A couple of weeks ago on a Friday afternoon, a co-worker and I turned down a hallway, just as a young woman approached from the opposite direction. On first glance, I couldn’t say that there was anything unusual enough about her that I’d be able to pick her out of a lineup of young college grads working in the financial industry.

As she approached, she gave me a sideways glance. A few seconds later, another. As a six foot tall, 210 pound guy with an accidentally angry face and a big, sloppy beard, I wish that I could claim this was unusual, but I’d be lying if I say that I was surprised. What did surprise me though, was that when she got within a foot of me, she burst into song. It wasn’t like singing to yourself singing, either.

It was “singing by yourself while vacuuming the living room with a Walkman on” singing.

Yea. There was no Walkman, there was no vacuum, and there certainly was no living room. To add to the insanity, even though there was plenty of volume, I could not figure out if the lyrics of her song were made up of actual words.

You know when you pass by someone who suddenly seems batshit crazy and you want to ask the people you’re with “What the fuck?” but you know that the minute you go once decibel above mouthing the words there is a pretty good possibility that you’ll end up in the middle of a shitstorm of insanity? Because I had made it through the whole week without a shank in the neck, I kept my mouth shut until we were safely out of earshot.

Once safely back within the confines of nerd village, I related the story to several coworkers. None of them could come up with a reasonable explanation for the young woman’s behavior until someone chimed in,

“Maybe she thought that singing was the recommended defense against the Sasquatch.”

Sunufa.

Co-worker 1: Hey did you see Armed and Famous last night?
Co-worker 2: What’s that?
Co-worker 1: Oh, these TV stars are sworn in as cops in India.
Co-worker 2: Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No. Muncie, India.
Co-worker 2: Are you sure?
Co-worker 1: Yes.
Co-worker 2: Not Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No.
Co-worker 2: The continent? India?*
Co-worker 1: Yes, the continent. IN-D-IA.
Co-worker 2: That’s weird. Were they pulling over elephants or something?
Co-worker 1: No, it was normal.
Co-worker 2: Were there any Indian people on the show?
Co-worker 1: Well, no.
Co-worker 2: So, it’s all white people, but it’s in India.
Co-worker 1: Yea. It said right on the police station ‘India’.
Co-worker 2: Not, Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No. It was India.
Co-worker 2: Oh that’s it. I’m putting a call into Mr. Google.
Co-worker 1: [click tack click tack] Here we go: ‘Armed & Famous: The series follows five celebrities as they train to become reserve police officers for the Muncie, Indiana police department’.
All: Laughter.
Co-worker 1: I thought it was weird when they showed a Trailer park…
All: Laughter.
Co-worker 2: Were you drinking last night?
Co-worker 1: No, not at all.

*It should be also noted that India has not recently been promoted to continent

Nimoy & Shatner

Don’t ask me why, but while waiting for the Democracy player to download some Attack of the Show episodes, I found myself perusing The Ultimate Leonard Nimoy Music Site. While I will admit to owning both Shatner and Nimoy albums, I would not go so far as to encourage you to download a copy of Spaced Out – The Best of Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner if you happened to come across it in Google’s cache.

Lucille, Are You a Lesbian?

I would, however, fully encourage the downloading of
Music Nerve’s In With the Out Crowd Podcast, which I ran across while trying to remember who sang “Lucille, Are You A Lesbian?” What this DJ lacks in professionalism, he makes up with a plethora of strange musical classics. Included are Lucia Pamela’s “Walking on the Moon”, Wesley Willis’s “Rock N Roll McDonalds”, T. Valentine’s “Lucille, are you a Lesbian?” (26 min in), The Fabrications’ “I’m Sorry (I neckpunched your man)”, and a number of others. If you are a fan of musical oddities, you may have heard a number of these already, but that doesn’t detract from the fun. If you’ve never heard them before, oh man, are you in for a treat.

People’s Court Freak

And if that podcast was a weirdo sundae, this People’s Court video would be like the cherry on top. I can watch this video over and over because the guy just seems like he doesn’t have to put in any effort to come off like a genuine freak. Even the bailiff is laughing in the background. My favorite part? The guy’s answer to “What’s the hardest part about being you?” was simply, “Mustache.”

I took a four day weekend this week. I can’t say that it went as planned…

Day 0: Notar Hero

After last week, all I wanted to do on Friday night was escape into a few hours of Guitar Hero II. I put on my free GHII winter hat, applied the free sunburst sticker to the guitar controller, and waited for the PS2 to warm up. Unfortunately for me, the awesomeness that is Guitar Hero proved to be too much for my crotchety old PS2, and it revolted with a series of growls and grinds that made game play impossible.

After a little investigation, I found that I had to do a more advanced version of my last PS2 dismemberment, this time not only removing the laser, the laser guides and the snake motor screw, but I actually had to melt and bend a plastic clip to give the laser a better ride up and down the screw (meow). Needless to say, now that the PS2 is at the tail end of its life cycle, I am finally well versed at repairing it and have ithumming along better than when it was new.

Note to self: In a pinch, a hair dryer will not miraculously act like a heat gun no matter how MacGuyver the idea seemed at the time.

Day 1: Raked/ran errands

I went raking at #1GF!’s family’s house. On the ride down, we listened to Howard Stern on her brother’s satellite radio, and I found that even though I throw around more f-bombs than an angry trucker with sore nuts, I got really tired of hearing swears on the radio. I guess there is just something about DJ’s having to dance around swears that seems more fun than the swears themselves.

Within a few hours of our arrival, the gutters were cleaned, the yard was raked, and we were on our way back home. On the way back, #1GF! was beyond delighted that her brother had a remote control to the truck radio, and sat in the back seat flicking through the channels in her own impromptu version of “Name that Tune“.

the day ended with us running some errands and picking up some delicious chicken cutlets, which I ate while jamming through the easy and medium levels of GH2.

Day 2: Attended a wake for a good friend’s grandmother

It’s a strange to admit, but when people in my family die, I sometimes dream about them the night they pass away. It has happened for a few of my family members, and although it doesn’t happen all the time, I get nervous when people that I know are the only other people in my dream.

