versus Stupid Ideas

Okay, how many of you have ever done something that seemed like a good idea at the time but upon further reflection realized that maybe, just maybe, you should have gotten a second opinion before you acted? And I don't mean little foolish things like trying to lick your own elbow. Or shouting "I'm Batman!" upon entering a public men's room that wasn't quite as empty as you thought. Or nodding vigourously at the computer screen while reading this as though somehow I can see what your doing through the magic of the interweb. No, I'm talking about ideas like, "Hey, how high can you throw a horseshoe straight up?" not thinking that gravity will fling that horseshoe right back at you.

The reason why I bring this up is because I have many such ideas that turned out badly. I mean, so badly that I'm a bit surprised I haven't been brought up on charges of first degree murder of my own brain cells, just for thinking them. So, naturally, this line of thinking led to the obvious question of, "Where do stupid ideas come from?" Well, as we all know governments are the primary breeding grounds for idiotic ideas. (I.e. - Great Wall of China was built because the Emperor got so fed up with his younger brother, Hank, always playing with his stuff and he wanted to clearly mark which side of the country was his.) But that doesn't really answer where they come from, does it? Hmmm, let me just line up a few more brain cells in front of the ol' firing squad and see what I can think of...perhaps I should start by analyzing a few problems and compare and contrast good ideas to solve the problem with bad ones.

1st Problem: I'm very hot and I want to cool off.
Good idea - Drink chilled iced-tea or eat some ice cream.
Bad idea - Steal a bra from my Aunt Gertie (you know, the one with the bazoombas bigger than Kentucky) fill it with ice cubes and strap it to my chest.

Analysis: Well, the good idea is very good, for not only does it serve the desired function but it also tastes really great. The bad idea, though, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Of course, the basic concept of it is sound - apply ice to the body, thus cooling it dramatically - but the execution is just horrible. First it assumes I have an Aunt Gertie (or a similarly bazoomba-enhanced female relative)...which I don't. Second, I need to make all that ice, which will melt and make me all soggy. And third, there is a definite risk of frost bite to the nipples. Not good. Not good at all.

2nd Problem: Oh no, I have a flat tire!

Good idea - Use my jack, tire iron and spare tire to swap out the damaged wheel.

Bad idea - Use my jack and tire iron to take a good tire off a nearby car and put it on your own, leaving only a note that says, "Yoink!!"

Analysis: Again, the good idea in this instance is quite solid, employing the very admirable traits of self-reliance, responsibility, and a can-do attitude! I'd be on my way in a matter of minutes. The bad idea completely fails in just about every way possible. The initial thought process is sound but deviates wildly from anything remotely resembling good with astonishing speed. Not only is it criminal to do such a thing, but there is no guarantee that this new tire will even fit my wheel hub or has the proper air pressure. And then leaving the note, "Yoink?" It's just plain rude of me. That is what is referred to by most people as a "dick move."

3rd Problem: I have a headache...
Good idea - Drink more fluids, take some aspirin and get some rest.
Bad idea - Decapitate myself.
Analysis - It's pretty obvious here why the good idea is so good: you are actively taking steps to feel better, not only for the moment, but also in the near future. It's an elegant solution with the potential for long term benefits. Decapitation would solve the problem by removing it entirely and I had thought it would be a valid method at first because that is precisely what surgeon's do to cancerous growths. So despite the clear effort on my part to come up with a solution that does have some form of precedence, however tangental, it does have a clear downside: I would be dead. And further research has conclusively proven to me that being dead is, at best, an undesirable condition to be in; at worst...well, I could be even more dead than I originally suspected.

Hmmm...after carefully studying the above situations and weighing the benefits and downfalls of each, I think I may have finally come up with a workable theory on the origins of dumb ideas.

Stupid ideas come about in the same way as all ideas: from a nice cute little innocent concept, the kind that wear pink bows in their hair and make people go, "Aww," and want to pinch its cheeks. It's all sweet and cuddley as it grows into a thought and you proudly show it off to your buddies, loudly claiming that one day it will change the world, everyone will wish they had an idea just like this one and it may even become president! You make sure it doesn't beat too much brain candy, goes to bed early, washes behind its little thought balloons. Then, the idea hits puberty and WHAM! all hell breaks loose.

Suddenly, your idea has grown into something of a theory and starts being all secretive and evasive and ignores you when you ask it to take out the garbage, preferring to stay in its room. No matter what you do, you just can't seem to understand it as you once did. It argues with you at every opportunity now and more often then not you feel like its in control of you, not the other way way. By now, the days of it having little bows in its hair are long gone, replaced with wardrobes of halter tops that flaunt its fine notions and skirts so short you can practically see its thesis! It has become a scheme, a wild crazy scheme that runs amok, overrides your better judgement and before you know it your car is nothing more than raging fireball careening down the highway because you wanted to make S'mores on the way your grandmas house using the cigarette lighter.

So, really, is it a question of upbringing? Could proper supervision and dedicated care have prevented such a tragic ending? Or are some ideas just destined to be foolhardy?

I think its a little of both. Sure, we can safeguard as much as we want against possible dumbness but, the fact remains: sooner or later, somewhere in the world someone will think of something that will require the use of a helmet - always a clear sign of the stupidity strength of any given action.

versus Poll #5: Nostalgic Youth

Ah, the innocence of youth; the pure joy of the young; the happiness of the naive...have we ever known such a time?  (The answer is Yes; unless you are some sort of time-displaced being that is not bound by linear chronology.)

I always find it amusing to think back on my childhood for, try as I might against it, I always end up looking back on it with rose colored glasses.  Saturday morning cartoons; endless hours of playing with my assortment of G.I. Joe, He-Man, and Transformer action figures; scouring the backyard for grasshoppers and catepillars; playing in the dirt with my friends; lifting up rocks, looking for worms and whatever creepy-crawlies I cound find - damn, I was a pretty gross kid.  I mean, I used to stick my hands in the mud and swish 'em around just to see what I could come up with.  Yeah, kids are pretty damn disgusting.

But you know who has even more disgusting kids than humans?  Frogs.  Well, perhaps "disgusting" isn't so much the word for it, as "effing weird."  I mean, think about it: you're born in the water, are essentially a giant sperm swimming around (I used to collect tadpoles, too.  As if you couldn't guess that!) and as far as I could tell you didn't have any eyes or mouth.  And then as you mature, your body essentially starts mutating all over the place!  Arms start growing from nowhere, your tail pretty much falls off, and before you know it you've got this giant piece of flesh that is twice as long as your entire body hanging out of your brand new feeding slot (your mouth) that you can basically use as a lasso to get your food.  I mean, I was freaking out enough as a kid when my teeth started falling out and new ones grew in, I can't imagine being 10 years old and suddenly a bunch of entirely new limbs begin to sprout out of my torso!  I'd be like, "Uh, Mom...Dad...?  What in the name of insane evolution is this?"  "Oh, that's just your 3rd and 4th arm.  My boy is becoming a man!"  Yeah, frogs are really weird ass creatures and the next time you see one just really sit back and appreciate what kind of mutants freaks they are.  No wonder they were part of the plagues of Egypt.

