankee fans don't waste their time thinking about The Sox or Sox fans.
We won't, for instance, start chanting "Red Sox sucks" at ANY World Championship Celebratory rally.
What? Why?
Go back to the footage of the Patriot first Super Bowl victory ticker tape parade. You will hear the crowd chanting "Yankees Suck!"
Sad but true.
And so we are left with little Jimmy.
He is entitled to be venomous in his hatred of the Yankees and call us the evil empire...
Yada, yada, yada.
Just dont tell me you are an objective journalist. Thats like Fox News saying they are not right leaning or CNN, NBC, CBS or pretty much everyone else saying they are not left leaning.
We know better.
Just let it go man. Hatred that bad shrinks your nads. It makes you miss out on the cooler things in life. And we both know you have the hots for A-Rod. Why else are you so fixated on him? You know, there are a lot of Boston Fans that have the hots for him. I get that whole Brokeback Mountain vibe whenever I hear a Boston Fan grumble about Gay Rod or whatever clever new iron on tee shirt they are sporting these days.
My personal favorite was the Jeter gave ARod AIDS tee shirt. Nothing like making fun of the medical scourge of the last 25 years to show how much you hate another sports team.
Right on.
Anyway, I was going to write a blog on my theory about the Red Sox, White Sox and the Cubs and the coming apocalypse but after reading yet another virulent, whiny, pathetic and downright sad diatribes railing against the Evil Empire and Darth Steinbrenner I have decided that I might just be stooping to Caple's level.
Here is a box of Kleenex.
Get over it.
And write something new for a change.
It's ok...
Change is good.

Law and Disorder: Barbiecide

I confess.
So what? You wanna fight about it?
That's right, I'm 'fessing up brotherman. Cancel the APB, recall the fighters, take us to DefCon 5 and for god's sake Dithers, call off the bloody hounds.
Excellent.
I admit it. I used to torture dolls. Well, torture as it is defined by the New York Times. Strip off their clothes and tie a rope around them while taking pictures, hanging them from bannisters and fire escapes, snatched from the warm embrace of my cousin and her friends.
Don't get your panties in a wad.
Nothing sick.
We'd toss them up into the air and sometimes pretend they were darts. Oh and sometimes we pulled the heads off of them and reattached them like that mad scientist guy in the Reanimator. We'd switch their heads and bend their legs backwards, enjoying the visceral little clicking of their tiny plastic joints ,pretending that bones and ligaments were beign torn asunder!!!
MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ok. I grant you, that is a little twisted but better Barbie than G.I. Joe. We needed to make sure that our combat vets would return from battling COBRA and the evil Clay Swamp Thing Monster.
Hey, just imagine two pounds of pissed off, totally evil, all purpose modeling clay thats been mutated by toxic radiation from that pit of man made environmental disaster zone known as Elizabeth, New Jersey bearing down on a G.I. Joe with a broken skystriker and down to his last Hawk Missle and one clip on his infantry rifle.
Yeah, now you see why Barbie had to be sacrificed.
Thanks to lessons learned battling the demons spawned from the fertile imagination of a young boy locked in his room on rainy Saturday afternoons, I pioneered several research and development projects that led directly to life saving surgery techniques that greatly enhanced the service life of a three inch Snake Eyes Action Figure.
Yes. I said Action Figure. Not Doll.
Action Figure.
Get it right.
If we had to sacrifice a few dainty Barbie dolls for the common good, well, that's just the price of fun.
And you know what? I would gladly pay it all over again.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all flaming matches, snapped joints, bad haircuts, decapitations and dismemberment. Those lovely mythical and entirely inappropriately dimensioned ladies were vital to our fledgeling Paratrooper testing program. They volunteered to test out parachutes and we dutifully tossed their cute little asses off the roof. They usually survived.
Usually.
Mean? Yes.
Sadistic? Probably.
Am I remorseful?
HA!
I would like to tell you that as I look back on those days that I am filled with remorse and heavy hearted sorrow, but I could never do that.
Not with a straight face anyway.
Look. It's what boys do to dolls. At least, it's what we did. There were a few exceptions to the rule. I knew some guys that like to play dress up with the dollies.
Of course, they are performing twice weekly in the all Diva review in the East Village but I'm sure that it had nothing to do with the fact that they played with dolls in the manner perscribed on the packaging.
Not that there is anything wrong with that.
But I couldn't even say that with a straight face let alone feel badly about it. The Green Army men have suffered far worse indignities as a general rule.
Many a Green Army man has fallen prey to Firecrackers, magnifying glasses and prolonged exothermic mutogenic modification therapy.
What?
What do you mean that doesn't make sense?
Sheesh, we melted them with lighters ok?
You know what the really interesting thing is? I found out that girls were harder on their dolls than we were. I read an article that reviewed some findings by the University of Bath.
Hmm, bath.
That was something I NEVER did with a Barbie doll - though I will admit that I found the idea oddly exciting. Oh like you never thought of bathing with women before...
That's basically all I have for today. Spanking Barbies is ok.
Well, now you know.
And knowing is half the battle.