On Thursday night, I had a dream that I heard a noise in my living room. When I went to investigate, I found a friend that I’ve known for 26 years standing there looking confused. When I asked him what he was doing in my living room, he just sort of stared at me and said he had no idea. When I woke up, I spent a few hours convincing myself that my dream had nothing to do with my superstitions, and it only happened for family.

Two days later, my friend called to let me know that he had been with his grandmother when she died on Thursday night. I didn’t mention this to him, and I’m not claiming anything other than it’s weird. If I was superstitious, I might say that “family” is not always about blood.

Day 3: Broke up with IPOWERWEB & found out my aunt died

I talked about the ipowerweb fiasco yesterday, but that was relatively minor compared to the news of my aunt passing away.

About a year ago, my aunt had been diagnosed with three to six months to live. She had beaten her diagnosis by a long shot, and was actually doing relatively well, when she took a sudden downturn and within 48 hours had passed away.

My aunt had a raspy laugh that came from her toes, which was hard to resist joining in with, and like all of my Mom’s siblings, she had been blessed with a quick wit and a great sense of humor.

For only the second time in my life, I will be a pall bearer. And even though I can’t do anything to repay her for all the laughs she gave me over the years, I have to say that I’m honored to have been asked to do this for her.

Day 4: Waited…

Wakes and funerals are difficult by nature, but waiting for them to arrive can be tough, too. I couldn’t really relax yesterday because my aunt’s wake and funeral are coming up. It’s not that I think that wakes and funerals are grueling affairs, but waiting for them brings out those feelings of being a little helpless, a little distracted, and a lot like you’ll never know the right thing to say to those people who feel worse than you do. I wasted time and ran errands until I went to dinner with my parents, yesterday, but if I were smart, I might’ve spent the day living.

I can’t believe that Halloween is almost upon us. And everyone knows that a good Halloween starts with four basic ingredients: decorations, music, video, and a costume.

Decorations

Let’s start with the decorations. You can carve a pumpkin like everyone else, but that’s not very novel is it? What about carving one from one of the Homestarrunner Pumpkin patterns? No one will get it, but on the off chance that someone does, they will think you are cool.

If that’s just too much work, or you’re worried about getting pumpkin goo all over your officially licensed, 100% authentic Captain Kirk shirt, why not take a stab at making some ghosts or bats to hang around the house? You could do that, right? Look at this cute little bastard:

Bust out that box of tampons and the provided instructions and get your place decorated.

Music

Once the place is decorated, you’re going to need to fill the air with spooky toons. For those into musical oddities, Louie sent over this massive list of 90 (yes, 90!) obscure Halloween records from the Forbidden Crypts Of Haunted Music. There is so much good stuff in there that it might require that you pick up the Firefox extension “DownThemAll” to rapidly download all of the tunes without inadvertently click click clicking your way to madness.

On the same wavelength, even though I have to say that this year’s Oddiooverplay Halloween album was pretty disappointing, they still offer Ghouls with Attitude Volume 1 & 2 and a Munsters remix called “Munster Beat!” for your free downloading pleasure.

If you are still unsatisfied with the level of weirdness in your newly acquired tunes, you can download all of the original sounds recorded from Disney’s Haunted Mansion to play over and over to ramp up your Halloween spirits.

Videos

Once you’re in full Halloween swing, make sure you download (or stream) Nosferatu, Night of the Living Dead, and other old horror movies courtesy of the Internet archive.

If those don’t scare the kids, then kick it up a notch with the next videos. There’s nothing that can strike fear into children’s hearts on Halloween night like a pedophile and his dancing army of Vampirezombies. You know I’m talking about: MJ’s “Thriller”. Watch all 8 glorious minutes below…

…But unless you count sexual habits, Thriller doesn’t add much to the “weird” theme of this post now, does it? That’s why I dug out the Indian version of Thriller. You haven’t seen anything, yet. Oh enjoy this one…Enjoy it to hell!

And once you’re videoed out, wind down with last years Homestar Halloween Adventure and dig those crazy costumes.

Crap. Costumes. If you’re actually one of those social types without bodies to dispose of, you may find yourself in need of something to wear this weekend. Let’s tackle that now.

Costumes

I tried to find you something cool like a “Fletch in the LA Lakers dream sequence”, but from what I gathered from online costume shops, if you’re a guy, every costume is going to make you look like a dork. If you’re a girl, every costume out there will essentially make you look like a filthy, filthy, dirty, filthy whore. I’m not just saying that because I know you like it. No. I’ve provided the proof below:

Boy Judge and Girl Judge (Yes, it says “Guilty” across her ass):

Sno White and the Seven Dwarves:

Whoredy Ann and Pedophile Andy:

He-devil and She-devil:

And even the “Biblical” Costumes Get In on it (Yes, that is a Nun costume):

God bless America.

The Wrap Up

By this point, you have the tunes, you have the vids, you’re dressed like a whore or a dork, and you have strung tampons from every hangable surface. You should be well prepared for the holiday, and I seriously hope you are taking pictures.

Happy Halloween!

Me: Good morning!
Female: [sullenly] Good morning.
Me: What’s the matter?
Female: Eh, my uvula has been bothering me.
Me: [thinking and staring] Why is she telling me this?.
Female: Yea, it was stuck to the back of my throat when I woke up.
Me: Wha?? Ohhhh uvula. I’m an idiot.

There was Kitt, Bruce Lee, Commander Adama, that Dude from Def Leppard with only one arm, and now this.

Happy Birthday, Asswipe. Many happy returns.

I never do quizzes because they’re pretty much for teenage girls, but I really couldn’t resist a quiz called “How Evil Are You?” I actually tried to answer honestly rather than engineer the results, so imagine my surprise when the little indicator arrow was so far off the charts that it looks like there is none more evil that I could get. Either I am a sleeper Antichrist, or this quiz is flawed.

On the other hand, it’s hard to claim any moral ground when your family crest has three fucking goats on it.

- GameSpot, August 15, 2006 – Boston, MA

In an unexpected press release, it was announced today that in addition to releasing the new videogame “Guitar Hero II” this Fall, Harmonix will release two companion products that it hopes will take its popular franchise to new levels.

“I loved the original Guitar Hero,” Ravi Shankar told us. “I thought it was a very novel idea, but I wasn’t very happy to have beat it on the expert level in just under 2 weeks. I thought, they should ramp up the difficulty on this bad boy with a sitar version. Before I knew it, I was on the phone with Greg over at Harmonix pitching the idea.”