So, now you might be saying, "What the hell does this have to do with our lost childhood?"

And then I be forced to answer, "...shut up...I was getting to it Mr./Ms. Hasty-Pants.  Sheesh, you'd think being an adult now you would have learned a little patience...."

Well, I suppose I better get on to the results of the poll before someone decides to hold their breath until I do.  According to this survery the one thing that nobody misses about their childhood is their propensity to wipe their runny nose on their sleeve instead of a tissue.  Don't try to deny you did it; I know for a fact you did.  But, I agree, even though it would be much more expedient to do so, it is a very disgusting part of our youth and I for one don't really look back on those moments and feel the warm glow of nostalgia.

Next, we have a three-way tie for most longed for aspects of our formative years: The ability to eat with such reckless abandon regarding sugars and fats that such numbers would cripple us today; the freedom of not having to worry about a paycheck let alone figuring out what portion of said paycheck is due to our favorite Uncle Sam; and the sheer joy of hearing someone say the word "fart" regardless of the fact that it is said within the confines of the same joke over and over and over, ad nauseum.  Yes, these are all very excellent parts of our youth and I would in fact be willing to go back to any of those aspects myself at any time.

But, the clear winner of this weeks poll comes from a desire to go back to a time of care-free fun, running around with our friends playing tag in our backyards, when the worst thing that could happen to you was being "IT."  I loved playing tag; we used to play Freeze Tag, Shadow Tag, Toss Tag, and another version of tag that we made up in which the runners couldn't get back on home base unless they touched something on the other end of the yard.  Man, that was fun...anyone want to get a game of tag going soon?  If so, I'm saying it right now:  NOT IT!!!

versus "Avatar"

Just to avoid any confusion, I must say that this is James Cameron's "Avatar," rather than that Nickelodeon cartoon of the same name. Or you could just look at that photo to the right.

So, this past weekend I was part of the record setting openning weekend for "Avatar" - though, I'm not sure what records were set, I just remember seeing many Yahoo! articles titled "New Film Sets Record!."  I might just assume that it set a record for the largest collective sigh of relief that Celine Dion will not be singing an overly dramatic ballad based on this movie.  I will gladly lend my support to such a record.  More likely, though, the record was based on attendance, or something related, and I am more than happy to be part of that record as well.  Because, quite simply, the movie was amazing!

It was not a perfect film - I will get more into the negatives in a bit - but I have no qualms whatsoever in saying that this is perhaps the single most beautiful movie I've ever seen.  The imagery was beyond breathtaking.  James Cameron has, in my opinion, succeeded better than any other director in creating a believable alien world ecology.  Perhaps the only concession he did make to popular convention was to have the "dominant" life form on this planet be humanoid; and that was probably done more to give us, the viewer, an easier time to connect with the Na'Vi (the alien race, though they simple refer to themselves as The People).  The Na'Vi are very interesting species as they are 10-foot tall cat/monkey hybrids and brilliantly visualized.  Of course, there are many other recognizable creatures throughout, but they are sufficiently different from anything we have seen before.  I particularly liked how all the creatures that were featured shared some common traits, such as: they all had 6 highly functional limbs; they all had some form of bio-luminescence (the glowed in the dark like a fire-fly); they all had gill-like holes in their necks through which breathed.  These are nice little things that all lend to the overall sense that they evolved from similar ancestors, even though those ancestors are very different from our own.  I could go on all day about the sheer beauty of the film and marvel at the attention and obvious love the creators put into this project, but you would be much better served by seeing it for yourself.

As mentioned earlier, this is not a perfect film, and I will now take a few moments to discuss the parts that I felt were a bit lacking.  The worst thing about this film was the predictability of it all.  Within 15 minutes I felt I correctly predicted the story-arc, what was going to happen to the main characters, even who would live and who would die.  Without getting into the plot too far, it could be boiled down into the Pocahontas story.  That said, I did think it was very good rendition of what it was trying to do.  At no point did I feel emotionally cheated by the acting, the dialogue, or the motivations.  Nor was I ever confused about what was happening or seeing on screen.  It all made sense; there were just no real surprises.

Perhaps the thing I hated the most was the name they came up with for the mineral that brought the humans to the alien world of Pandora in the first place: Unobtainium.  Seriously?  Could just be me, but I thought it was really dumb and every time someone said the word I felt like I wanted to laugh AT the movie, not with it.

I really enjoyed the villian of the movie - again, predictably - the resident military Jarhead commander who goes by the name Colonel Miles Quaritch (played by Stephen Lang).  Despite the enormous pitfall of having such a cliche bad guy, Cameron and Lang do a very good job creating an actual character, a real person.  He is not a total asshole - that role is admirably filled by Giovanni Ribisi's corporate tool - in fact, he pulls strings to help the main character with a few favors.  The Colonel is simply a supremely confident man, that sometimes borders on arrogance, and knows exactly who he is and what he is about.  He is battle scarred, he is willing to do any dirty work with his own hands, and even heroically tough.  Two of my favorite images of this man involve him casually leaning against the pilots chair, calmly drinking a cup o' coffee as he leads his troops in the predictable assault on the Na'Vi; and the moment where he commits himself personally to the inevitable battle amidst flaming wrecking as a virtual incarnation of destruction.

A beautifully realized movie, I would totally recommend this film to anyone and would encourage a cinema viewing if only get the scope of the thing.  I will this movie an 8.5 out of 10 because of its predictability.

versus "The Gathering Storm"

Yesterday I finished reading Book 12 of the Wheel of Time series (book 13 if you wish to count the prequel novel "A New Spring") written by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson.  To give you a very brief critique: It was bloody brilliant!!

I realize that this is probably not a book that many people would just want to pick up and read - not unless they've read the previous 11, at any rate - and these are such large tomes that I been frequently accused by my cooworkers of toting around the dictionary.  Heck, the author has even become a punchline for myself and my friends for anything that is excessively written - "Dude, you just totally Robert Jordaned this essay!  It's friggin' 15 pages long!"  Also, as it is set in the realm of fantasy, replete with swords, farmers being raised to the lofty heights of kings, and magic many people automatically dismiss such tales as childish.

But if you do, then you are merely depriving yourself of a wonderful tale, beautifully written that explores a world so completely filled with details, characters so fully rendered, and histories spun out in totality it rivals that of Tolkien.

That isn't to say this is the easiest series to read; far from it.  The Wheel of Time does get begin to feel the weight of its own epic tale and the narrative grows stagnant in the later novels (my particular bane is book 10 "Crossroads of Twilight").  Some of the characters feel superfluous or needlessly complex.  A very strong case could be made of the first novel in the series "The Eye of the World" that it is merely a re-imagining of the classic Lord of the Rings books and Arthurian legends.  But it is still its own entity and over the course of the next few books it becomes quite clear how much effort and genuine care went into the creation of this world.

