Chase and J.P. Morgan merged. Another large merger: whoopdeedoo. As a result, the newly formed megaglobal corporation sent me a new “privacy policy” and allowed me two ways to opt out of having my information shared with other companies. I was all set to call and opt out, until I read this paragraph right below the options:

“Even if you tell us not to share, we may share other types of information within our family. For example, we may share name and address, information about transactions or balances with us, as well as survey results.”

My first question is what information don’t they share, and how exactly do they define “opting out?”

My grandfather passed away on the 7th, and because it hit me harder than I expected, I really haven’t felt like writing much.

He was 92. He was funny. Whether he knew it or not, he was entertaining as hell, and as my Dad put it in the eulogy, “You always felt safe when you were around him.” And the same can be said of my father, and hopefully of me. I think the hardest moments were when I thought of my grandfather, my father, and I as a chain in which one of the links had finally come loose. The more similarities I saw, the more clearly I could see my father passing on, then me. And that made me pretty sad.

At the funeral, while TAPS played in the distance, the only thing that I wanted to do was crouch down, put my head in my hands and weep. But, I stood imitating the men in my family the best that I could, standing strong to support those around them. But when there’s no one left to support, we are free to grieve.

So, I haven’t felt much like writing.

Sox Bla Bla
Jesus called the other night (like he does every Sunday when you’re all busy), and he said that he hates the fucking Red Sox. So, no matter how hard you pray, or wear your rally cap, or no matter how many times you touch the doorknob while watching the game, the Lord will make the Red Sox will lose in the end.

Ok, I lie. (cough) Billy fucking Buckner (cough)

Sox Bla Bla Bla
I actually yelled at my GF over baseball for the first time ever. Unlike every other man in the Boston area, I yelled b/c mid-sentence during the first 10 minutes of Las Vegas, she suddenly switched the channel TO the Sox game to get the score.

As the GF and I like to drive around simply for the fun of it, at 4:30PM we went out for a quick drive. After winding our way aimlessly down route 3A, by 7PM we found ourselves in Hyannis. Go figure. For a good portion of the ride on cape, the GF kept thinking that we were in a mystical town called “Yalmouth.”

After a good bit of driving, and passing the same gas station 3 or 4 times, we figured that we’d better stop in somewhere for a bite to eat. We stopped into the British Beer Company only because it had the most obvious “We are a restaurant” style sign on Main Street. I had a pretty good meal consisting of chicken, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes, served over spaghetti fried into a pancake. The GF ate pot roast. I have no idea why, and it seems neither did she. We noted that we should one day return for a good look around, and then headed home.

The aimlessness of it all made it seem almost like a mini-vacation. Whoa, that makes me seem lame.

Kept Notes
I have a secret. If I find music that I like or if something funny happens during the day, I write it down on a small piece of paper and put it in my pocket. When I get home, I either blog it or throw it on my desk. Because the note taking is ultimately time-critical, this habit has left me with a whole pile of cryptic notes on my desk, some of which I haven’t the foggiest idea what they might mean.

One of which: “edit stages 4.99 dinner break-dancing,” I find almost as confusing as: “angry dog paper 100 ways to piss off your pet.”

Lost Notes
I wrote what I thought was a pretty nice post before this one until blogger decided to take a crap during the post sending it somewhere near the end of the internet. The internet can now officially bite me.

Vulgar Jon I
Boss to Jon: Ok, let’s do this. Pretend I’m an auditor…
[Jon gives boss the finger]
Boss: Nice one.

Vulgar Jon II
For some reason, right before I was going to leave today I started singing the theme to the Micky Mouse Club. Normally it would go: M… I… C… See you real soon! Given the frustration levels of the last few days, it went something like M… I… C… [stops] Screw this fuckin’ crap.

Once the laughter subsided I apologized to everyone for letting my brain get the best of my mouth.

Friday: While discussing whether Halo was too violent for her 11 year old son. When told that the game may be a little frightening for kids, but nothing to worry about, she pressed on with,

Well, is it scarier than say… Frogger?

Once the laughter subsided, we found that we really couldn’t name one game that wasn’t.

Saturday: With the aid of a personal computer, I transformed a card for a 7 year old into a birthday card for my Mom. We then went to dinner at a restaurant that a friend that I haven’t seen in 10 years now owns. The food was on par with my favorite restaurant, Tosca’s, and my Dad swore that it was actually better. We spent the entire dinner with a newspaper clipping of my friend when he was about four swimming on the table. We were told that it would be available on the table whenever we came back.

Sunday: Ate a good breakfast in the middle of which a very shaky guy ordered and quickly drank a White Russian, we moved my GF out of her apartment, walked 3 or so miles to the store to pick up a ham steak that I would later drown in ketchup and macs n’ cheese, laid in the grass listening to a free big band concert in the park where the singer didn’t have the faintest idea of the words to “Just a Giggolo”, and ate pumpkin ice cream.

The GF liked everything except the pumpkin ice cream, which she described as the way a candle would taste…if she ate candles. She also clued me in to the fact that when we Bostonians want to say “Shaw Ave,” we say, “Shawr Ave.”

Missing Thing Uno: Bostonese 101
If you’re a Masshole, take a second and say “Honda Accord in winter time” out loud to your self. You can whisper so that no one will know. Go ahead. Do it now.

While driving today, I realized that when we say the aforementioned phrase, our superbly crafted accents speedily streamline the phrase into “Honder Accoahd in winnuh time.” I believe the addition of the “R” and dropping of the “T” has nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with speed. One day, I’ll attempt to write down all the rules to the accent, but not right now, as the whole processes has already locked up my processor for a good 15 minutes.

Missing Thing Deux: Free MP3s
Thanks to stupid BoingBoing, I came across OddioOverplay.com, a major source of public domain MP3′s. I have spent hours jumping from link to link finding the oddest legal, free MP3′s out there.