“When Ravi called I actually hung up on him,” said Greg, Vice President of Product Development at Harmonix, “I thought it was IBM support playing a joke on us. When I realized that we don’t use IBM support, I was horrified and called Ravi back immediately. Luckily for us, Ravi was pretty cool about it, and I’m glad he was. Without him, Sitar Hero would be just another idea instead of the signature edition game that will inevitably return the sitar to it’s rightful place in popular music.”

“That’s right. He did hang up on me,” chuckled the 85 year old Shankar, “But he called right back and the project took off. We have been working hard to keep the whole thing quiet, but while hanging out and playing a little Guitar Hero with my buddy Herbie Hancock, I accidentally let the Sitar Hero idea slip. I remember his jaw just hit the floor, and he immediately missed like thirty notes in a row, allowing me to solidly wail him on “Cowboys From Hell.” When he snapped out of it, he wanted to know if I would mind if He called Greg with a similar idea. I told him to go for it.”

“When Ravi told me about Sitar Hero, I lost it, because if there is a forgotten instrument that needs resurrection, it’s the keytar. The sitar has been around for thousands of years, and has had plenty of popularity. The keytar, on the other hand, danced America right through the 80’s, only to get dumped like a pair neon leg warmers as soon as the 90’s rolled around. If I didn’t have to play 15 more rounds of GH with Ravi to prove that I’m the bigger hero, I would’ve called Greg sooner, but I called him as soon as I got home the next morning.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I actually hung up on not only Ravi, but Herbie, too. I mean it’s not that often that two legends call me in the same week. This time, I thought it was Mike cranking me from the conference room. I actually said, ‘Whatever, Love Bug, call me back after your next tune up,’ and then just hung up. Before I could finish (accidentally) filling Mike’s cube with Styrofoam peanuts (Sorry, Mike!), Herbie called me back. Herbie is one serious dude when it comes to the Keytar and I have learned to respect that. After his rendition of Rockit, I wanted to be a Keytar player myself, and I had to give Keytar Hero a solid green light.”

The company is keeping quiet on the track listings for the games, but they have said that both “Rockit” and “The Final Countdown” will appear on Keytar Hero, while “(Listen To The) Flower People” and “Up, Up and Away in my Beautiful Balloon” will grace Sitar Hero.

To keep the experience uniformly great, Harmonix has stated that the current Gibson guitar controller will not be compatible with the companion games, which will require their own unique controllers. The companion products will be released in the US in November 2006.

Images from the Games:

While reading another article about dirty keyboards…

“If a researcher puts out an article that claims that something (keyboard, cell phone, etc.) is dirtier than a toilet seat, they should be forced to lick either a toilet seat or the item they claim is dirtier. If they lick the toilet seat, the article gets published. If not, they are told to go back into the lab, suck down a tall beaker of shut the fuck up, and do some real research for a change.”

While doing the daily puzzle…

Co-worker 1: I need a Seven letter word for Satan.
Co-worker 2: J-o-n-D-y-e-r

While Walking down the beach…

Old man: [to woman] Alcohol is like an aphrodisiac to me. Oh, it makes me so Hoahny”

While talking to a 21 yr. old…

34 YO: Yea. All that emo stuff? I can’t get into it. I grew up on SSD, Minor Threat, The Misfits, and Slayer. The whining usually just ends up pissing me off.
21 YO: You know skaters don’t even wear big shorts anymore?
34 YO: What?
21 YO: Yea, they all wear tight pants and have bad haircuts like Emo kids.
34 YO: WHAT?
21 YO: Yup.
34 YO: How do they do tricks in tight pants?
21 YO: I don’t know.
34 YO: Oh, that’s just wrong.

While getting ready for work…

#1GF!: How do you like the new Slayer?
Me: Awesome.
#1GF!: That stuff seems like it’d be easy to play.
Me: (The comment caught me so off guard that all I could do was give a confused, “No,” pretend to play air guitar, and say “fast.”)

While trying to get some work done…

Person 1: Hey, what do those guys say before they die?
Person 2: What are you talking about?
Person 1: Akabaka?
Person 2: [Thinks for a minute] Oh my god. You need to retake diversity training.
Person 1: What?! Nobody knows it!
Person 2: It’s Allahu Akbar. And you need to get to diversity training now.
Person 1: What is it again? Abakaba?
Person 2: Oh man. Allahu Akbar.

While listening to music…

Co-worker 1: I was just listening to a nice death metal song, and the singer ruins it by screaming, “IIIII. IIIIII Flushhh my soooouuul down the draaaiiiin.”
Co-worker 2: Did you say “nice death metal?”
Co-worker 1: Yea. It was going good, too. When I listen to a song, I want enough screaming that I can’t possibly decipher how retarded the lyrics are.
Co-worker 2: I hear that.
Co-worker 1: That line just made me picture some guy in black clothes trying to clean his bathroom with Evil.
Co-worker 2: If he was really evil, he would’ve crapped his soul right on the floor for someone else to clean up.

Oh man, don’t ask me how I came across this, but when I did, it pushed today’s regularly scheduled post to the back burner.

You go to this site, select a few personalizing options, and get a personalized message sent by Samuel L Jackson by e-mail or phone. The turnaround time between answering the last question and getting the call seems to be about three minutes.

It not only doesn’t verify the phone numbers that you put in, but it spoofs the number that you input into the caller id of the person receiving it. Remember, I have no idea if they’re collecting the phone number data, so you might want not want to send it to your grandma’s unlisted number, just to be safe.

I realize that it’s just a cheap promotional gimmick to push Samuel L. Jackson’s Snakes on a Plane, but I and everyone I showed it to seemed to say, “Best. Message. Ever.”

Personal Message From Samuel L. Jackson by E-mail or Phone.

Enjoy!

12:43 AM Several calls reporting loud parties all over town, and the police were dispatched to send the revelers on their way.

3:02 PM Caller reports that he came home from the beach and a vehicle was parked in his driveway. He asked the person that he was doing, and the operator said, “It’s a free country.” The operator drove off, heading out of town.