This novel, "The Gathering Storm," has far exceeded nearly all of the previous books in terms of events, pacing, focus, and sense of satisfaction.  Things actually happen in this novel, storylines that have been cast as early as book 3 have finally come to some sort of conclusion (at least as much as could be hoped for).  Some of this could be from the simple fact that this was originally intended to be the last book of the serious; some of it could be from the new author, one Mr. Brandon Sanderson, and has injected some new energy into the narrative.  Sadly, the original author died in 2007 and had not been able to witness the conclusion of tale he began over 20 years ago; though he did plan for his death and had mapped out the final flow of the story.  Sanderson is a special talent and while it is possible to detect the difference in styles if you look hard enough, it has in no way detracted from the characters and feel of the books.  He creates such sincere desperation in the characters and the final arc of this book is so heartfelt and wrenching that you cannot help but feel for them.

After reading this series for nearly half my life (I first picked it up in 1994-95) and having reread many of the books multiple times, this was a very satisfying experience and I am truly looking forward to the next in the series.  I won't sit here and say you MUST READ THIS because it is just so large and epic; but I will say that if you choose to do so you will find an exceptionally written, exceedingly worth while tale.  I acknowledge the shortcomings here, but the gains far outweigh the costs.

vs. Insomnia

By a show of hands, how many of you have ever experienced insomnia, or as its known by its more common name "Why the *BLEEPING* Hell Can't I *BLEEPING* Fall the *BLEEPING* *BLEEP* Asleep!!"?  (Yes, I can tell if you raise your hands or not.  And don't roll your eyes at me!)  Unfortuntely, no one can seem to pin-point the exact cause of the condition, though scientists have made enormous headway researching such theories as: the Incessantly Barking Neighborhood Dog Complex, the Spousal Snoring Disorder, and the Probably-Shouldn't-Have-Drank-That-Last-Double-Moccacino-With-Marshmellows-Since-Its-Already-Midnight-itis.  This is a condition that affects extremely large portions of the population; if one knows what to look for, the signs are everywhere.

That bus-driver you saw this morning with bloodshot and pouchy eyes?  He didn't get more than 3 hours rest last night.  Or he' drunk.  Might not want to ride with him again, I think he was slurring his words.

The cranky check-out girl?  That's right, she hasn't been sleeping well for the last few days and it impaired her decision making ability, resulting in that truly horrible hair cut.  And I'm pretty damned sure you'd be pissed off too if you looked like that!

 That boy in gym class wearing the cut-off t-shirt and hot pink short-shorts with the word "Sassy" written across his bum?  He's barely totaled 20 hours of snoozing in over a week and didn't notice when he grabbed his mother's work-out bag instead of his own gym bag.  Why he actually wore those clothes, nobody really knows...

Pretty much anywhere you look, you will probably see someone dealing with sleep-deprivation.  Especially if you were to look at me!  I have fought some long bouts with insomnia, lost most of them, and had all the classic symptoms beat into me: irritability, lack of focus, extreme fatigue, temporary insanity, my ankle metamorphosing into a tortoise, and paranoia.  Did I mention the temporary insanity?  Now, in my experience, insomnia comes in  4 stages.

Stage 1 Insomnia:  Pretty mild, mostly not being able to fall asleep for a few hours, wake up tired the next day, bleary-eyed.  The worst thing is usually forgetting to comb your hair.  Might last for 2 days.

Stage 2 Insomnia: Not much fun as it can last for up to a week and 3 A.M. comes and goes cheerily while you are nowhere near sleeping.  You have tried watching movies, reading books, and only stopped counting sheep when you forgot what number comes after a bajillion (the correct answer is a bajillion-and-one, in case you were wondering).  There are some dangers involved with stage 2 insomnia, though, primarily centered on the inability to pay attention to what the hell you are doing at any given point.  Clothing myself properly has always been my particular Achilles heel during stage 2.  I've started my morning work commute in my shirt and tie, sleep shorts, and dress shoes more times than I should be admitting to.  Other dangers include getting sucked into late-night TV marathons of "The Golden GIrls," "Red Dwarf," or "Poirot." Also, the QVC threat-level goes up six or ten notches and the likelihood of buying ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like orangutans hanging from trees is increased exponentially.

Stage 3 Insomnia:  Now its getting serious.  Sleep has avoided you like a dog being chased by the vacuum cleaner and it is nearing two weeks since you last caught and managed to hold onto some Zzzzs of any kind.  While you are at work you are equal parts surly bitch and clumsy jackhole.  You would probably admit to being paranoid about everything but you are absolutely sure that doing so would be precisely what they wanted you to do, those crafty bastards!  Things make less and less sense to you but, by a happy coincidence, things that shouldn't make sense are suddenly entirely plausible and seem perfectly natural, so, rationally speaking, everything is on balance and is just as it should be.  If only the stupid curtains would mind their own business and stop staring at you all the time, that is!  There are few things more irritating than nosey draperies, am I right?   Then things begin to get a little…strange….  Since you are not sleeping anyway, you decide night has become the perfect time to do something constructive, like gluing all your vegetables to the ceiling so you always know where they are or apply SPF-50 on the south-facing walls of your house before all that exposure to the sun gives them melanoma.  At some point - you are not entirely sure when, though, because time has become fluid, spilled onto the floor, and your cat licked it up thinking it was milk (now its breath smells horribly like Wednesdays, blach!) - you come the conclusion that your complete failure to sleep for a fortnight is the direct result of unethical scientific experimentation being perpetrated on you by the plastic disposable cups hiding in the basement.  Sadly, though, all your attempts for a political injunction have been futile since the Pillsbury Dough Boy merely giggled at you and said, "I can't even read!  Hee hee!!" and not for the first time you seriously regret voting for him as Prime Minister.  At least the family of acorns that moved into the corner of your bedroom are sympathetic to your plight and have repeatedly invited you to play Scrabble with them to help keep your mind off things.  You're not sure you want to though because acorns are horrible spellers in general.  All this wouldn't be so bad, if only the recent funky flavor of the night, like somebody mixed Raisonettes with the planet Jupiter, didn’t make your tongue retain so much water.

Stage 4 Insomnia:  You haven't slept in a month and are more than likely dead.  Dude...that blows.  Sorry.  Hopefully, you've bequeathed your ceramic orangutan collection to someone who will love them as you did.  Which won't be me, I'd rather have your records if you don't mind.

"So, now what?" you may be asking.
To which I would reply, "About what?"
"Is there anything to be done about insomnia?" you would more than likely say.
"Probably," is how I think I would respond and I would definitely be ignoring that frustrated look you would be giving me.
"And that would be...," you would be forced to say and I would kindly ask that you please try to keep your irritation to a minimum, its highly possible that I won't have slept in quite some time and may have a rather nasty headache.
"I don't know.  Eat properly.  Get plenty of exercise.  Go to bed at reasonable hour.  Don't watch TV in bed.  You know, all the things you are not doing now," I would say in a sage manner and refuse to choke on my own hypocrisy.
"Oh," you would say and I'm sure at that point I could see in your eyes the despair at having to change your lifestyle.  "Is there anything else?"
"Drugs."
"YES!"
Personally, I don't mind a few sleep-deprivation induced hallucinations.  In fact, I think I'm about two nights away from having a lively debate on the merits of nuclear power with a highly respected bunch of helium balloons on which I've drawn smiley faces.