Sneak Peek

Ok. This is proof positive that I am actually working on the new iD10-T site. I have had some of these sketches out for months but never got around to actually using creating. I started to sketch new strips last night during Family Guy and American Dad.
Hmm... Maybe one day I will make an iD10-T musical.
Or not.
Ok, ok. How about one show tune parody?
We'll just shelve that thought for the time being. In other news (at least news to me...) Christmas shopping bites. We spent a good four hours yesterday afternoon in a lovely gray drizzle and guess what we bought!
Go ahead, guess!
Give up?
Ok... (this is so exciting!)
We got....
Nothing.
Bubkis.
Zip.
Zilch.
Nada.
Nothing. We walked around for four hours and the only thing we got was wet. Cool huh? I thought so. I think what I am going to do is get some gift cards and call it a holiday. I really wanted to get some toys for the kids but I get confused easily and I really end up buying toys that I want to play with.
Which explains how my daughters ended up with the G.I. Joes and Hot Wheels.
Yeah.
I probably should have gone with the Barbies...

Alice!?! Who the *$%@ is Alice!?!

Behold the beauty that is the company Christmas, um, er Holiday (sorry, I forget the whole PC thing on occasion- God forbid we say Christmas at a politically unfortunate moment…)anyway, I love the year end bash of drunken debauchery that is the company Christmas party. Where else can rich and poor, mailroom clerk and executive, manager and employee, Yankee fan and Red Sox Fan alike get completely hammered and end up dancing cheek to cheek while the house band plays “Lady in Red” screaming over the din “You know….I love you man…”
“I love you too”
Happy happy, joy, joy.
You know, upon reflection, the house band was pretty good, right up until they played the electric slide.
You can feel it!
It’s electric! Boogie woogie, woogie, woogie.
I don’t know why they would dig that old corpse of a song up, except of course to help the sobriety challenged individuals do something other than flop all over the floor while various cameras are snapping photos of the festivities for posterity (and for possible blackmail)
“Well sir, I think I am worth another twenty five thousand a year and I have the pictures to prove it!”
“Well, um, Johnson. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my decision. I’m sure we can come to an understanding. You’re sure that these are the only copies?”
What I really wanted to know was who started the conga line and why was there more than one? Isn’t there some European Union Committee that set the rules down for what constitutes a, a conga line and b, how many conga lines are allowed to run concurrently?
No?
There ought to be.
As the company sponsored event started to wind down, those who were not yet done with the glorious yuletide celebration, decided that a trip to a local pub was in order. The recruitment process was begun in earnest.
“Are you going?”
“I guess so. Are you going?”
“Guess so. Are you going?”
“I guess so. Are you going?”
“Probably. Are you going?”
Once it’s been decided that everyone is going and that the bar, thank gawd, is still open and serving liquor, the train to partyville loads up and pull out of the station.
With Panache.
“Hell yeah I’m going! And we’re going to Conga all the way there and the line starts here! WOO HOO!”
“Yeah, we’re following him!”
“I’m not following him! We’ll end up in the pond.”
“You pansy! Into the lagoon! All you beyotchez…..”
Well. Now that all the non-hackers, lightweights and teetotalers washed out, the real fun began. Apparently, normal sized drinks are not enough to contain the holiday spirit. For good times this big you need something with a little more, uh, umph.
Enter the Hurricane.
Now Hurricanes are really, really good drinks, for those of you consenting adults that are so inclined. But we managed to get our hands on the mother of them all. What would you get if you mixed the following items in industrial quantities:

(Kids, don't try this at home...)
Vodka
Grenadine
Light Rum
Bacardi 151 (because just one type of Rum isn’t enough!)
Amaretto
Triple Sec
Grapefruit Juice (for the calorie conscious)
Orange Juice

Sounds like a ton of fun huh? Well, when imbibed in human portions, the Hurricane is a brilliant smorgasbord of flavor and a really charming drink to enjoy, great for preschool parties, funerals and small church functions.
You should try it.
On the other hand, if you think that bathing in several different varieties of top shelf liquor is a more efficient - and just plain fun - method of delivering the sweet bliss of intoxication (and if you are not especially concerned with actually surviving the evening), if you have ever wanted to get brain freeze and insanely buzzed with a single mouthful of cool drink, if you ever wanted to sing along with dueling, yes I said dueling, pianos and scream out at the top of your lungs, singing off key to many ancient and revered bar songs like the Piano Man and Alice (Alice!?! Who the f@#$ is Alice!?!), if you ever wanted to feel like a Smurf, Snork, Little or Hobbit in a bar and don’t have any glasses that fit to the three apples high scale, and you really, really, really want a hangover so bad that you need FEMA (god help you) to come in and airlift you to the closest hospital while pushing IV fluids STAT!, go the other route and well, experience the natural disaster served up in a nice tall (and I do mean tall) glass.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Super Hurricane.
You know what the strangest thing about the whole evening was?
Everyone got home ok.
Crazy huh?
Merry, happy Ramahanukwanzmas.

For the record, (and to give you a sense of scale)the guy holding the Super Cane is over 6'2" and damn close to 300 lbs. He's a big boy and that drink he's holding there? It's a big drink.

Delusions Of Grandeur

I want to be Seth McFarland when I grow up. Yeah, I know, I'm probably older than he is but he is doing exactly what I want to do. What I will get to do one day, if all goes according to plan.
Mwuhahahahahaha!
Imagine, create your own cartoon show, be really creative and funny and -this is the best art - you get to do almost all of the voices!
How cool would that be?
I am a huge fan of the show and I managed to find a few sites that have audio clips from the show. I have spent the last few hours laughing my ass off... I know, I need to use my time more constructively. Ok, ok.


Yours Truly, the newest cast member. I look excited huh?
I am working on new material for iD10-T's return in January, including a new site design, new characters and some desktop's. The story will pick up right where I left off with Yaz meeting the girl of his dreams. I am goign to "join the cast" too. Well, a character that may or may not (depending on who you ask) looks somthing like me. See, I finally colored in my character from "Artist's Block". Yeah. I've heard about the scrub of dirt on my chin. It's not dirt.
It facial hair! Gasp!
I really wish I could grow a full beard.
I just can't. I don't know why.
I wonder if splashing some Viagra on my chin would help? Wait. Viagra is the wrong med. Whew! Imagine what that would do! I could have ended up like Jay Leno.
I meant Rogain. Like that time on the Simpson's when Bart used up all of Homer's Rogain. That was classic.
Ok. I am going to eat.

Diets are for sissies...