4:36 PM Caller reports there are two ice cream trucks operating in the area and the drivers are yelling at each other.

11:05 AM State Police reports receiving a report of a male superglued to the toilet seat at the comfort station… State Police sending unit. Fire Dept reports medical waiver signed, no transport. State Police looking for two white males, mid-30’s, wearing jean shorts, white sneakers, one wearing a Red Sox cap, seen coming out of the comfort station and wearing latex gloves…

For close to a month now, I’ve been having trouble with one of my eyes. It’s been red and itchy, and even drained a little, but because it was only irritated on one side, I didn’t think it was full blown conjunctivitis.

Like low grade pink eye, the symptoms seemed to go away on their own after a couple of weeks. Not 2 days after I thought I was in the clear did the symptoms return on the opposite side of my eye.

This went on for another week, making me think that I had some mutant strain of low-grade pink eye that had the ability to reinfect itself. I responded by wearing my glasses, washing my hands a lot, and being very careful to avoid touching my eyes. I even developed a pattern of only touching my eyes with the hand on the same side of the body to avoid spreading the issue any further.

Again, the eye itched and drained a little, but there weren’t boogers everywhere, so I waited for it to run its course. Another week later, it did. After that, I was cured… until it came back a couple of days later, then went away, then came back again, and so on for yet another week.

Today, I got up and the eye felt crappier than it had since this started four weeks ago, and I had no choice but to wear my glasses. It was so bad, that during the morning commute, glancing over my right shoulder to switch lanes was making me wince as if I was being poked in the eye. After several lane changes, all discipline went out the window, and I started rubbing my eye like lunatic to try to relieve the burning.

And something glopped onto my cheek. And my eye felt instantly better.

“Oh now you’ve done it,” I thought. “They tell you not to rub it, you rubbed it, and now you’ve unleashed full blown pink eye. All this being careful and now there’s a big booger on your cheek. Nice job.”

I swiped at the glob on my cheek to get a better look at the first example of the massive boogers that I thought would be gracing my eyelids over the coming weeks, but before I could, it flipped off my finger and onto my lap. Because I was in heavy traffic, I quickly realized that the several quick looks I could spare for my crotchal region weren’t going to be enough to triangulate the location of said megabooger until I got off the road.

When I finally parked the car and did some searching for what I swore was going to be big enough to require a kleenex with +2d6 damage against boogers, it took me almost a minute to piece together what I found. Some night a month ago, as I was pulling a video game dried, disposable contact lens from my eye, half of it had somehow remained behind and lodged itself up in my eye socket. It then remained there for the last month to become the beaten up, wet, boogery half of a contact lens that I held in my hand.

Co-worker 1: “How was your day off?”
Co-worker 2: “It was good. I didn’t drink at all.”
Co-worker 1: “That’s cool.”
Co-worker 2: “I only had three beers.”
Co-worker 1: “I thought you said you didn’t drink at all?”
Co-worker 2: “I didn’t.”
Co-worker 3: “Wait. Didn’t you just finish saying that you had a couple of bottles of wine last night?”
Co-worker 1: “Oh well, sure, wine, but that’s not drinking.”

This weekend, I went to a graduation party for my cousin and my god daughter. As in all graduation parties since time immemorial, the graduates headed for the basement, and the older folks stayed upstairs. That’s how I did it, that’s how you did it, and that’s how they do it now. At most mixed-age parties this is the standard: The kids go one way and the adults go the other.

I know where the lines are drawn. Even if I could stand the sing-song conversations of an 18 year old crowd for more than ten minutes, there was no way that I was going to be that guy who thinks that he can successfully integrate with a bunch of 18 year old kids by lamely imitating them. So, if I accepted my station, why did I feel a little left out? Maybe it was because I usually can be found entertaining a bunch of little kids more often than adults. Maybe it was because that even though I still think of myself the same way as I did when I was 18, this was solid proof that I really wasn’t.

As I was contemplating the situation, I mentioned it to my uncle who looked at me with a grin and said, “At some point, you’ll be the oldest one at these things.”

Instantly, I saw myself as a very old man, sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the kitchen. People bustled around me, but didn’t seem to notice that I was effectively alone. The imaginary me looked at the daydreaming me and grinned, snapping me back to reality.

And I suddenly felt really, really out of place.

When I was leaving, I wanted to give my god daughter four-hundred and fifty-two pounds of advice: Don’t be that kid that gets alcohol poisoning during orientation, meet as many people as you can in the first week, don’t smoke anything given to you by people you don’t know, be as many different people as you can, hide your valuables if you have a party, try everything, don’t get hooked on anything, join the radio station for the free CDs, have fun, learn something…

And I realized that like the old man in my daydream, I was gearing up to offer unsolicited advice to a kid who hadn’t asked for it.

After looking at her for a second, her brassy grin told me that she was going to earn her bumps just like the rest of us, and all I could offer was,

“Just be careful, okay?”

From the Police Log:

“2:45 p.m: Alsada Rd. caller reports Windmill II is disturbing him. He states that his house has depreciated $100,000, and the noise keeps him awake, and he wants the police to make them turn it off. O/Flaherty spoke to the party and advised him that the windmill cannot be shut off. Party was advised to call the town manager…”

I woke up this morning to the sounds of a bunch of birds squawking outside my window. As a city kid, my familiarity with bird calls extends only so far as knowing what a pigeon, chicken, and maybe a hawk sound like, so while I sat there and listened, I found it very strange that one bird’s call seemed making a familiar pattern.

As it made it’s way through the complicated call, I realized what the bird was imitating and listened intently to it run through a second time. The bird was doing his own rendition of a multi-pattern car alarm. After dumfoundedly blurting “No way,” and waiting for the third round, the bird made four short beeps, imitating a remote shutting the alarm off.

I googled some backup to prove that I’m not insane.

Yesterday’s post spawned a discussion about actors who tried to make of a go of it in the music business. It was noted that Chuck Norris actually sang the theme to Walker, Texas Ranger, and I know I used to have the Paradise Alley Soundtrack, which featured an impossibly awful Sly Stallone on vocals, but I have to say that I drew a major blank on the topic and didn’t make much of a contribution.