I hope I win; nothing gloats like helium.

versus Poll #4: Dream Vacations

Vacation.  No, wait, Dream vacation.

This is something that we all want, right? Something that we all hold up as a goal for our fantasies. That we all spend inordinate amounts of time imagining every conceivable detail from the plush softness of the complimentary bathrobes to the precise angle of the sunlight that warms and bronzes your skin right down to the types of earrings your personal hostess will wear as she brings you and your significant other tall frosty glasses of the most exquisite (insert favorite beverage here) ever created.

Unfortunately, that's not really what this weeks poll was about.  It was pretty much me staring out the window while at work, seeing a squirrel scurry across the grass, tiny paws flashing throught the frosty lawn as it scampered toward an ancient and gnarled oak tree, bent by the wind and time, where the squirrel undoubtably made its home and I thought to myself, "I wish I were a giant."  Which led to thoughts of Godzilla, then Godzilla vs. Mothra, followed by an odd thought of what would happen if Godzilla and Mothra were somehow combined into one super-freak ultra-monster called "Neil," then back over to me thinking about being a giant that was BIGGER than Godzilla, which, naturally, led my mind to Ted Danson's forehead and finally to Gulliver's Travels and Lilliput. 

So, that's when it occured to me that it would be kind of neat to go on vacation there!  What other weird places would I have fun visiting?  "No," said my brain like an excited 1st-grader trying to get the teacher's attention by making a complete nuisance of himself, "we should figure out weird places for other people to visit and then laugh at them!"  I thought this was such a great idea that I tried to high-five my brain and wound up smacking myself in the forehead in front of my co-workers.  Anyway, here's the list of the possible venues I want to subject you to with a complete breakdown of pros and cons for each (provided that 'complete breakdown' really means 3)

The Island of Misfit Toys (as seen in Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer, starring clay)
Pros:  You have an entire island to travel across and explore, virtually all by yourself!
  The locals are very friendly and helpful, even if they are a bit sad sometimes.
  Jolly ol' Saint Nick does live in the area!
Cons:  Unfortunately, it is a frozen wasteland without any apparent shelter.
  The locals, while very friendly and helpful, are a tad creepy
  If you are on the Island of Misfit Toys, it probably means you've been discovered as being malformed in some way.  Sorry.

Zombieland (as seen in the movie, Zombieland, starring Woodie Harelson)
Pros:  Money is virtually obsolete and totally unnecessary; if you can get your hands on it, its yours!
  You can live (squat) in anyone's house, such as Bill Murray's as shown in the film.
  The ever popular "Zombie Kill of the Week Award" is a real and highly prestigious thing; go out and win yourself one!!!
Cons: Food, feul and ammuntion could run out at some point, leaving you fairly defenseless.
  High likelihood of never seeing a living soul again; aka, loneliness.
  Someone might eat your brains.

The Emrarld City of Oz (as seen in the movie, The Wizard of Oz, starring Judy Garland)
Pros: It is a rich and beautiful and splendid city filled with joyous little people known as Munchkins
  The inhabitants, the aforementioned Munchkins, love doting on their guests.
  They have awesome facial hair!
Cons: You must pay homage to a giant, petulant, floating head
  The Munchkins insist on singing wherever you go, even if you tell them to shut it!
  Flying monkeys have been known to attack.  Not the cute 'fun' flying monkeys of your dreams; these areugly vicious flying monkeys!!

Lillput (as seen in the movie, Gulliver's Travels starring Ted Danson's forehead)
Pros:  Beautiful pastoral countryside, ripe for nice long walks
  You can hob-knob with royalty and go to balls and galas
  You can be a giant that is proportionally BIGGER than Godzilla
Cons:  You could accidentally squish 1/3 of the entire Lillipution population should you trip and fall.
  Getting full in 1 meal is rather difficult.
  Souvenirs are too small to be enjoyed by anyone unless you abscond with their palace.

Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory (as seen in the movie Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, starring Gene Wilder)
Pros: Candy, candy, candy,candy, candy, candy, candy!
  Fantastical psychedelic inventions and contraption you can play with!
  Oompa Loompas
Cons: An alarming number of "accidents" occur on the premises.
  The threat of everything you do being turned into some kind of test of moral fiber.
  Oompa Loompas

And so, looking at the results of the poll I found that there was a tie for this weeks winner: Zombieland and Willy Wonka's.  Good choices people!  Although, of the five choices, those are the two with the highest probability of you getting seriously injured and/or killed.  Good choices indeed!!  Have fun with this week's poll!

versus Social Awkwardness

So there I was, standing around at a party with some friends just talking and generally having a good time when I notice something.
“Hey, that’s a nice necklace,” I say to my friend who was trying to untangle some of her long hair from said jewelry.  “Is it new?”
“Nope,” she says, “I’ve had it for a few years now.”
“Oh,” says I, trying to remember the last time I saw her with it.  Nothing comes to mind.

“Well, if he didn’t notice it by now at least we know Gabe wasn’t staring at her chest all day,” chimes in my buddy, causing a chuckle to ripple through the group of us, including me.  Now, up to this point I’ve been mildly chastised and razzed but there has been no real embarrassment.  Most people probably would have laughed it off and started a conversation about the local sports team and their win/loss record and the chances of the playoffs.  Others might offer to go get everyone more drinks in the hope that by the time they return everyone had already forgotten the minor faux pas.  A smaller few – those who tend to panic easily - might divert the flow of the dialogue by pointing out the window then cry out, “Look!  Bigfoot is keying your car!” trusting blindly in the ability of sasquatch vandalism to occupy the attention of everyone while they escape.  These are all valid and understandable responses found in intelligent and well-adjusted people.  But this is me we are talking about – I wish I could have thought of that Bigfoot diversion on my own – so naturally, I messed it up.
“I noticed her necklace as soon as she walked in!” I say with a smile, pointing right at the most buxom of our friends who was wearing a very nice, elegant, diamond studded heart hanging from a delicate silver wishbone chain.  Yeah, I noticed that immediately.  Everyone was looking at me looking at her chest…er…necklace.  Her boyfriend didn’t look happy.  Her boobs looked awesome, though.  I might have been better served by just bluntly stating, “Hey, you’ve got killer cleavage!  Way to go!”  At least I might have mitigated some of the creepiness factor.  But there I was, wallowing in the midst of awkward silence.
I know there must be more people like me out there – socially inept goobers that can kill any conversation in six syllables or less.  Using the advanced techniques I learned in Basic Statistics 101, I’ve calculated there are at least 7 of us.  Technically, there were 7.35 people as socially inept as me, but I dropped the .35 because I was getting freaked out by the thought of what .35 of a person would look like (It’s just a head with two legs sticking out of its neck and 3 fingers wiggling behind its one good ear.  It had a wonderful singing voice, though…).  Anyway, I thought maybe this could be my chance to give something back to the community by coming up with various methods to help avoid those horrible awkward silences.
Note: These techniques have been laboratory tested in a thirteen week double-blind clinical trial.
Note to the note: I don’t know what “laboratory tested in a thirteen week double-blind clinical trial” really means, but I remember they said it on an episode of House once so I figure it’s applicable here.  In case you really need to know, these techniques were developed while I was in my PJs sitting at my desk.