When I was younger, my friends and I would spend inordinate amounts of time searching through flea market boxes and garage sale basements for the strangest music that we could find (like Lucille). Then, we’d carry a stack to each other’s apartments and spend full evenings just showcasing our finds. And there in lies the catch: Getting something for nothing involves a tremendous amount of leg work, but it’s the leg work itself that discourages most people from the search, making the rewards so much more rare.

I mean did you listen to the Wynnona Riders (from yesterday’s list), BratMobile, the Mr. T. Experience, Propaghandi, a full version of the “Shaft in Africa” soundtrack, a song called “Naughty Hula Hands,” George Bush singing U2, or a version of Mr. Pudding Pop himself, Bill Cosby, singing “Funky North Philly”? No, probably not. While I was running around as excitedly like a coke head with a key to the evidence room, you were probably doing something useful with your time. Weren’t you?

If anyone wants play the stripped down 2004 version of weirdo mix tape, find me your best legal, digital oddities and fire me the links or burn me the CD. I’m game.

Out of the Hundreds of sites that I visited in the last 4 hours, I sifted out the following list that had a ton of great stuff that I’d like to return to one day (in order of value – high to low):

1. Comfort Stand
2. Land of 999 Dances
3. The Sexy Cats from Astroboy
4. LookOut Records
5. Red Ferrett Journal
6. PublicDomain4U
7. Download.com

Missing Things Tres: Normalcy
It was pointed out by one of my co-working bastards that “Shattered image” is also a real band, and cannot be used by me in an imaginary sense. Another co-working bastard then suggested that I use the name “CockHammer.” I think that there’s something really, really wrong with computer people. I really do.

Missing Thing Fyra: Meedly X 3
Yesterday’s meedly meedly meedly comments seemed to have gone right over some of your heads, so I am forced to explicitly clue you in to my reference. I now refer you to Strong Bad’s Guitar, to peruse and enjoy while I go to bed.

Days Off: Recap
I watched Jerry Springer, went to the movies, ate pumpkin pancakes, bought 3 expensive shirts, went to a wake, finished Angels & Demons, sat on the beach, ate a sucky meal at Jake’s, worked on cleaning out the GF’s apartment, and shaved only once.

Movie Reviews #2828801
Napoleon Dynamite: There was no beginning, no middle, and no end to this movie. None. I will not recommend that anyone go see it for fear that they will never stop punching me. On the other hand, I laughed out loud many, many times and spent 2 days quoting lines from the movie. A

Elephant: Want to see a remake of Columbine that is so boring that it makes the hour and twenty minutes that you watch feel like forever? Yea, me neither. Big fat D-

Starsky & Hutch: Leave your brains in the car. This was fun, but very dumb fun. I like poop jokes, but I can’t give them high ratings for making me laugh. C+

In July: I torture my GF with foreign films. Sometimes they really suck, and sometimes they work out. This one worked out. It was a love story, and it’s in German, but I was totally into it. B+

For Anybody Else
In yesterday’s post, I made an issue of being able to use the word “gay” to refer to things other than homosexual activity with impunity. As I am based in the U.S., I tend to forget our foreign neighbors, and I should have clarified that this argument does not apply to foreign dudes.

Dear straight foreign dudes: Unless you are extremely fluent in English, you should not attempt the use of any of my aforementioned alternative meanings of the word “gay” when visiting the US. I know that on your holiday to the US, you will inevitably find yourself on a quest to bag some of our gum chewing, hair twisting, giantly breasted American females. Unfortunately, given your propensity towards tiny bathing suits and mesh shirts, the unenlightened majority of American women start off with the impression that you are very probably gay already. Let’s not improperly use the term over and over and erroneously convince them.

Using the term to imply that something is just plain ridiculous (like say, Friendster), although completely acceptable to some, may cause you unnecessary headaches with some women. It’s a charged word, and could mistakenly brand you as some sort of homophobe, and subject you to long ass stories about how the woman’s best friend, “Roger” is gay and that she can’t believe that someone would use a term like that in America today bla bla bla. This will leave you to either sit staring at her large American breasts or grab your drink and cut your losses. Either way, your quest has failed.

Whispering in a woman’s ear that you’ll try anything as you are totally gay (meaning immoral) will not give the impression that you are some sort of free wheeling international playboy. Sure, she may give you a playful look and call a “friend that you’re absolutely going to love,” but when Roger shows up, your first American “threesome” will consist of a long, long evening dancing to techno and warding off dudes at “The RamRod.” Once again, your ignoble quest has drawn to a close.

Suggesting that a few beers might make you feel really gay is not going to aid your cause in any way, either. Just say that a few drinks will make you “cheery”. Otherwise, Roger is going to show up 6 beers from now, and if you thought your odds were bad before, the statistics for a drunk man in a mesh shirt getting out of The RamRod before closing are about 20 to 1. The only case that I can think of in which this might work is if the woman you are trying to pick up is named Gertrude and is in the neighborhood of 150 years old. If you suspect that this might be the case, ask the waitress what the specials are. If the list is made up of soft foods, tapioca, and adult diapers you are not in a bar. You are in a rest home. Your quest is officially over. Stop trying to hump grandma and just move on.

So my advice? Steer clear of the word gay altogether unless you are using it in some sort of ruse like “Alzough I am a, how you say, virgeen, I fear zat I may be gay, but I sink zat zee, how you say, most beautiful American woman could use zee large American breasteses to teach me zee love of zee women.”

Good Luck.

I Quit
Yes, someone got fired from Friendster for blogging. Yes, There was a link to Friendster’s account cancellation page on Daypop because people are so up in arms about it. Yes, I clicked on the link and cancelled my account leaving my reason as “Other: You fired someone for blogging, jackasses.”

The real reason that I cancelled my Friendster account is that Friendster is completely gay.

I don’t mean that it’s a big community of hairless dudes, or den of hot girl on girl action. I mean it’s gay. It’s the kind of gay where one could easily use the term gayon to describe those over the age of 17 relishing in it.