When I got home, I started compiling a small list to post, and whole bunch googling later it’s three fucking AM. The list has grown from Gadzuki to Godzilla, and I’m dangerously close to comatose. As you peruse, if you find that you can’t remember where an actor might be from, mouse over their album to get a tool tip containing at least one show that they were in. If you find that you need even more info, most of the albums link to Amazon.

If you see me being walked out of the building tomorrow for sleeping at my desk, at least you’ll have this MegaList to remember me by. And to the poor bastard who might have to take over my job: again, I say, sorry I’m such a spaz.

Enjoy.

(If you think of any more than this, add them into the comments.)

The weirdest thing happened today. We got this freak snow storm that caused a total white out for a good portion of the day. Then, it started raining. Then, went back to a white out. Then, it started to thunder.

In the middle of all this, I had to walk to another building on our campus to help out on an after hours project. It was snowing like hell, but it was only a couple of hundred feet, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal.

And once I got out there, I got an instant ice cream headache that I could only stop by taking my hand out of my glove and pressing it against my forehead. By the time I had walked 200 feet, the hair of the woman that I was walking with was a sheet of ice. I can only assume that I looked the same.

And the weird part: I couldn’t breathe. I go to the gym 3 times a week, and I can only describe it like being in high altitude. After about 50 feet, one of the people that I was walking with turned back. I thought that I was imagining things until I talked to other people that walked between buildings who reported the same symptoms.

I can only assume that we must’ve had an unbelievably low pressure system in the area that caused this crazy storm.

While I was working on the project, 2 of our admins took it upon themselves to push cars over the new speed bump in the road outside our building when they looked out the window and saw people getting stuck. After about 15 minutes, one of the managers on the job called security to let them know that LAN admins were out in the cold pushing cars to keep traffic moving (which if I remember correctly, is technically not part of a LAN Admin job description). Security exasperatedly reported that they were working on the problem, but I never saw anyone relieve the admins after they were too cold to continue.

The roads were so frozen on the way home that when I wasn’t driving on a 1 inch thick sheet of ice, my car was vibrating through barely formed ruts like the rally car that it’s modeled after. At least the gym was empty and I got to safely drive sideways through some parking lots on the ride home.

(Netflix: I sent 3 movies out on Monday and got only 2 back by Friday, and I have strong doubts that they were picked from the top of my queue.)

I don’t read comic books, and I don’t have an unhealthy obsession with Linda Carter, so I have no idea why this has been bothering me lately, but…

We’ve known for 30 years that Wonder Woman’s plane is invisible. In cartoons, print, everything, it is (example). I guess Batman got a cool car with all these jet doohickeys and stuff that completely topped her breasts as the number one item on the “Top Interesting things at the Hall of Justice” list, so to regain her spot, Linda Carter went out and dropped some cash on an invisible plane. I have no idea. That’s just the rumor. I wasn’t actually there.

Anyway, let’s say that we can accept the fact that there is such thing as an invisible plane, and can even extend our imagination to accept that, for some strange reason, the original engineers of a fucking invisible plane couldn’t figure out a way to allow the plane to extend its powers of invisibility to its contents. Maybe they ran out of time, or Linda Carter wouldn’t fork up the extra dough for the option. Who knows. Again, I wasn’t there. For the sake of argument, we’ll completely accept that when the wonder woman plane flies overhead, we’re going to see Linda Carter in a seated position flying through the air. We’re officially delusional, but this is what we will accept.

What we will not accept is the fact that in 30 years of flying an invisible plane, Linda Carter has not crashed it once. The gas gauge, like the rest of the plane, is invisible, meaning that she has no fucking clue how much fuel she has left when zipping around the country shopping for new costumes or endorsing lipstick. Although because we have accepted the fact that the plane cannot render its contents invisible, logic dictates that she should be able to simply look through her legs and see a giant pool of gas 20 feet behind her blue and gold ass, right? Logically, yes. Yet, in every picture that you and I have ever seen rendered, that pool is just not there, meaning that the stupid bitch consistently flies around in a two ton invisible death trap with an empty gas tank that puts everyone on the ground in danger. That’s you. And me. Dead because Linda had to top Batman. And when we’re a squashed pile of goo, no one will be able to read the license plate on the plane that crushed us. Nice one, Linda.

If you’re thinking, “She probably uses invisible gasoline,” then you should do a little research, my friend. Only gasoline fumes are invisible. The liquid is quite plain to the naked eye. If you are speaking of a magical, invisible gasoline, take your pills, because there is no such thing.

Oh, I Get It!
Hanes has an ad campaign out promoting their tagless t-shirts showing people getting absurdly annoyed with the tags in their t-shirts, giving the impression that ordinary tags must be manufactured out of sandpaper or concrete, rather than polyester or rayon. As the back is one of the least sensitive places on the human body, I thought the whole idea was foolish to the point of getting angry.

In an ironic twist, I ended up buying the T’s because they were the cheapest available. When I got them home, I must admit that I marveled (longer than I thought possible) at the cool way that they ironed the information from the tag onto the place where the tag should have been. It’s a wonder someone didn’t think of this years ago. My amazement by this technology might suggest to the critical thinker that it’s also a wonder that I can find my way home or tie my own shoes.

I Don’t Get It
With the purchase of the plain white t-shirts came the purchase of sport socks. The two go hand in hand. Again, I purchased from Hanes, as they were the cheapest socks that wouldn’t rapidly lose the elastic in the ankle (leaving one’s socks looking ruffley and dainty like some 1980’s Valley Girl). When I got them home, imagine my surprise when I found the package that the socks came in was re-sealable.

Scenario Numero Uno: Say, I’m at home. Say, hypothetically, I’m in the kitchen cooking the famous “Big Bachelor Burrito Plate” (BBBrP) a.k.a. “Fried Anal Resilience Training” (FaRT). Sizzle Sizzle. Mmmmm. Ok, now I’m going to sprinkle some cheese on my burrito. Dum de dum. I’ll sprinkle a little cheese on there, and…oh, crap. I can’t eat the whole package! Well, I could, but I’d be bunged up for a week! How do I keep the rest from getting moldy in the nasty bachelor fridge? What am I going to…Heeeeey. Niiiiiiice. Ok. There we go. Look at that. The cheese has a little Ziplock thingy on there so I can save it for next time I make the big bachelor burrito plate. That’s great! My cheese and my ass have been spared with one invention!