Method 1:  Know your audience.  That’s right, think of your friends – or coworkers, teammates, fellow inmates, whatever – as an audience; meaning, be prepared to entertain them!  If you are socially inept, it is highly unlikely these people are hanging around you simply because they “like” you, they are expecting you to provide some sort of amusement to them even if that means laughing AT you, not with you.  But that’s not the point here – you probably don’t even realize they can’t stand you anyway, I know I don’t – the point is what do you do to make them laugh?  You need a skill, a talent, some kind of gimmick that draws attention away from your complete lack of personality!  And that is where knowing your audience comes in.
Example:  You’re at the office Christmas party and your coworker is so drunk she trips and spills her drink on you and it soaks the front of your pants.  Everyone is laughing, and you laugh along with them because for this brief instant you are included in the hilarity.  “Whoa, buddy,” says the resident loud-mouth and self-appointed jokester, “looks like you got a little trouble with the plumbing, huh?”  Everyone laughs again.  This is it, your chance to shine, your opportunity to let everyone know how clever you are.  Instead, you let these words escape your stupid mouth:
“It’s okay, I like it when my crotch is soaked!”  Not even you know how that was supposed to be funny, but you said it anyway and the claws of awkward silence begin sink into the mood of the crowd.  What do you do to prevent this?  Do you:
A) Make balloon animals
B) Pretend you are a robot and declare your motherboard has fried
C) Bust a move (aka cutting the rug…I think…) in the Break-Dance family
D) Bring up the stock-market and your potentially failing 401k.
The correct answer is obviously (D).  You are at an office Christmas party!  With drunk people!  There are no kids around to enjoy your meticulously crafted balloon animals!  And doing the robot?  These people probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between that and your everyday persona!  Never try dancing unless you have taken two years of professional training, which hopefully by this time has ingrained something that resembles rhythm into your limbs, or you have been possessed by Gene Kelly.  So, that leaves us with (D) as the only option left and it works.  These are your coworkers!  Most often all they care about is money or money related things and even if they don’t know the first thing about investing they will always be willing to tell you what you’re doing wrong with your money.
Phew, crisis averted!

Method 2: Intimidation.  This method takes a lot of work on your part to pull off.  You need to be able to not flinch or cringe or lose control of any body fluids (tears, excessive sweat, drool, urine,etc.) and speaking from experience, that is so hard to do sometimes.  Also, you must have either very large muscles that can ripple on command or a dead-eye stare.  Let people know that, yeah, you just said something inconceivably stupid…what are they gonna do about it?  Just be aware, this method might feel like awkward silence while you’re implementing it because, well, it is awkward, but hopefully at the end you are not feeling weird…everyone else is.
Example:  In a curious turn of events your best “friend” invites you to a party he’s having at his place.  People are not totally ignoring you and more than one person of the opposite sex (just in case one of those 7 people is a girl, I’m trying to be gender neutral) has made eye contact with you.  Over the course of three hours, you’ve infiltrated a conversation ring and you’ve not been asked to leave.  You’ve even laughed with them for the last 30 minutes.  Then, inexplicably, someone asks you a question, “So, how long have you lived in the area?”  It’s a completely innocuous query, designed to find out nothing more devious than a time frame, but the fact that it has been addressed to you causes a misfire in the synapses between brain and tongue, completely disabling your ability to speak.
“Six,” is all you can say before you freeze up, nothing more will come out.  People stare at you expectantly, waiting for some sort of qualifier.  Then they start giving each other odd looks.  But this is precisely where method 2 comes in handy.  Stare at the questioner.  Don’t blink.  Don’t shift about, wring your hands, or work moisture back in your mouth.  Keep staring until they think that perhaps you didn’t say something stupid, but rather something so clever they just didn’t get it.  If you can, give them a small smile; don’t bare your teeth, though, as that can be construed as a threatening gesture, a simple curving of the lips will suffice.  Only break eye-contact to stare at someone else that was about make a comment about your lack of sense.  Soon, people will either be so confused or uncomfortable they will bring up something else and not talk to you the rest of the night, which, lets face it, is what you really wanted in the first place.  I know I just want to go back home and play some Tetris!

Method 3: Hypnotism.  Yeah, this one can be rather difficult to pull off because most forms of mind control require a very strong personality and a lot of self-confidence.  Those are two traits not often found in the socially inept.  But, since most of us who fall in this category are geeks - ergo wants to be a Jedi - I felt it was appropriate to include this as a valid technique.  I’m not 100% sure how to do this myself but I can tell you with total confidence all you need to do is widen your eyes so far they pop out of your skull a little bit, then pull it back a notch, and do whatever hand gesture that feels natural to you but conveys to all who see it that, yeah, I can control your brain.
Example:  You are stuck in a very crowded elevator.  You just ate 5 extra spicy burritos for a snack.  Your bowels do their job to perfection and before you can even suspect something might be amiss down there the whole 4 x 4 closet is filled with your own methane.  And its not like you can hide it either as it made so much noise even you thought something achieved Mach 3 in your jockeys.  Everyone is staring at you and the air is so thick, violence is the only logical outcome.
So, you turn around and pop your eyeballs at some unsuspecting gagging individuals, waggle your fingers at them.  Soon, they are farting like the flatulence machines their bodies really are, taking all the pressure off you.  In fact, you release a bit more of that pressure your lower intestines had been saving for the fourth floor.  Ahhh…now if only you had a light saber…

Method 4: Bribery.  This is at once the easiest and hardest of all the methods because all it requires is that you have money.  Do something dumb?  Screw it, throw a wad of $20s at them and keep going.  Just be sure you ask “Are you a cop?” before any money changes hands.  Misunderstandings are very common when dealing with the socially inept and you don’t want to get to know Big Willie in cell block C unless you can disable a man using only your left pinky finger.  I don’t have any concrete facts to back this theory up but I more than suspect the concept of Trust Funds were created by the parents of socially inept children who couldn’t master any of the above techniques.  This created a whole new breed of idiot because these individuals were insulated from their own stupidity by five inches of cash wrapped around them.
Example:  You just took the shrink wrap off your own high school diploma that cost your parents more than $10,000 (they were considering going for the cheaper model, but at $8000 you would have to live with them until you “graduated” at 20.)  You heard somewhere that Harvard has even better diplomas – made from real diplomats – and it might be a good idea to get one of those.
“Can I get one of your degrees, please?” you ask the admissions clerk.
“Uh…,” they say as they cock an eyebrow, looking you up and down.  You think they are hitting on you but fail to notice they are slowly backing away as though from a crazed chipmunk  “Why?”
“I dunno.  I just want one.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“You’re supposed to do something with it?  Neat!  Think I can get two?”
“Oh god…  What’s your IQ?”
“Green”
“Of course it is…what did you get on your SATs?”
“SATs?  Oh, those are numbers for my Trust Fund, right?”  You hand the clerk your bank statement because your father scribbled the letters S A T on it in green crayon (he knew how much you liked green things).  The clerk smiles and moves closer.
“Welcome to Harvard!”
“Yay!”
Please, understand I’ve got nothing against Harvard, I merely picked it because it’s very late at night and I forgot what those other hoity-toity schools are called.  It has nothing to do with the rejection letter I got from them in 1997, so don’t even think of accusing me of being bitter.  Why my college essay wasn’t good enough, though, you’ll just have to ask one Mr. Dean of Admissions (I hope he was teased in junior high for having a name like that!) for that answer.
So there you have it!  Four fool-proof methods for fool-proofing yourself!  If you are one of the truly afflicted people I was hoping to help then you have my deepest sympathies and condolences.  There is no cure for social ineptness, and there probably never will be.  Because its not really a disease or anything.  There’s no real funding for research.  There could be, I guess, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for it.  Yeah…so…that’s it…you can stop reading now
…this is awkward…