To me, Friendster is like NY. No one is there to give, and everyone is talking at the same time. In Ze Frank’s Small World clip, he says it better:

“Friendster is like the L.A. of online communities. It’s like the requirements for friendship have been stripped to the very, very bare minimums… In my version of Friendster you’d have to at least pick me up from the airport or lend me money before I let you in.”

And I agree. The rewards of setting up an elaborate profile to get people who don’t even know my phone number (let alone call me) to post comments about what a great “friend” I am, never really seemed worth it. So, I never log on, I never send messages to people, and I haven’t really thought about it since the week after I signed up. When presented with half-assed reason and a blatant opportunity to do so, I quit.

If I accidentally filled in my reason for quitting as “You fired someone merely for blogging, jackasses,” when I really meant “Friendster is totally gay, you bunch of gayons,” who cares? If I taylor my response a bit to some company to be part of a wave that helps to get some lady her job back, who’s it going to hurt?

Nobody.

I Give Up
I can already hear people complaining that “gay” used in this manner is a derogatory term that propagates a negative stereotype of homosexuals everywhere and I should never bla bla bla. Listen, I don’t give a rats ass what you put your wiener in, as long as I don’t have to watch it, partake in it, or mop up after it. Other than that, enjoy. It’s none of my damn business. But don’t tell me that I can’t say something is “gay”, if it’s the only word that concisely conveys what I want to say.

Homosexuals and the politically correct don’t own the word, they merely snuck in and stole it from some some happy (and possibly immoral) old folks while they were enjoying their tapioca.

Gay means cheerful. Gay means licentious (great word meaning “immoral”), and in the slang, gay means ridiculously stupid. When grandma says that she feels “gay” today, chances are she’s not feeling like jumping Gerty in the hall, and she’s probably not emptying the rainy day fund to head down to the local boom boom room for a licentious romp. She probably is just feels cheerful.

When she says gay, she means cheerful.
When you say gay, you might think “Tab A to Tab A” or “slot B to Slot B”
And when I say that something is gay it’s ridiculously stupid.

And we’re all correct.

Nothing’s Good Enough
Instead of cleansing everyone else’s language in order to make everyone else good enough for us, why don’t we all set a date for when we will be good enough for ourselves. Then, language really won’t matter.

Then you can dump your delicate sensibilities, and read the Vice Guide to Everything. It’s completely irreverent, and kept me and my 12 year old brain laughing like a moron.

I know the names of three neighbors around me. I don’t want to hang out with them, but I know their names (Hey, I’m a minimalist). Over the weekend, My father and uncle were looking for my apartment and knocked next door, and the guy had no idea who I was and sent them on their way. Another neighbor came by tonight, re-introduced herself as the neighbor downstairs, and told me that my A/C was flooding her apartment.

Because they obviously don’t know me, my Dad decided that it would be fun to play Ding Dong Ditch on them, leaving my unwary uncle scrambling down the path after him. With kids, it’s funny. With men over 55, it’s really funny.

Diana! Venga!
I think I’m becoming a beach person. I spent from 9:30-3:30 on the beach both Saturday and Sunday. During the day, when the sun is shining, everyone one is happy at the beach. Children run and play, people smile, and the sounds of the surf are accented by the sounds of children playing. Mix that with a large Dunky’s iced coffee, a good book, and a generous slathering of sunblock, and the day gets very close to perfect.

And if the traffic gods smile on this perfect day, I park for free.

Movie Reviews #126405
Serendipity (Chick Flick): John Cusack plays one of those screwed up puppy dog guys that chicks love, and bla bla bla. I don’t really remember it, but it was pretty good. I say B.

Kill Bill II (Action): If Serendipity was for the girl, Kill Bill 2 was for the boy. There was action, grossness, and plenty of squinty-eyed tough guys. If Kill Bill 1 was a Kung Fu tribute, this was more of a trubute to the american western. For all the kick ass action, and for putting a real live Delorean in the background of a shot for no other reason than style, this gets an A-.

Superstition Ain’t the Way I
Last night I had a nightmare where there were spiders and snakes all over the ground, and I couldn’t get to my shoes. All around me were old graves, but the stones were containers holding human ashes. When the wind kicked up the ashes blew into the air. I somehow got into a Cadillac and drove to some friends house, but they lived on the edge of a swamp. I drove the car out onto a rickety pier, and was concerned that the car was going to fall in, so I backed it into the mud a little.

My GF and I got out of the car and went to the shack where my friend’s lived, but once they let us inside, I realized that they all looked different and had horrible teeth. There was an old lady with way too much makeup sitting on the couch with them, but she walked out of the room when I showed up.

Suddenly, I was sitting on a bench in another room of the shack with my GF, and the daylight was streaming through a picture window behind us. There was a piano in the room and a few people mulling about. Then my grandmother showed up (she’s been dead for more than 10 years). She looked great, but her face was stuck in a smile from an old picture we have of her.

When I jumped up to greet her, she whisked me across the room and started asking all sorts of questions about what sort of woman my GF is. I extolled her virtues and practically gushed to her about how great my GF is until she seemed satisfied with my answer. Then, my grandmother and I danced. Suddenly, I was observing the scene, and my grandfather walked between the observation point and the dancers. He was sullen, but blank, and once off camera, he was gone.

Ok, now the strange part. In my dreams, my grandmother is the harbinger of death. When I dream of her, I get the feeling that someone is going to die. It’s one of the few superstitions that I have tried to shake, but can’t. I think it’s because I called her out of the blue a week before she died suddenly of an aneurism, and when one of her sisters died, I dreamed of my grandmother laying in bed with beam of blue light joining her body and head instead of a neck.

So, for a week after I have these dreams, I wait for the other shoe to drop before dismissing it.

Superstition Ain’t the Way II
From a deleted scene in Serendipity, I give you this:

Close your eyes. Because you are still reading, you’ve proven that you are horrible at instructions, so let’s start over. I want you to imagine a desert. In the desert there is a cube. Close your eyes for a few seconds and really picture it before you move on. Do it this time.

You should now have an idea of the size of the cube, what it’s made of, and where it’s located in relation to the sand. Let’s move on.