Scenario Numero Dos: I’m at home again. This time I’m getting ready to jog to Quincy to purchase a Big Burrito at Taco Bell (Remember, this is hypothetical. I can’t run that far, and Taco Bell burrito would rend my bowel asunder in a little under twelve seconds). Let’s see, where are those new socks? Ahh there they are…and oh crap. I can’t possibly wear all six pairs of socks at once! For one, there is no way that my feet would even fit into my shoes! Secondly, all that insulation will make them sweat so much that the smell might actually resemble a Taco Bell burrito. Then where am I? I’ll tell you where: sitting on the road side, staring hungrily at my feet, which look like big burritos akin to when the desert island guy stares at Porky Pig as if he were a roast pig dinner, that’s where! And then I’m footless! Footless! Argghh! The agony! The horror…Hey. Wait a minute. There we go. Look at that. The socks have a little Ziplock thingy on them, so I don’t have to wear them all at once. Plus, as an added bonus, the other five pairs can stay fresh, rather than mingle with the older socks in my sock drawer…

Scenario 1: Good use of Ziplock technology.
Scenario 2: Debasement of Ziplock technology, catering to germaphobes and the insane.

A friend suggested going into the Hong Kong in Cambridge to have a few Scorpion Bowls and stare at the local women. I thought that it was a bit far given the weather and I was still pretty unsure about my stomach, so I suggested heading down to the Fours in Quincy center. They have a nice “Cheers” style bar, and a lot of interesting characters come in if you like people watching. There are usually some townies, which although inherently volatile and territorial, can be fun to watch. Also present are the recently-turned-21 crowd, presenting the latest in retro fashions from the 70’s and 80’s, which are invariably dumb styles unless they are represented by a pair of British Knights sneakers with fat laces, a Kangol, and a velour Adidas sweat suit…which they never are. They are usually in one shouldered shirts, or bell bottoms, which were a bad idea in their original period, and are a worse idea now. Then, there are the middle aged secretarial breeding herds. I can describe them as no other, but they are the most fun to watch. They always have a little too much fun, their shirts are open a little to low, and their insecurities too loudly masked with a little too much booze.

That night there was another group, though. It took me a while to put my finger on the category that they were in. They were 35-45 in age, and there was a group of eight of them. The women were a little drunker than normal, a little more friendly than normal, and their shirts were all unbuttoned down to the edge of respectability. The men on the other hand, had hair that was too perfect, and tans that were too dark for this time of year. The capper was that for these guys to be as muscular as they were would have taken way, way too many hours in the gym, especially given their age. As a group, there was a 50-50 male-female split, but it was nearly impossible to tell who was with whom. The closest that I could come to a description was “aging amateur porn stars”.

The consensus became that we may have just observed our first group of overtly swinging swingers in the wild. Amazing.

What was also amazing was that my friends and I had closed out the bar, which we hadn’t done in a long while. It was 4 hours past one of their bedtimes, and about four hours before the other’s. The bar kicked us out by shutting us off in a flood of all too bright light, forcing us out into the snowy night. As we headed home through the slush and snow, I had to lock the windows to prevent one of them from grabbing snow off of the roof to perpetuate a small snowball fight that had erupted inside the car. As it was 2 AM and way past his bedtime, I decided to drop him off first, and prevent any further misadventure. As I wasn’t sure if my friend had his keys, after the usual thanks and good byes, I thought it prudent to lean on the horn for thirty of forty seconds straight just to make sure that someone would be available to let/take him in as we were pulling away.

I hope he got in ok.

I go to the gym. I’m a gym goer. I’m not a gym guy, though. I’m not one of those guys that wears a gym tank top, drinks power mega ultra amino shakes, or yells, “booyah” after every bench press. I’ve been going to the gym steadily throughout my life, give or take a brief hiatus from 18 to 28 or so, and have been going regularly for a year or so. I work out a little, talk in a German accent a little, kiss the mirror a little, and feel good. I like feeling good, so I go.

Ok, the guys will back me up on this. Ladies, the gym for a guy is different than it is for a girl. I didn’t really know this until they were working on something in the boys locker room when I was a teen, and we had to cut through the women’s locker room to get out to the pool. I was completely amazed at the difference. The girls had individual changing spaces, individual little shower stalls, a bunch of sinks, and a couch. Where the hell was the giant changing room, and the giant prison-style shower room like we had? Where was our couch? I thought it was pretty unfair, and I never really could figure out why girls got all that stuff, while the boys lived like inmates. The only explanation that I could get out of anyone was that guys don’t need that stuff. I guess that because I got testicles, I lost a couch, and well, I wouldn’t really want to trade, if it’s all the same to everyone.

So, throughout the years, I have noticed 2 things:

1. Guys under 49 generally, guys go in, change, shower, and get the fuck out of there without making much eye contact
2. Guys over 49 years of age go in, get naked, shower, hang around, and eventually grudgingly get dressed and go home.

I think that something must snap loose in your brain one morning in those later years where you say to yourself, “Wait a minute! What have I been doing all these years? Wearing clothes, keeping my junk in check? Screw that. How can I have been so blind? The world wants to see my big hairy nuts! Scratch that. They need to see my big hairy nuts!”

That’s the day you stop bringing a towel to the gym. I mean, you’ll air dry by the time that you finish shaving or talking to the other old guys, right? So why waste a towel? Plus, it is your feeling that you may have the best looking nuts in town, and you think that they are wasting their beauty cramped up in those tighty whities. You can’t really be a pervert and show them off in the street, but the guys at the gym will appreciate them. I mean look at them. They’re beautiful. You’re just doing your part to beautify the world.

Plus, you’re doing your part by keeping the young guys out of the locker room, so you and the other old guys can hang out more. There is nothing like shaving your head in the mirror with a bic, buck naked in the middle of the gym to keep those goddamned young guys away from the sink, you know? And if they try to wash their hands or something, just talk to them, scratch your nuts, talk some more, examine your nuts, talk more while examining your nuts…well you know the procedure.

My response is A. They’re just nuts. Most of us have some, and most of us don’t care about yours. Show them to someone who cares. B. Strap yours to something before someone accidentally steps on them, or better yet, do us all a favor and put them away.