I received this in the email this morning and I thought I would share. I added some commentary where appropriate, tossing in a few traditional elements from Puerto Rico where applicable Believe me, if there is a party or some sort of festivities involved (if we happen to not have a tradition or custom associated with it, we'll invent one on the spot!) we are so going to be there. I read a survey once that Puerto Ricans were the party animals of the world. Apparently there are something like five hundred and thirty festivals, carnivals, parties and or other excuses to party on during the calendar year.
Do the math.
Three hundred and sixty-five days per year.
Five hundred and thirty plus parties planned.
That’s a lot of partying..
Let me go one step further...
Most of these go on for more than a single day.
So that’s 1.46 festivals, carnivals, parties and or other excuses to party on during the calendar year STARTED every single day.
Oh and before you go all "man those Puerto Ricans are crazy" on me, just realize that we don't party alone. Last time I checked, tourism was still #1 on the island.
So it's not just us.
I'm not saying its a bad thing. What else are you supposed to do in a tropical paradise?
Anyway, here are the chain mail (sans the chain) eating tips for the 2005 holiday season:

The Official Uberuser 2005 Holiday Eating Tips

1. Avoid carrot sticks.(Avoid all vegetables for that matter) Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls. The only exception to this rule is if the offending carrot has been carved into some whimsical animal or plant form. In that case, you are not really expected to eat it, you are supposed to just smile and say something like "Wow, isn't that just darling?" Well... you would say something like that if you're a woman. If you are a guy you are supposed to pretend you are the abominable snowman and bite the head off of the reindeer while making a godzillaesque growling roar...

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like in single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnogaholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas! If you are Hispanic then you probably have no idea what in the blue hell eggnog is. It’s just like coquito. Except with egg instead of coconut. If you have no idea what coquito is, that’s just too damn bad isn’t it? Nobody told you to not be Hispanic! I am probably not going to share mine either. Coquito is rarer than eggnog and, if made properly will sneak up on you like a hush-a-boom and leave you completely plastered before you have had time to realize that you are think as you drunk you are…
   

3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat. If volcanos aren’t your thing, feel free to go all “Close encounters of the third kind” on it. Another thing regarding mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission. It’s like a tie in hockey, kissing your sister, being a Cubs fan. It’s probably in the same house that has the carrot sticks out on the buffet. Why are you still there, hello!?! Go next door, they have Rum.
   

4. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello? That’s like drinking a few beers before going to an open bar party. BLING! There goes that light bulb over your head. Oh, NOW it makes sense…
   

5. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. It’s winter, most of you will be underneath thirty layers of clothes anyway and you will have all those cool workout specials they offer at Bally’s just in time to capitalize on the whole New Year’s resolution phase that people go through. Leave that crap for January. It’s not like you will have anything else to do. This is the time for long naps followed by power eating. You will get plenty of exercise going from party to party and circling the buffet table like a buzzard.
   

6. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, tell no one, position yourself near them and don't budge. If you are working in tandem with a friend, set up a defensive perimeter. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
   

7. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don’t like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day? For the record, Pasteles are not a desert. If you don’t know what a pastele is don’t worry about it. It’s way too complicated to explain and even if I tried you would end up looking at me like I just tried explaining why Joan Rivers is still on television.
   

8. Did someone mention fruitcake? Fruitcakes are actually not from the planet earth. They are, in fact, alien probes designed to gather information on human beings. The only way to prevent the aliens from infiltrating the planet earth and enslaving us all is to freeze the Fruitcakes. All of the smart people leave the fruitcakes in their freezers. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
   

9. When all is said and done, you should not be able to stand, speak and you should only be ably to breathe with great difficulty. Nothing should fit you, in fact, you should be naked with a bib on lying in a great heaping pile of half eaten food and empty wine and liquor bottles. If this is not the case then you are obviously not in the Christmas mood and you need to rethink your priorities. Or maybe you just need to wobble on over to the food table again and keep going until you pass out.

So there you have it. Eat, drink and be merry. Because if the Cubs win the next World Series then the baseball equivalent of the Anti-Trifecta will have been completed and the Apocalypse is really upon us and we won't see next Christmas. But that is a whole other blog...