versus Poll #3: Friendliness

Friendliness.  What is that?  Is it your propensity to give up your seat to an elderly person on the bus?  Perhaps it's giving your coworker a compliment on their new haircut even though they look like a blind octopus went to town on their skull with a weed-wacker, a blow torch and a potato peeler.  Maybe, its giving your loved one a smile and a thank you for cooking dinner despite the distinct hydrochloric sharpness to the food.  One definition of the word is as simple as "not hostile," according to dictionary.com.  Seems straightforward enough, so I guess the question becomes "Why would you want to rate yourself on this aspect?"  The answer to this is also simple:

Because I want to know if I'm a better person than you - at least on a superficial level - just as you want to find out if you are better than me!  What could be more efficient, extensive, or honest than a poll posted on a barely visible blog? Nothing, I tell you, nothing!  Now, on to the results!

To recap: On a scale of one to ten how friendly would you rate yourself? A) All of the above; B) You don't know because you stopped reading after the word "scale;" C) One, because you hate people in general but never had a chance to say just how much; D) Net, because you are super super nice but serup serup lysdexic; E) You couldn't really put a number to it but everyone says they just want to be "friends."

We'll, according to this highly scientific and objective survery we've actually found a 23% portion of this blog-reading populace to be honest - they admitted to not reading the question.  Another 23% fought through their diabolically debilitating dyslexic disorder to vote, even though those who cast their ballot as such probably can't understand this sentence.  12% of you had the balls to admit they hate people so very much which had the effect of making me feel 12% better than I did about myself a few minutes ago, so that's a good thing!  There was a tie for the smallest piece o' pie - again, 12% - for those of you stuck in the friend-zone in perpetuity and thus had a difficult time trying to pin down a number for us.  The majority of the votes - a whopping 33%!!! - were from people who voted A) All of the above.  Since that was the first option and there was nothing "above" it I am taking it to mean that you consider yourself about 5 on the "Friendly" scale, meaning, while you are the kind of person that, should the mood strike, you would set me on fire, you are also the type who would put out the flames once they, "gave me a good scare."

Thanks for voting, readers!  You are doing your part to keep this Democracy of the Absurd floating like the blimp that it is!  Balloon-boy would be proud of you if, you know, he had actually been in that stupid thing in the first place.  As it is, he's fairly indifferent to you.  Have fun with the next poll!!!

versus 365

"This is how many sunrises there have been since the last time was the Last

This is how many sunsets of wishing and wanting to reach into the past.


This is how many times the wound you left throbbed and bled

This is how many times Why? thundered through my head.

And,

This is how many moments I've thought of your face

This is how many times I've imagined your grace.
This is how many days I've woken in fear

This is how many nights I've looked for you here.

And yet,

This is how many ways you've changed me for the better

This is how many reasons I wanted to write you this letter.

This is how many good things about me you loved and knew

This is how many times I've whispered to the sky Thank you...

And so,

This is how many jokes recalled and hugs we shared

This is how many reminders of how much you cared.

This is how many smiles remembered, laughs with my Friend

This is how many reasons this isn't the end."

Yeah, I know this is my usual fare but I wanted to put something up in rememberance of all those that I miss. 

I'll get back to the funny in the next post (or at least what I consider funny!)

versus Beauty Products

There are many many things in this world that I don't understand, such as: how tastebuds work, why water is wet, and when does the soul grow?  These are questions that science has tried to explain and I either just don't quite get it or I think its lying (Sorry, but I'm just not buying the idea evolution thought it was a great self-defense mechanism to give baboons big red asses; clearly evolution lost a bet and is too ashamed to admit it.).  And one thing that I particularly don't understand is feminine beauty products.  As far as I can tell, beauty products are one part common sense, two parts voodoo, and two parts science gone hay-wire.

Think about it, if you're eyes feel all puffy would you have said to yourself, "I should slap a cucumber on my face!"  Or, if your hair feels all brittle and listless would you make the mathematical leap of egg yolk = luxuriance?  Hell, if we take it one step further, just the very idea of soap seems outlandish.  I'm all dirty and muddy, I think I will boil me up some pig fat and smear it on my body.  That will feel sooo goooood!   I consider myself a man with a mind that can think of many odd things to do with my time but I can honestly say I wouldn't have thought of these.  (Although somebody did and I smell great!  Much to the delight of anyone within 30 yards of me!)  But there is one beauty product out there that baffles me beyond belief, that stretches crudulity so far that one could toss it over a tree limb and create a tire swing, that pulls the leg so violently that re-attachment surgery would need to be performed.  And that product is none other than:

Argan Oil.

Don't know what Argan Oil is?  I could tell you but you'll probably just accuse me of lying and throw your shoe at my face.  Okay fine, I'll tell you, but I'm waringin you: I'll be keeping any footwear that lands on or near me!  Argan Oil is a medicinal extract used in beauty products made from nuts...that have been eaten, partially digested and subsequently pooped out by tree-dwelling Moroccan goats, as shown above.  This is a real thing people, look at this site if you don't believe me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Argan

I just don't understand how the this stuff was discovered?  I mean, its poop-nuts, who the hell picked that up and thought "skin care?"  First of all, I need to mention that the idea of tree-dwelling goats are just about the most awesome thing I've heard of in a long time and I have to give the Moroccans a lot of credit for inventing them.  (This is another one of those things I don't believe evolution when it tries to claim responsibility).  I don't know for sure how the goats became arboreal, but I like to imagine the legend goes something like this:

 Some years ago - perhaps as few as 50 years, perhaps as many as 1,000,000 -  there was this heard of goats that were often the target of the local teen-age boy tomfoolery - and Moroccan tomfoolery is particularly dastardly.  Late one summer night when all the boys were drunk and couldn't get dates (most likely, because the Moroccan girls only go for boys that torment cattle) they reached their rejection limit and made a solemn vow that they would all do whatever takes to get laid by prom night.  So, to help their plight, they decided to get rid of their most obvious tempatation and distraction and toss all the goats into the nearby Argan trees.  Once the goats were up there they just looked at each other and said, "Meh," and peed on all the boys heads in sweet, sweet revenge

But that still doesn't explain how somebody thought it would be a good idea to rumage around in their crap, find some partially digested nut, and rub it all over themselves.  It's a thought process that I just can't seem to follow.  Was it a dare or something?  Were two guys walking through the Argan grove, being watched by the goats above, when suddenly -              
                           (translated in a stunningly poor attempt from Arabic)

"Whoa!  Esteban, you nearly placed your foot in the excrement of goat!"