In the desert there is also a ladder. Close your eyes for a few seconds and picture the ladder.

You now know what it’s made of, you know it’s position, you know it’s size. You have visualized the ladder.

In your desert there is now also a horse. Close your eyes and visualize the horse.

To find out what in the hell this all means, hold your mouse over each of the following: The Cube, The Ladder, and The Horse.

My cube was made of metal, regular sized and hovering a foot off the ground. My ladder was wooden and like a magic trick, wasn’t leaning on anything. The horse ran right between the observer and the cube really quickly.

Free Read
I added a new blog to my list of daily reads: Geese Aplenty.

Free Info
After reading the davinci Code, I’ve been brushing up on the old conspiracy theories via the web searches and a visit to the ol’ library. I looked up stuff on the Masons, The Knights Templar, Davinci, Phi, Fibonacci numbers, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla. And now, I no longer care. There is just too much information out there based on too little fact with too little bearing on anything.

Free Assembly
There are no laws requiring citizens to carry national ID cards, yet we have been coerced into producing identification to board just about any major form of travel since 1998. The arguments against the system are that it’s not only useless (if any 19 year old can get fake ID, what are the odds of an international terrorist getting one? Yes, the 9.11 guys all had fake IDs.), but it’s a violation of privacy and citizens right to free assembly. Read or don’t. Care or don’t. (Slashdot article)

Friday
Went to the library for an hour after work only to walk out without a book. Every time I picked up a fiction book, I wanted a manual, and every time I picked up a manual, I wanted a mindless piece of fiction. Frustrated, I left, picked up the paper, and grabbed an iced coffee before heading to the beach.

Once I got to the beach, I kicked back and read the housing section 8 times hoping that it might refresh with new data as I read. It didn’t. For another week and another month, prices are too high, and houses are too crappy. But with the wind blowing through the car and the surf driving the surfers along, it didn’t seem to matter.

Saturday
I Finished the last few pages of Reading People, which was so painful to read that I had to renew it from the library a total of 4 times to get through it.

The tag line, “How to understand people and predict their behavior anytime, anyplace,” indicates why I picked it up. The reality of the book is that even if you lived under a rock, this book couldn’t give you any insight into human behavior. The only thing that I was thankful for after finishing this book was that I was far removed from being forced to go back through it to write a book report.

At 9AM, I weighed whether I should write or get out of the house for a couple of hours. As the weather was nicer than it had been in a week, I grabbed a chair, some sunblock, and The Davinci Code, and headed down to the beach.

There was hardly anyone around, so I slathered on the 45 sunblock and read. Well, I slathered it all over my front and just never flipped. I thought it was safer than attempting sunblocking my back solo and getting the weird tye dye / handprint sunburn thing.

Then, I just read. And read. And read. …Until the GF showed up at around 2PM. By then, scores of teenage girls had planted themselves around me, making it look as if I had plunked myself down in the middle of them rather than the way it actually happened, leaving me to defend an undefendable position.

Then, I ate and read some more only to be distracted by the glowing white skin of a pudgy jewish/italian looking dude with big sideburns, a fifties grampa hat, a Hawaiian shirt, and Hawiian shorts that sat down near us. Dear dudes, If you are thin and black, a fifties look might work for you, grandpa hat and all. If you are a fat, glowing white dude, it probably will not. As a matter of opinion, I say play the odds.

I think somewhere around 4 I decided that I just couldn’t take it anymore and we got the hell out of the sun.

I skipped Massachusetts Tax free day, as I figured that no store was going to run any sales, and spending $1000 to save $50 just didn’t seem worth it.

Sunday
I finished the aforementioned book. It took all day, but, I read it in a mere 2 days, which means that I not only enjoyed the book, but I am a genius.

I walked around Blockbuster like I did with the library.

I hate this post. It sucks. I want to delete it, but it took too long to write.

The Big Bounce: Ooh the title uses alliteration. I want to play, too! Let’s see. Boring, bomb, bummer, bland, barf bag… This is fun! Favorite line: “God? God is an imaginary friend for adults.” C-

Movie Review #62837
Usual Suspects: Within 15 minutes, I realized that I had seen this movie before, yet I watched it until the end. It’s a modern day crime caper with an all star cast that keeps the audience guessing. My favorite line came from one of the Baldwin Boys as he sat upon a roof top with a sniper rifle lining up his shots. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. (pause) Oswald was a pussy.” B+

P.S.
I took the day off today and spent 5 hours sitting on the beach, reading a book, and drinking iced coffee. Given that the temperature was in the mid-80′s with an offshore breeze, and I was slathered with a healthy amount of sun block, I don’t think that I could have spent my time more wisely.

As men, we like to consistently think and act like twelve year olds, but there are distinct stages that a man goes through in life. To easily ascertain what stage any particular 12 year old is in, one must simply observe his purchases at the local drugstore. Today, I hit stage four.

Stage 1: “They’ve sealed a tiny Spiderman in a cheap plastic case and it costs $1.99 to free him! I’ll free you, Spidey! (shake shake) You got no candy in there, Spidey? Sorry, Spidey. No candy, no savey. Now, where’s the candy and the Mad magazines?”

Stage 2: “Ahem. I would like to purchase some of your finest $1.99 cigars, my good man. You want an ID? From me? As my finely groomed moustache shows that I am clearly of age, I will not be providing ID today. Plus, my spouse has retained my ID at the local cocktail party, and I am currently unable to retrieve it.”

Stage 3: “I would like to purchase this package of gum, these mints, this magazine, these batteries, these sunglasses and oh perhaps a package of those con-doms behind you, please.”

Stage 4: “Ooh, now that is cool. I need to get me one of these babies. Excuse me, could you unlock the Rotary nose hair clipper case?”

Stage 5: “Whoa. These glasses make me look just like Arnold fucking Schwartzenegger. Hasta la vista you punk kids. Excuse me, how much are these? $4.99? Young man, in my day, for $4.99 you could take a young lady out for a night on the town including dinner, break dancing, and a round or two of Pac-Man, and still have money leftover to fill the coal bin. I’ll just take the Depends.”