Freaky

A Lady is listening to her soothing sounds make baby sleep machine from Wal-Mart (didn’t people used to hold and rock babies to make them sleep?) and she hears a tiny voice coming through the speaker behind the ocean waves saying over and over,

“I hate you.”

Eat the Poor

If you are a smelly person in Bend, Oregon, you may be banned from riding the bus for fear that you will offend the other passengers. To me, this sounds like a way to keep the homeless, crazy people, and my sister off of the bus…not to mention professional athletes and the French. Goddamned stinky French with their cheese. The ban also prohibits people from skateboarding or defecating on the busses. This should keep off Californians and the Germans.

And I thought that Oregon was a liberal state. I wonder if there is room for argument or interpretation on the level of stink. What if you don’t stink, per se, but you are taking the bus back from a nice dinner at “Jim’s Beans and Cabbage”? What if you’re a baby? Or an old guy? What if you happen to defecate on the bus, but it’s just a tiny, cute, little nugget poop? It’s not like it’s a big stinky boa constrictor that you grunted out in the middle of the aisle. It’s just a little nugget for your own enjoyment. Does that count?

Why do we even need a law against pooping on the bus, anyway? What the hell has gone wrong on that coast?

P.S. My sister doesn’t really smell, and the Germans don’t looooove poop. Just kidding. One of those is a lie.

If you believe…

If you haven’t yet heard the argument that the moon landing was made on a Hollywood sound stage, someone is now presenting an argument that there is no physical way that the U.S. could’ve had the rocket power to actually lift back off of the moon. I guess the moon lander would’ve had to have a really big rockets. All I could do was sigh when I started getting into it, because pinhead certainly does present a good case, and if correct would bring into question everything that this government has done for the last 60 years. I wasn’t really ready for more doubt, so I stopped halfway through. (Full Story)

Instant Messages

Mr. A: I wish you married my girlfriend so that I could visit two of my favorite people at the same time.
Mr. B: LOL!
Mr. A: …Then I could sneak over your house and have sex with your wife while you weren’t home.
Mr. B: not LOL.

Highlights at 11
So, I’m laying in bed over vacation, (which I did rather regularly and for extended periods of time) and I’m listening to AM 1400. AM 1400 is one of those stations that plays Frank Sinatra, Jose Feliciano, and Jim Croce back to back. It plays all the songs that you never hear on FM, and most that you don’t want to. It evokes strange feelings of hatred and comfort at the same time, and a lot of old people call in, so I listen often.

On one morning they had a contest. The question was: “Which state put the pronunciation of it’s name into an actual law?” I thought for a second, and thought Arkansas was a good candidate. Because they were giving away tickets to Mumenchantz, which seemed interesting to me when I was a kid 20 years ago but incited nothing even remotely like interest for me now, I wasn’t going to bother with dialing them up on the rotary phone in my bedroom.

Then the answers started rolling in. “Is it Hawa ee ee?” asked one woman. No, smart ass. Nice try, though. I don’t think the Hawaiians are as concerned with the our pronunciation of their name, as they are with the the fact that we invaded them and never left. I doubt that they would waste one minute of sunshine indoors passing that law. Ah, hell, she sounded old, so I gave her a little leeway and deemed it a good guess, anyway.

Guess number two: “Kansas?” Kansas? Kansas? Are you fucking kidding me? Even the announcer, who is really nice to the old people just let the answer hang in the air for a minute before apologizing and hanging up.

Guess number three: “Iowa?” Arrrggghh. I am actually out of bed and yelling at the radio now. Iowa As I yelled at the radio asking how in the flying fuck someone could mispronounce Iowa, and wondering what genetic bouillabaisse that this woman was privileged to be a part of, the announcer again let the answer hang in the air before saying that he had never actually heard anyone mispronounce Iowa before.

“Well, some people say Aiwa.”

I called in the air strike on the North Shore of Massachusetts, just in case this woman’s genes may have escaped in to one or more humans, and started dialing the rotary phone like a madman.

ziiiiiiipp chick chick chick chick chick chick chick ziiiiiiiiip chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick zip chick

I admit that I didn’t even remember the entire number, and I really really really didn’t want the prize, but I couldn’t listen to another second of this human tragedy. As I dialed the 6th random number, a man as exasperated as I was called in and won the prize. I then wound down.

Previous entries suggest that a friend of mine got porn for XMas. He did. The porn he got not only had multiple angles, and 3+ hours of porno, but had an “interactive” feature as well. I didn’t notice this when I bought it, but I was curious when I noticed it. If my sister wasn’t there, I would’ve had it him put it in the PS2 to see what it was all about. When I mentioned this, I got:”Listen, dude. There are only two times to be watching porno: When you’re alone or at a bachelor party”

I don’t know about you, but I came up with 14 or 15 other scenarios while he was talking. How about the situation where you’re hanging out with a hot chick that likes porno? Or what about the one where the porno star’s car breaks down just outside your house, and she’s all like, “Can I come in and call a tow?” and you’re all like “yea” and she’s all like, “I’m so bored” and your all like, “Well, do you want a coke or some wheat thins or something?” and she’s like “Nah. You got any porno that I might be in that we could watch to pass the time?” And you’re all like “listen lady, there are only 2 times to be watching porno…”

Or then there’s the one where the Swedish bikini team’s van breaks down outside your house, and they’re all like “Can we come in and call a tow?” Oooh oooh or when the Swedish porno team’s van breaks down outside your house. Yea! And they’re all like outside and chanting your name and stuff, and you’re all like, “Keep it down out there you biatches, before I call the cops! I’m trying to watch porno in here.” And they all like start making out in your front yard and you totally film it. Yea.

A few days ago, when asked what he wanted for x-mas, a friend of mine joked that he wanted porno. Uh-huh. I don’t believe that he thought that he would really get porno. Nor did I. He will be getting porno this year.

I figured that I would purchase said pornography from the local adult video store that I pass on the way home from work every day. I put it off every day this week, because everyone knows that porno stores are dimly lit places full of creepy people. There are dudes that grunt, lots of trench coats, and people masturbating on you when you walk by. I figured that I could avoid all that by buying the stuff online, but that would only lead to years of pornographic snail mail all over the front steps. Plus, I really like to face things that I am uncomfortable with. What the hell was I concerned about? Would people think I was some sort of pervert for going to a porn store? Would they think that the videos were for me, and that I was going to run home and masturbate all over them? Would they throw their crucifixes at me?