"Good God, you are correct Roberto!  Thank you, my friend Roberto!  May the blessing of saints be upon your family!"

"Esteban, would you care to create a wager for fun and/or amusement?"

"Naturally, Roberto. Fun with you is always fun. We are friends!"

"I wager you will not pick up that goat excrement and put in on your rash!  For fun and/or amusement!"

"That is disgusting and humorous, Roberto.  I must ponder.  What do I acquire if I defeat your challenge?"

"This torpedo."

"I accept!"

Meanwhile, the goats above continue to chew the leaves and nuts of the Argan trees and think, "Friggin' morons."

So, yeah, I guess I simply don't get beauty products.  And you know what?  I'm okay with that.

verus Poll #2: Dodgeball

Imagine, if you will, a playground.  A place where children come to run, to laugh, even, to frollick.  But that is not the only thing that happens on these grounds of play; a sport has been born here.  A sport of speed and quickness, reflexes and accuracy.  A sport that requires agility not only of the body but also, of the mind.  A sport in which size and power are not necessarily the keys to victory.  That sport is Dodgeball. 

Now, also imagine, lined up across you, over the line of 6 red rubber coated foam balls, are five of the most legendary characters ever to be assembled - plus the neighbor-kid from down the street because you need six players on a team - who want nothing more than to smack you in the face, daring you to Dodge!  They are: a kangaroo, well known and feared for its speed, agility, brutality and marsupial pocket of terror; the Michelin Man, his circular features and cartoon body belies a natural affinity for throwing round rubber things with devastating accuracy; Davey Crockett, the "king of the wild frontier," according to popular legend and lyrics, and is reknowned far and wide for his penchant for making hats out of his victims (that racoon he wears on his head was defeated in a game of cribbage); the Random Man from photo frames, he is athletic, toned, into a wide variety of sports, has a great smile and nameless because he has never let anyone live long enough to pass it on; and Mr. Miyagi, the most dangerous elderly person to ever live and attached to a mystique that is both deadly and unnerving because he can hop from foot to foot, teach skinny Italian boys to do the same and above all is ORIENTAL!!!

According to this survey, it was very close affair, though most of us were more afraid to be caught in a ball-flinging fight with a fictitious old asian person, though only marginally more so than a guy with a dead thing on his head, an animated cartoon, and a wild animal commonly found in Australia.  No one held any reservation for the guy in the photo frames because lets face it, he's in a photo frame and thus cannot move. 

versus Babysitting

I like kids, I really do.  They are such magical creatures capable of doing and saying anything at anytime as they come to grips with the world around them and the many odd, screwball, and just plain stupid things we “grown-ups” do.  I don’t have any children of my own, which is probably a good thing for the children population at large, but I do have more than a few nephlings and numerous friends similarly blessed and have, on occasion, been asked to spare a few hours here and there to watch over them.  As a man with the loving (I think) nickname of Goofy Guncle Gabe, I’m pretty much obligated to take up the challenge.
Now, I admit, I do have more than my share of nutball-ish characteristics – even more so when I write – but when it comes the welfare and safety of Little Ones in my charge, I am always very serious.  Yeah, I’m all for laughing as much as humanly possible and am usually willing to burst into horrific silly dances and allow my left hand abuse my own face if it will provoke an unrestrained giggle, but I am just as quick to pull 8” steak-knives out of their pudgy little fingers or drag them off the banister before they can dive off.  Still, I’m more useless than a helmet on a kamikaze pilot when it comes to an infant wailing harder than an air-raid siren simply because I am NOT HER MOTHER!
My first mistake in this fiasco was to allow the baby to physically watch her mother walk out the door.  It is a well known fact that you never ever EVER ever let a baby watch a parent leave, and you can add a couple hundred more “ever”s to that if the parent in question is the mother.  It is also a well known fact that you are supposed bring the baby into a completely sound-proof and windowless bunker that is a minimum safe distance 50 feet below ground to prevent any possible chance of seeing the parents leave, and preferably equipped with an air-filtration system that can eliminate any Mom-scent that an infants heightened “Mom Detection System” (aka – the 5 senses) has been known to pick up through 10 inches of concrete.  But, like the idiot I am, I actually waved her little hand at her mother and said, “Buh-bye, Mommy!  We are going to have soooo much fun!  Yay!” despite the fact that she was emitting a solid High C-note at 100 decibels.
Like any good babysitter, I offered her comforting coos and tried to strike up various babytalk conversations – “Ooobie woobie too boo?  Tubba moopie doo?  Wah wah choo!  Yay!” – but that didn’t work.  Then I tried zooming her around like she was a WWII open-prop fighter plane, firing her legs like the machine guns they had become, and destroyed countless Nazi made stuffed animals and teething rings.  Okay, I probably had more fun with that than she did, but I really thought it would work.
After a good while of the incessant screaming it occurred to me that perhaps she wasn’t merely angry that her mother left, maybe something else was at work.  So, I checked the usual items on the list:  Diaper was dry and free of poopie stink.  I couldn’t get her head to stop swaying back and forth with her shrieks long enough to get a bottle in her mouth, so she wasn’t hungry.  I held her up to the light and made sure there were no forks, chopsticks, or random plastic toys jutting out of her skin – Hey, babies do weird things when you least expect.  It seemed reasonable at the time.  There was no way I could tell if she had a fever at this point because she was straining so hard to cry I was half expecting her tears to fly from her eyes like little missiles meant to do me harm.  Nope, I had a completely inconsolable infant in my lap and I had no idea what to do next.
Ever seen those cartoons with a crying baby and they are drawn in such a way that all you can see of them is their nose, one tooth sticking out at a funny angle and a black hole with pink uvula bouncing around?  Yeah, that’s really damn accurate.
I decided I’d take the opportunity to look at this scientifically.  And I mean that literally.  I could practically see into her stomach, her mouth was that wide open.  I mean, I felt like I was seeing parts of human anatomy that weren’t meant to be seen without a gauze mask, sterile gloves and an army of trained professionals pointing things out:
“And if you look up here,” says a supremely knowledgeable doctor that, somehow, I hadn’t noticed before, “you can see the nasal passage, retinal nerves and cerebral cortex.”
“Neat,” says me.
“Yes, it is.  This is how we learned the human body back in the olden days before shows like Grey’s Anatomy or E.R.”
“Ah.” I say, unable to imagine such a world.  “What’s this down here?”
“What?  That green squelchy-looking thing?  That’s the spleen.”
“No, I know that’s the spleen,” I say, annoyed he thought I didn’t know what a spleen looks like.  “What is that weird little black throbbing thing sitting on top of that other bigger blobby pulsating thing?”
“Oh, the big organ is the kidney and that little black one is her adrenal gland.”
“It looks like its going haywire.”
“Well, she is crying like a banshee.  That takes some juice.”
“I see.  What happens if it explodes?”
“It won’t.  It’s only working at half capacity right now.”
“Oh.  Crap.”
This is when, with an almighty shudder, the baby grips the front of my shirt and pulls herself tightly around my neck as though she were going to punish me with hugs and I lost sight of the inner working of her body.  She somehow managed to crank up the volume to 120 decibels - which is louder than Speaker Seats at a rock concert – and I could actually feel a disruption in my logical thinking place or whatever its called.
Within seconds of holding the baby against my shoulder hers tears had completely soaked my shirt.  Actually, it wasn’t only tears…there was some snot involved.  In fact, there was probably a 3:1 snot to tear ratio happening here.  Where does all this come from?  And what purpose does it serve?  I was under the impression that nasal mucus was a viscous membrane designed to collect and trap dust particles to prevent them from traveling to the lungs and potentially cause infections.  But on a hysterically crying baby?  It just makes them all gooey!  Perhaps, it was to be a self-defense mechanism against certain types of predators, such as the Cheek-Pinching Neighbor.  And if you don’t wipe it up quickly enough it can harden in a kind of glue.  I’m quite sure there is a small Wyoming town without shade trees now because I needed them to make tissues, but I had to else her face would have permanently become fastened to my shoulder!  Her parents would have walked in the door and caught me using a spatula trying to pry their darling daughter’s features from my shirt.  No way am I going to try explaining that one.