Skepp
On a ride around hull, we came across a docked tall ship flying a Swedish flag. As this is pretty unusual to see, we pulled over to investigate.

We sat for a few minutes watching the captain fish off of the back, hooking little more than the pilings of the pier. Despite being uncomfortably thin, and wearing a pony tail and a thick black beard, he seemed to be as small and hard as any of the stones that littered the beach. He seemed rather annoyed not only about catching nothing but the pier, but by the Bud drinking, visor wearing boaters pulling their Bayliners along side to ask him astute questions like “Hey, man is that an old boat or something?”

As we got tired of watching the uneventful life of the angry captain, and were ready to take off, I decided that I needed to find out why there was a Swedish flag flying on the main topgallant mast. I walked over to a bearded member of the crew, who was working feverishly to repair a rope. He obviously had very little contact with humans, and had trouble formulating the answer that the ship was a replica modeled after one that had been owned by Sweden, Finland, and Holland. Even though I knew that he was involved in a conversation that he was clearly uncomfortable having, I asked him a few questions more.

He told me that a section of the 500 or so volunteers that ran the ship would spend from a week to a month on board, sailing the ship up and down the east coast giving tours and sunset cruises. According to him, the ship could sleep about thirty, but that could get a little crowded for his liking. He himself had been on the ship for a month, but this was his last day, as he had to get back to school.

I for one, thought it would be pretty cool to sail on a ship for a week, but after seeing the manner of the captain and the introverted personality of the crew, a lot of the romance was lost very quickly. But, it had a Swedish flag. And you don’t see that every day. Especially in Hull.

Note: My GF is irritated that I didn’t mention the Finnish or Dutch Flags flying on the other masts. She is of Dutch ancestry and thinks that I’m Sweden-centric.

Mr. Social
Not only did I have dinner plans on Friday, but I had lunch and dinner plans on Saturday, and some friends drove all the way down from the North Shore just to have breakfast with us on Sunday. I feel pretty damn lucky this weekend.

The Regular
The GF and I have been going to the same restaurant nearly every Sunday for the last year and a half. Today, we were set to meet two of our North Shore friends there. I thought it was pretty cool that these two were not only driving way out of their way to see us at what I consider pretty early on a Sunday morning, but were actually crossing the Massachusetts Mason-Dixon line, to do it.

Now, if you know anything about Massachusetts, you know that people from the North Shore and people from the South Shore are divided not only by the Mass Pike, but by their complete and utter ignorance of each other. South Shore people descended from the merchant class, and think of all North shore towns as being and extension of the high-haired, Camaro driving, gum chewing town of Revere. The North Shore folk, being descended from old Fishing money think of the South Shore being an extension of the high haired, Camaro driving, gum chewing town of Quincy. Both are impressed when they cross the Pike and see houses without wheels and lawns without junk cars on them. Show either a mansion on the opposite shore, and they can’t even fathom how it might’ve arrived there. Needless to say, North and South in this stupid state don’t mix socially all that often, so even though they only live 45 minutes away, I was impressed that they were coming down.

The GF and I arrived at the restaurant a little early and our friends weren’t there yet, so I suggested the GF stay in the car while I went in to put our name in. Due to the humid swamp hanging in the air trying to pass itself off as a Massachusetts summer, and the cool dry air flowing around the inside of the car, the GF protested very little.

When I got to the desk, I greeted the Host with a hearty “Hey! How’s it goin’?” as I normally do, which I followed up with “Jon for 4.”

“I know who you are. You’ve only coming in here once a week for a year and a half,” the host said smiling incredulously.
“You’re right, we have. What is your name, though?”
“I’m Wes. Nice to finally officially meet you.”
“Hello, Wes. Nice to finally meet you, too.”

And there it was. I was pretty proud of myself for finally getting to know the name of the host at a restaurant that I’ve been going to on a weekly basis for the last year and a half. And I’m very impressed that people would drive 45 minutes just to see us. Does anyone else seem to think that this screams “socially inept?”

Me too. But, I’m a regular now, I’m happy. Don’t bring me down. (Brrrruce)

Movie Review #10820420
The Secret Window (drama): My grandmother used to say that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. So, I won’t. D-.

Pretty Cool
Know what’s pretty cool? Hanging out with a couple in which the husband seems to like video games as much as I do, and the wife, she likes the heavy metal music. Know what’s better? They’re both older than I am, and seem pretty well-adjusted.

Pretty Cool II
Know what’s pretty cool? Having a friend call you long distance just to tell you a bad joke at 10:30 at night. Only true friends do stuff like that. The joke? How many kids with ADD does it take to screw in a lightbulb? The answer (really fast) WannaRideBikes?

Pretty Cool III
Know what’s pretty cool? Having a GF that does not understand how one can possibly listen to Heavy Metal without downing a bottle of Excedrin, but having her quietly put up with the latest CD purchases (specifically Killswitch Engage) on an inappropriate volume for the time in the morning.

Pretty Cool IV
Know what’s pretty cool? Having to take a leak after the bath houses have all closed, and having some teenagers jump through a window to unlock the door because in their own words, “Dood. People’s gat to piss.”

Pretty Cool V(rejected for inclusion)
The CD Playa Link on the left used to have links to the CDs listed, but that was a fat pain in the ass. Now, if you’re really interested in the album titles of the CDs in my CD changer, mouse over the artists and a tool tip will appear. If you’re not, eh. Feh.

Long Talk
Friday, I saw a co-worker I hadn’t seen in a few years in a local restaurant.  It was a long five minutes.

Her: “What’s wrong with your eye?”
Me: “What the cross-eyed thing?  Oh when I get tired I get a lazy eye.”
Her: “No you don’t”
Me: “Yes I do.”
Her: (with authority) “Well, I don’t remember that.”
Me: “Well, I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
Her: “Oh, I don’t think so.”
Me: “Yes, it’s true.  People have made fun of it forever.  I do.”
Her: (Incredulously) “Well, whatever.  I don’t remember it.”