After the gym, I was pretty sweaty and wearing sweats, thus minus the trench coat, I was exactly the type of bearded freak that I would expect to find in there. Yet, I felt anxious as I drove to the place. I felt even more anxious waiting to take a left into the parking lot. I even contemplated going beyond the store and making a left, just so I could backtrack and make a quick right into the place. Then, I thought, “Why am I concerned about this?”

I sat in traffic, made my left, and pulled in with my license plate and stainless steel exhaust facing the road. If someone saw it, let them come in and get me.

Funny thing is, no one did. The priests refrained from throwing their crucifixes, as they were probably afraid of losing their grip on whatever small boy they were giving “religious training” to. The other traffic just passed on, and no one cared that I was going to the filthy porno store.

So, I walked up to the door of Amazing Video, and there was a sign that said that they were going to card me. Given the fact that I have been mistaken for 38, 40, and an “older person” lately, I doubted that I would be carded, but I didn’t want to risk it. I went back and got my wallet just in case. I was not going to be singled out on my first visit to porno town.

When I walked in, I was faced not with a dimly lit freak show, but a brightly lit friendly store that, minus the porno, could’ve been any video store. The guy behind the counter gave me a friendly “hello,” and didn’t masturbate on me once. The sections were laid out as in a regular video sore, with the exception of the different section titles. Instead of Comedy, drama, showtunes, etc. they have: Collections, Features, Gonzo, Amateur, Interracial, Anal, and Blow Jobs. There were more sections too, but I can’t remember them, and I think there was probably a gay section, too, but I don’t remember seeing that one either.

Thanks to my 4th grade sex ed class, I knew what most of the sections were, with the exception of “Gonzo.” I must admit that I had no idea what “Gonzo” could be. To me, “Gonzo” sounded like there would be naked people on trapezes, punching each other in monkey suits while having sex. I wasn’t exactly sure what the rules of communication in a porn palace were, but I figured that I’d ask the clerk. If talking was against the rules, I was new, and could be forgiven. I could go through the clerk’s complex explanation, but I think that it had something to do with the actors/actresses acknowledging that the camera exists. The regular film industry calls this the “4th person”. Porno says it’s Gonzo. Why? I don’t know. Maybe 4th person is something else entirely in porno. Maybe Gonzo makes people buy videos that they think will contain monkey people punching each other on trapezes. I really don’t have the foggiest.

Upon initially surveying the store, I was faced with a wall…a big wall…a 20+ foot wall…of gigantic neon dildos. From the front of the store, I could make out the giant latex veins on these monsters. There were things that looked like they had nuts, some that looked like they would touch a woman’s lungs, and some that resembled cattle prods. And this was on a quick glance across the store. I can only imagine how intimidating these things are up close. I should’ve gone to take a closer look, but I didn’t want the other freakish porno shoppers to think I was a freak or something, so I just started my hunt for the perfect Christmas porno. Just because it’s a gag gift…doesn’t mean I’m going to grab any porno and run out the door. It’s Christmas, for chrissakes.

Upon walking up and down all the aisles for a half hour, I realized that I don’t know shit about porno. They’re on DVD now, though, and have multiple angles, and all kinds of interactive crap on them. If you are outside of the technology industry, you may not believe this, but the porno industry is actually on the bleeding edge when it comes to technology. They have pioneered the web, and they are pioneering DVD technology. Yet despite our mutual love for the advancement of technology, the industry wasn’t helping me to pick a single porno. Everything looked the same to me.

Then an older lady in a trench coat walked in and bought some stuff. A lady in a porno store? What the? Oh, Wall of dildos, bunch of porno, right. Gotcha. Porno is for women, too. Come to think of it, I think they had a row marked of videos marked “Couple friendly,” too. Wink wink. Nudge nudge. Wait, now I’m creepy. Oh boy.

Anyway, I avoided asking the clerk the asinine question of “How do you know what’s good,” and walked to the top 20 DVDs, stared at them for a while, and picked one out. I think there’s probably sex in it, and there were no hairless dudes on the front, so I think I got a good one. I don’t know if it makes use of multiple angles or any high tech features, though, but I was shopping blind. Blinded by boobies, that is. Haw haw haw. Baw chicka baw baw. Sorry. Creepy again, right?

So, I visited the porno store. One present down, 99% of the time with no anxiety, only 2 trench coats, and no one masturbating. I think it was a successful trip.

Christmas can be a stressful, especially when you’re running out of time to get your shopping done. It wasn’t always like that, though. In the Roman Empire, Christmas was more of an annual ten day Woodstock festival.

According to Wikipedia:
Saturnalia, the 12-day Roman feast devoted to Saturnus, god of the harvest, started on December 17th was indeed an orgy of gift-giving, overeating, and raucous baby-making. It peaked around December 25th with Dies solis invicti nati, the Day of the Birth of the Unconquered Sun.

Kissing under the mistletoe seems innocent enough until you know a bit more. In accounts written by Pliny, the Roman historian, the Celts in Northern Europe held week-long rituals during the winter solstice in an effort to convince the sun to be re-born. They feasted, drank mead laced with mistletoe (their sacred plant), and then engaged in wild sex orgies. (The white mistletoe berries were considered to be drops of semen belonging to the spirit of the revered oak tree.) Today, all that’s left is the kissing ritual, a watered down version of Celtic foreplay.

Now, the best we hope for is the excitement of an iPod.

If you understand none of this, brush up at the Boston English Guide…) So it’s Saddadee, and youah at a dingah down in Quincy, and this wicked big loozah is totally hittin’ on you. An’ youah like, “Ahm all set with this. I wish I could just book it ahtta heah.” Theahr all like “how why ya?” an’ what’s youah numbah? Youah so hawt n’ shit.” You just want this big quayah to take a dudley. But they totally won’t leave you alone. So youah all like “Wait! You like computahs n’ shit, too? Well, so don’t I! Lemme give you my numbah…

What you really give them is (617) 861-3962. Call now.