I.B.W.B.C. Local 802

I had some trouble sleeping last night. Sore throat, stuffy nose, you know the routine. Anyway, as I was coughing up a phlegm covered lung this morning, I started to wonder why I usually feel crummy in the mornings when I am sick and I get better as the day progresses. I finally realized why that is.
My immune system has gone union. Bastards!
The International Brotherhood of White Blood Cells, Local 802.
They refuse to work overnight shifts without over time and a shift differential. The nerve. It's mutiny Mister Christian! Mutiny I say! They all punch out around midnight and leave the cold or flu or whatever the hell it is that’s bugging me and go home. Where is the dedication? Where is that good old fashioned work ethic?
Where the hell did my energy go!?!
Nice.
*cough*
Happy now?
*cough*
Anyway, the one good thing about me catching colds is my voice dropping a full octave. I sound all James Earl Jones Junior-like.
“No Luke, I am your father!”
Sweet.
“You are beaten…. It is useless to resist.”
“Someday Simba, this will all be yours.”
“This is CNN.”
Giggity, giggity, giggity. Oh yeah!
When I was working at Full Sail as a lab instructor it was great because I could fake accents and sound completely different. I miss those days, recording nonsense and poetry just because I could. I need to do some more of that.
“Note to self, record cheesy accents and bland poetry in smarmy James Earl Jones Jr. voice…”
Stupid cold.
Stupid I.B.W.B.C. Local 802.
I need to go home and rest up.
TANGENT
You know, I just noticed something rather odd.
The World Cup draw is today and not only do I know about it, I think I actually care too. I… I… I think I like soccer.
Care is too strong a word for that right now. It’s just too soon I think, but I think I could feel more for soccer than just feigned or passing interest. I might even (gasp!) care.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Ok. I am going to go home now. I am very tired and slightly feverish, which, now that I think about it, might be why I am having ‘feeling’ for the most popular sport in the world (except America…)
Don’t get me wrong, I loves me some America, but we are missing the boat on Soccer.
In fact, if we used soccer to settle diplomatic differences we would still be owned by the Brits.
But not for long, there is more than just hope for Team America.
“Coming to save, the mother fu-“
Uh, right.
Ok. I am going now.
Have a great weekend.

Valerrama's World, baby...

I love that 70's show. Too bad that its ending it's run this year. I honestly didn't think that it would last as long as it has when it first started but what the hell do I know? I am a product of the 70's. I was born in 1971 and that makes me...
Well, that makes me sad really. It means I am getting older.
Still, it was an awesome decade. Lot's of brown and orange and green furniture and people did lots of drugs (which goes a long way in explaining the whole vomit color scheme).
As far as entertainment goes, it have us some of the most important films of my generation, The Godfather, Star Wars, Young Frankenstein and as for TV, we ended up with cool shows like The Incredible Hulk, Battlestar Galactica, Charlie's Angels, Little House on the Prarie, Starsky and Hutch (though my dad was partial to Baretta) and The Electric Company.
Man, I really miss The Electric Company.
Anyway, we had this other cool show. I never missed it.
CHiP's.
The females in my life in that period thought that my dad bore an uncanny resemblance to Erik Estrada -let's just say that it didn't hurt his popularity. I gotta tell you though, my dad has aged far more gracefully than Officer Ponchiarello. Anyway, I'm wandering...
It's coming back.
Like Starsky and Hutch and Charlie's Angels, CHiP's is making a comeback. To the big screen. To make the circle complete, guess who has been tapped to play the role ofthe dashing and suave Ponch? None other than Carlos Valderrama.
Fez.
I can't freakin wait.
If it's as cheesy as the rest I will be immensly happy. I'll watch it and I will probably buy the DVD.
Attention all units... CHiP's will be right back.
Sweet.

I Got Your Hot Chotchkie Right Here!