Listen, I know the cross-eyed look is in right now, and people everywhere are faking lazy eyes to look cool, but mine is real.  It shows up when I’m tired, so don’t argue with me about it.  Just point, laugh, and move on.

Long Walk
Yesterday, I walked 9 miles in 4 hours for no reason.  It was actually more of a stroll, although I did carry some rocks until my forearms burned.

Long Day
Today, I was fighting the new myDoom variant.  I know that virus writers are to thank for my prestigious role in the basement of my corporation, but fuck, shit, ass, piss, poop, cock, doody, can you lay off for a few weeks and go the fuck outside or something?  If you’re going to write a pain-in-the-ass virus that’s going to give me a splitting headache and cost me gym time yet again, at least give it a little ingenuity.

Brother, Can You Spare an Hour?
If a person who lived near the beach was granted a few spare hours on a beautiful day like yesterday, you would think that he might spend the time laying on sand reading a book with the sun shining down on his head.  I thought about that too, but instead, opted to spend that time learning to use my new PS2 driving wheel with Gran Turismo A-Spec in air conditioned comfort.
After four hours of playing, I got a glimpse of my reflection on the TV and all I could think of was, What a nerd.  But that wheel is so damned fun, I don’t care.  It’s better to feel good than to look good.  I regret nothing.

Calling all Scientists
Ok.  I dreamt like a madman last night, and woke up to find out that my GF had done the same.  Now, if our brains supposedly broadcast signals at 8 Hz, could one unconscious, storming brain in close proximity to another unconscious brain affect that brain?  Can we make each other dream?  Please send me the answer to this question, as I am much too lazy to either look it up on the internet or initiate a double blind sleep study.  I will buy into your story and spread your lies to the world as long as you refrain from using the words: God, Global consciousness, or mother-ship in your explanation.

Note
Due to all the running over the last 2 weeks, I have unwittingly lost 5 pounds.  At 205, I feel like I’m thinner and lighter (almost like 175), but I have grown accustomed to the heavy feeling of 210.  I really don’t think that 225 is in the cards without eating a lot of ice cream.

Another word for Pirate Treasure
Hi, my name is Jon and I’m a girl watcher.  (Hi, Jon.)  I haven’t bit my hand like Squiggy in 442 days.   I really, really try to be cool about sneaking a glance here and there, but given that most women actually spend a portion of time during the day preparing themselves for people to look at them (mostly for their harshest critics: other women), I believe the odds are stacked against me.  I try not to stare, nor comment, nor turn into a wolf in a zuit suit with steam coming out of his ears.  I do.  And if I’m in the presence of my sexy American girlfriend, this goes double.

I earnestly try to resist even the quickest glance, but women are just so damned bumpy these days, and my moronic male brain constantly sends messages like “Arr maytee, spy ye to 23 degrees north.  Thar be the booty.” even when other parts of the brain are in mid-sentence.   So the overriding pirate in the male brain makes us all think that in the middle of a face to face conversation, our beloved girlfriends will never notice if we just sneak a quick peek. 

Stupid pirate.

Given that I have never been known for my stealth or social grace, my peeks are probably caught more often than I know.  Actually, I know that they are, as the pirate is a big fat liar in search of nothing but the next booty.  He doesn’t care if I get in trouble, nooooo.  He just cares about pirate treasure.

Stupid, stupid pirate.

Anyway, the other day, while walking along the beach, a girl in a bikini laying face down on a towel arched up and flipped her hair.  The pirate caught it as if it were in slow motion, and yelled, “FIRE!  Look to the port side NOW!” nearly spinning my head sideways a full 90 degrees.  I honestly don’t know if the woman was much to look at, as I was busy trying not to notice her at all.  But all women have all kinds of tricks for men.  One of the most simple and effective, is the hair flip.  I was screwed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid pirate.

Right then, my girlfriend stopped me and said, “You know you can look at whatever you want, right?  You don’t have to try to be sneaky about it.”  As I stood there saying things like, “Me?  Wha? I..no.  Babbadahamadan shhh.  No.  pffft. Nah, come on.  Me?”,  she just stood there looking at me like she had her very own personal moron. 

Which she does.

Note: I was informed after this post was written that it was Lenny, not Squiggy, that bit his hand.  Squiggy made a kissy face and grabby hands.  But, isn’t the joke more effective using Squiggy than Lenny?

If anyone knows a good home inspector or mortgage guy I’m taking recommendations effective immediately. No reason. Just ASAP.

Urban
A voicemail message from a female came in for one of the e-mail admins today:

You took my fuckin’ money. You fucked up my motherfuckin’ credit…I’m quit witch you!! Bye!

As funny as the message was, you absolutely cannot imagine how funny this message was after being set to the various pieces of Brady Bunch theme music.

sub-Urban
For some damn reason, I am now dying to use the phrase, “Slow your roll, homie.” Yes, I absolutely know how uncool it sounds from a 30 something white male, but that’s what makes it so attractive. It’s enigmatic. It’s forbidden. It’s verbal lambada.

Stupid movies
(sing) Spider man, spider man, made of all legos he’s spider man. Nanana any size. nanana something something. Look out! Here comes the SpiderLegoMan.

With practice, even very angry people can sell Winnebagos. Even Winnebago man.

I watched 2 movies, 2 sessions of Jerry Springer, and no fireworks. I Still can’t figure out if Springer is real or not.

Movie Review #225687
UnderCover Brother (comedy): Saturday Night Live skit gone too long. I counted the laughs that I could see coming from two blocks off. C

Calendar Girls (chick flick): Husband dies, all wife’s friends get naked in a calendar. This is a chick flick and a half, but it was a pretty good story. B+.

• Went to 2 cookouts on opposite sides of the state
• Learned that when people tell you that they don’t care about money, but spend 80% of the conversation talking about it, it’s more important to them than they think.
• Learned that some people will eat cake with a spoon that you’ve licked, and some absolutely will not.
• Saw even more fireworks.

Synopsis
Went to the beach, went to dinner with the Schooner’s crew, saw more fireworks.

Saturday Learning
Today, I learned that teenage girls still smoke Parliaments and use baby oil to get a tan, and that teenage boys still use football overthrow to meet them. I also learned that swans don’t just sit in lakes and look serene. They have the ability to fly overhead in formation like geese.

Synopsis
Wrote a review, went to dinner, introduced GF’s Mom to Tyrkisk Peber (imagine licorice candy with a battery acid center), saw fireworks.

Self Review
At work, the rules are constantly changing with respect to pay, grade levels, and the review process. In the corporate world, this is a given. I think it’s either Human Resources’ attempt to justify itself, or a way to keep the employees so confused about rank and pay that it creates within them the illusion of movement where there is none.

In any case, this year we will now get two reviews a year. Not two raises mind you, just two reviews. To me, this seems like a great way to stay on top of the progress of a problem employee, while serving to better recognize a successful employee’s accomplishments. By having two reviews a year, everyone wins (excluding, of course, the manager that has to write them).

Then, I found out that the review is a self-review. Because no one with a normal self-esteem or a modicum of business sense is going to sit down and write an official document pointing out their own flaws to be filed in the HR office until the end of time, the odds of someone actually writing something constructive is highly unlikely. This means that at best, the self-review is a personal press release, and at worst, an exercise in creative writing.

My initial reaction to writing a self-review was to ask my manager to take the time to write a review for me, so that I could have something useful to gauge his perception of my performance. Then, even though I felt it was an exercise in futility, I realized that I could easily write a sterling review of myself better than my manager ever could.

So, no complaints. No bitching. I just sat down and wrote a kick-ass review with all my accomplishments for the year thrown in to back up any assertions of greatness. I’m sure that I can’t post it here due to a major confidentiality agreement, and I’m sure that it won’t mean diddly when it comes to the year end raises, but as the hardest working employee that has ever worked for my corporation, I can say that it was fun to write.

Career Types
Myers-Briggs Work Type: ENTP (Extrovert, Intuitor, Thinker, Perceiving)
Pearson Career Type: AIR (Artistic, Investigative, Realistic)

Robots in Disgust
Co-worker 1: Do you realize that an 18 year old was born in 1986? 1986.
Co-worker 2: (creepily drawn out) Oh, I don’t care.
Co-worker 1: Wait. Who said it? Aren’t you the one that finds 18 year old girls annoying?
Me: That’s me. I just want them to shut up. All the time. Shut. Up.
Co-worker 1: But there so good.
Me: You have nothing in common with them. Things wizz over their heads. You can’t even relate to them. Hell, they can’t even remember things like uh… um… Transformers for God’s sake.
Co-worker 1: (frustrated and loud) Transformers! Transformers! Who gives a shit about Transformers! You can’t go home and do a Transformer in your bed!!
Me: (silence)
Co-worker 3: (silence)
Co-worker 4: (silence)
Co-worker 5: (silence)
Co-worker 1: Ooooh Optimus Prime.

My response should have been “You can’t do an 18 year old, either,” but that thought arrived a mere four hours too late.

Shaving 102
I put up Shaving 102 a month or so ago, but decided not to explicitly tell anyone at work, because when Shaving 101 came out, they posted the pictures all over the office. Well, despite my hiding it in plain view, they found it today, and I think that they said something about me having issues. They seemed to be laughing, so I can’t really be sure.

Underblogger
Excerpt: Do you know of a quality blog that deserves more attention and exposure than it is getting? Celebrating the Underblogger…(link)

Hopefully, this little contest will spawn some worth-while reads, as everyone that I used to enjoy reading on a daily basis has since stopped blogging, leaving me reading technical articles, SQL manuals, and CPAN docs in lieu of laughing like hell at stories about when they fell down the stairs into a big pile of doody.

Deep down, I don’t get on the net to see if it’s going to be Bush or Kerry, or if a satellite can orbit Saturn. If I want frustration or in-depth knowledge of seemingly pointless endeavors, I’ll go to work. On the net, I seek only amusement, and the occasional off the wall projects. Mainly, I seek to laugh. It’s the worst kind of addiction with the best kind of consequences.

The problem with the net is that I always forget that when I find someone that lays down something that makes me laugh, they have no idea that they’ve done it. They never heard me laugh, and I never tell them. I just read their stories, laugh, and somehow think that by talking to the words on the screen, I’m giving positive reinforcement to the author. It’s stupid, but I think I treat the words as if they are being spoken, and respond in kind.

If anyone that I knew was still actually writing, I would take this opportunity to nominate them for the thingy at the start of this post (ahem). And when they got so popular as a result of my nomination that a stalker cuts their head off, I would go on with my life and try not to blame myself. If, on the other hand, the fame and fortune snowballed blessing them with an awesome TV show like “Pimp My Mr. T. Statue” which allowed them to work directly with Mr. T…man, I would call them up at their mansion in Beverly Hills, 90210. Then, I would call in a favor and ask them to pimp out my Mr. T. head.

And they’d say, “Jon, for you, I can do this. You were the key to my success.”

And I would meet Mr. T., and I would get a personally autographed, pimped out, hydraulically lifted, neon glowing, solid gold Mr. T head suitable for display in my home or office. And then I would kick more total and utter ass than anyone in the world, including, but not limited to: Hulk Hogan, HAL9000, JOSHUA, or the toughest Ninjas you ever saw.

Oh yea. But no one I know blogs anymore, so, I guess that dream would have to be lived out by some other lucky bastard who knows someone who still blogs. And makes them laugh. Ahem.

And another thing: I hate the word celebrate in conjunction with words like life, diversity, culture, or yourself. I have no idea why. I think it goes against some unused manly gene somewhere deep down that was made for killing. If you’re going to celebrate yourself, please do the rest of us a favor and do it at home with the lights out where no one can see…

Hopefully with a partner of some sort. Who remembers the Transformers. And is not a Transformer themselves.