Ok.
Now I have officially seen everything.
Back when I was a field support tech, lo those many moons ago, we used to joke about idiots that thought a CD drive was a coffee cup holder. In fact, I remember this cute little joke email that said something like, "Congradulations! You have won a free Coke cup holder for your computer. Please click here to receive your prize."
And when you clicked on the button, the CD tray ejected.
We all thought it was a pretty cool joke.
Until we started getting calls about how some users had trouble with their cup holders.
"My cup holder fell out."
"Your cup holder?"
"Yeah. My cupholder."
"What does that have to do with tech support?"
"Well, its built into the computer. Hmph, I thought you guys were supposed to be smart."
"There are no cup holders on the computers, in fact we like to discourage the use of liquids in and around company computer equipment as a general rule."
"Then why the hell did you install cup holders!?!"
"We didn't."
"You did."
"Did not."
"Did to."
"Did not."
"Did to."
"Did not."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Did to and I can prove it!"
"Ok. Go ahead."
"All I have to do is press this little button and the tray comes out."
At that point you hear the delightful click and whirr of a CD tray ejecting. You can always tell when someone in technical support gets "one of those" calls. They invariably have this look of shock and awe, incredulous disbelief, spread across their faces.
(Check out Mike's face here to see what I mean)
Usually followed by a migrane and a few hours of Half Life 2 or Halo or whatever gory shoot-em-up they use to bleed off the stress. (My personal favorite was the Redeemer from Unreal Tournament. Nothing like a handheld tactical nuclear weapon to help smooth out those wrinkles in the day.)
Anyway, I got something in the email this morning that brough all of this techy goodness back. It even comes with a cigarette lighter.
Holy Chotchkies Batman...

Daddy's World

I have been meaning to update my little blog but all of the things I have been writing lately have been for RAOP. Don’t go there unless you are in the mood for poetry or raunchyness (and other stuff).
You have been warned.

Anyway, I need to remember jot my ideas down when I get them. It’s like Jack Ryan, former Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency always says, “If you don’t write it down, it never happened.”

What?
What do you mean he wasn’t real?
Are you sure?

So wait, are you trying to tell me that the Super Bowl was never nuked? Oh and I suppose that we never captured that defecting Soviet sub either…
You people are seriously deluded.

Anyway…

I was up until almost 2 in the morning. My youngest daughter had major tummy issues and proceeded to puke all over her bed. We are talking an upchuck of exorcist proportions. I knew something was up when my bathroom light went on and off a couple of times. She was kind enough to change her clothes and wash her hands and face before coming to wake me up. She calmly informed me that her bed was no longer habitable and requested that I do something about it forthwith.

It was bad.
Not quite Linda Blair / Exorcist bad, but it was very messy. I wont go into detail just in case you are in the middle of a meal but suffice it to say, I had no idea she had eaten that much.

Mac and cheese?
Check.
Chocolate cake?
Check.
Milk?
Check.

There were other things that were not as easily identified. I was temped to call a forensic lab but it was late and the sleep was getting smaller by the minute. I ended up cleaning up her bed and tossed the now toxic quilt into the washing machine (cold / cold and mountain spring all tempa-cheer for those of you into that sort of thing).

I padded my butt back to bed and discovered that she had to go potty. After going to pee about 15 times, I finally managed to get her settled into our bed; right before - you guessed it! - she had to puke again. At least this time she almost made it to the toilet.

So close.
At least the seat cover was up.

It would have been really bad if it hadn’t. It still managed to get all over the place. You know, she is all of three feet tall, and you would think that she’d be closer and it would be harder to miss. Any parent that has gone through something similar can tell you that they ALWAYS miss the target.

Always.

Not on purpose. At least, I have no tangible evidence that I can point to but they miss and miss often. In fact, if they try to miss, that’s usually when they get it all in the toilet or tub or bucket or whatever you are using as a receptacle. So I just stood there, avoiding the splash and holding her hair back and hoping that it would all be over soon. I know what you are thinking.

Its tender moments like these that you remember.

You may be wondering where my wife was at this point.
Sleeping.
I’m not complaining, I just didn't see any point in waking her since I was already up. How considerate of me. Next time I might pretend to be sleeping like she was. You know what the strangest part is? I wasn’t queasy or nauseous or anything along those lines. I’m like any other normal person. If my buddy pukes, then I am probably going to puke right there with him. But I found that my concern for my little monkey (yes I call her monkey) was overriding my gag reflex.

I probably should have come back with something a little less, well yucky. Maybe next time. I keep saying that I am going to blog more frequently but I never seem to get around to it. I am hoping that it will change but I am smart enough to realize that I cant promise to do anything.

So I’m not going to.

Remember, lid up and hair back people.