Given the fact that I spent most of my life living in a city with a large enough Asian population to be known as Chinatown South, you would think that I would have picked up more Chinese than the choice few swears that I have forgotten since grade school. When you couple that with the fact that I spent a fair amount of time in people’s houses where Chinese was spoken fluently, it’s just ridiculous hat the thought to learn never even crossed my mind until now.

Well, that’s about to change. A couple of days ago, I went to the library and checked out their foreign language section. As I sat there staring at the rack of tapes, I found a number of tapes on Cantonese. They were right next to the Japanese tapes. I sat going back and forth thinking, “If I go Chinese, I can shock the Chinese by being the Chinese speaking honky. But, if I get the Japanese tapes, I angrily yell about Godzilla and how someone has tarnished my honor.

Both were tempting enough to keep me shifting back and forth on my feet for five minutes, reaching for one set of tapes, then the other. The facts that I don’t know any Japanese people, and language is lost on those that don’t understand it, I opted to try to learn a little Cantonese.

I want to add that my goal is not to be fluent in Cantonese. I never shoot to be fluent in any language. I’m a quitter. I prefer to learn just enough of a language to get by. Once it’s time to learn present participles and conjunctive phrases, I’m all done. In any language that I’ve ever tried to learn, I can tell you that I want a hamburger, but I don’t have the ability to tell you that I ate one yesterday.

So, I’m just out to nail down the basic phrases that I should’ve picked up throughout my life. I want to be able to comfortably say things like “Hello”, “Yes, this Integra is lowered”, and “No, really. I’m not Chinese.”

I’m now on lesson 3, and while I’m sure that when Godzilla comes out of the Ocean to stomp America, I might be cursing myself for not learning more Japanese to stop him, but for now, I think I made the right choice.

I had a long and winding dream last night that made little sense, and left me more exhausted than refreshed. I could only describe its level of confusion as being on par of that of a movie.

All that I can remember is the end. I was in a small cave looking at myself. I would say that the cave was only 4 feet high, 10 feet wide, and 8 feet deep. On one side was a cot, and on the sand floor was a 1 foot by 3 foot piece of clear painters tarp splashed in blood. I watched myself pick up the front half of a bloody skull sealed in plastic and hold it up in one hand. I then watched myself put it down and crawl over to some sort of meat in the same type of bag. I want to say that it may have been a baby parts, but I can’t be sure.

I then watched as “I” crawled over to the door and sat with my back to the bars that covered the entrance. I could see past myself to the outside which was sunny and sandy as if it were a desert. Then, I watched as “I” crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and became enlightened. I then watched as “I” levitated a foot off the floor.

Then, I was suddenly outside the cave facing my captors sitting at picnic benches outside of a long row of similar caves to the one I had escaped from. I then merged with the “I” that I had been watching. Most of the captors were afraid as I had somehow gained supernatural powers. I could communicate with them all without speaking and sent them all a warning not to attack me. One was not afraid, and attacked anyway.

After a brief volley, I ended up gripping his face at arms length in a deadlock. I had one finger in his eye and mentally threatened him that if he did not let go, he would lose his eye.

He spoke to me in the only words that I can remember from the dream. Through gritted teeth and peering through one open eye, he said that it was a simple feat to threaten to take out the eye, but quite another to follow through. Even though the situation was potentially life-threatening, I couldn’t scoop out his eye.

And then, I woke up with no idea what it all means.

Physical Graffiti, Track 10

• June 6, 1994 I started working for my company.
• June 30, 1994 I swear I won’t be there 6 mos.
• Dec 30, 1994 I swear I won’t be there a year.
• June 30, 1994 I swear that I won’t be here more than 2 years.
• June 30, 1998 I get my 5th promotion in a 5 year period.
• May, 1999: I get my 5th boss in a one year period.
• June 16, 1999 I quit.
• June 30, 1999 I’m re-hired before I can start my new job.
• June, 2004 My 10th anniversary creeps up on me somehow.

…Or something like that. It’s all really a big blur of grey cubicles and e-mail.

One Nation Under God
I always figured that we tortured people and the Bill of Rights is something that we like to pretend is real, but when the fucking Department of Justice releases a memo justifying the use of torture, we are surely screwed.

Yay America. You can now cut off peoples’ pinkies to get information legally and with clear conscience. And while you’re at it, you are setting precedents that it won’t be a far stretch for police forces to apply to ordinary citizens with respect to criminal investigations. Did someone see a crime and their fear of testifying is ruining a case you worked a whole week on? See how a good, old-fashioned car battery attached to their genitals changes their tune.

I wonder how long it is until we learn how it was to be a typical German citizen in the 1940s…standing there watching the panzers rolling through and not having the sense or courage to do anything but smile and wave.

Gotta Go. TV is on.

Freebie for the Lady
Today, we walked down to the local sidewalk sale and got caught up in watching the local kids jump their skateboards and bikes off of wooden ramps. While watching the sometimes painful scene, I noticed a couple of guys who were easily in their thirties, but dressed as hip as the kids. As their looks were teenage, but their mannerisms much more calculated, I assumed them to be the owners of the local skate shop.

Sure enough, the older guys started throwing stickers, hats, and t-shirts to the kids. We stood back watching and laughing as all the kids dove over each other for the swag.

Then unexpectedly, one of the guys walked about 15 feet through the crowd and threw a t-shirt intentionally and directly at me. I think I said, “Wow! Thanks!” and stood there for a second trying to figure out why I got a free T-shirt. I did have my Vans and long shorts on. Maybe I was cool? No idea.

Then, I looked over at my GF and her tank top. It was at that moment that I realized who the T-shirt was really for.

Final Score
Jon Style: 0
Jubblies: 1

50 greatest Song Parts
The 50 greatest song parts of all time. I disagree with the order, but then, I haven’t agreed with any music rating system since the radio stations stopped putting “Stairway to Heaven” in the number one song of all times slot. Phil Collins #1? Puh-lease.

I got this clip from the link above, and I have no idea why I watched it all the way through. It’s just plain wrong. And it loops when it’s finished.