So, with no other option, I grab the tissues and cleaned her up.  Or tried to, at any rate.  She wanted nothing to do with being clean, particularly if it meant removing a layer or two of her carefully arranged mucus mask.  Her only defense against me – and it was a powerful defense, mind you – was to take the volume up another notch, into the 140 decibel range, which, incidentally, has blown past the human threshold for pain (130 decibels) and gone right to the Military Jet Takeoff level.  Another 20 dbs and we’re looking at the instant perforation of the ear drum – but then again, another 20 dbs and that might be a blessing.
Okay, so now I’ve been enduring this auditory assault for who knows how long, my shirt is caked with slimy moisture and there is no let up in sight.  I don’t know what to do, because I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.  Normally I can get kids to be quiet and bemused if not entirely entertained with a well-timed Wacky Walk or exaggerate the pain caused from one of their High-Fives.  But I couldn’t even think properly anymore and I was reaching the point at which I just wanted her to be quiet.  What to do, what to do?
New plan: Sing to the baby!
Plan utterly fails.
I discovered 2 very important facts about how sound damages the brain.  First, it destroys all knowledge of good music and leaves you with the dregs of style and class, preventing you from thinking about and choosing the most appropriate song to whatever situation you are in.  Second, you don’t care; you are simply glad you can remember to say anything beyond, “The BELLS!   THE BELLS!!”  In this case, all my mind was left with was…*shudder, shudder*…Vanilla Ice.
She screamed all the louder and I can’t blame her.
Would nothing work on this child?  Nothing was wrong with her, she was simply crying like it was the end of the world because her mother was gone.  Wait a second…what if…what if she was right?  What if the world was ending?  I mean, right then and all she wanted was to hold her mommy one last time?  Why else would she be crying so hard?  Its not like she would lie about something like that, she was only a year old!  Do babies even know how to lie?  I don’t think so.  I mean, what could they gain by it?

Dramatization of Lying Baby

       “Why are you crying, Baby?” asked Mommy.
“Because I’ve gone and pooped my shorts!” replies Baby.
“Okay, let me change you.  Hey!  You’re diaper is clean!”
“I lied!  Ha HA!  I was really hungry but I fooled you!  Now powder my bottom again!”
“Fine, here’s a bottle, if you’re hungry.”
“Nope.  I lied again!  I’m neither hungry nor did I soil myself.  I need you to tickle me, right now!!”
“Fine…”
“Hee hee!  STOP TOUCHING ME THIS INSTANT!  I lied to you about wanting to be tickled.  I actually just diddled in my diaper.  Change me!!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did, actually.  It’s quite soggy down there.”
“No, its completely dry.”
“I swear, I’m as wet as a lobster tank!”
“Shut up, Baby.”

See?  Nothing good comes out of a fibbing infant, so she must be telling the truth about the world ending!  Holy God, what do I do?  I…I need to call my mother!  She’ll know what to do!  Mom’s always know…that’s why they are moms!   Where’s my cell phone…no service!  Damn it!  I don’t want the world to end.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want the last song I’ll ever sing to be “Ice Ice Baby!”  I’ll protect you baby, I won’t let you die!  I’m your babysitter, damn it!  We’ll get through this!
And so, that’s how the baby’s parents came to find me huddled in the bathtub with a saucepan on my head, rocking back and forth with their child in my arms and singing “Row, row, row your boat,” at the top of my lungs.
The sight of her parents produced a silence in the air it now felt like a void in the world.  She reached out to her mommy and they embraced like only a mother and child can.  Then, just before her father threatened me with pepper spray until I left and promised never to return, the baby smiled at me.
Awwwww…babies are so cute!

verus Poll #1: Dominant Hand

Well, the first week of the blog has come and gone; laughs were shared, tears were shed, and horses were shod.  I've exposed parts of myself that, while not the parts for which I could get arrested, are generally best left kept under wraps.  But too late now!  They are out there, blowing in the wind like so many other things that blow in the wind, like leaves and empty grocery bags caughts in a draft and - if the wind happens to be part of a tornado - barns.

Aaaanyway, lets move on, mainly because my "backspace" key is broken.

I have here the results of last weeks poll, asking people with which hand to they write.  The findings were surprising.  88% of people polled said they write with their right hands, meaning they are regarded as enlightened beings to the monkey population at large.  I feel confident that you will all join me when I say, 'Wow, monkeys are silly.'  We had no one admit to being left-handed, and therefore a ninja, but I suppose those who in fact are martial-assassins you would not want your identities exposed, so that's okay.  Neither did we have any ambidextrous Kryptonians nor illiterate mind-reading carnies, so good for you!  We did have one brave soul to come out and admit they were G'bort!  And to that individual, I salute you as the new High Commander.  May you lead your people into a future that is greater, brighter, and velvety-softer than any future that has come before it in the past of tomorrow.  Huzzah!

Well, see ya later!

versus "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies"

My dear good sirs and ladies,

I have just had the most delighful of priveleges to have listened to a truly superb audio rendition of a novel bearing the title, "The Heirloom Edition: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Now With Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!" Written by such an esteemed and, dare I say, legendary novelist Jane Austen and comparative newcomer, though no less talented, Seth Grahame-Smith, and read by Katherine Kellgren with such edifying elegance that all compliments such directed unfailingly pale to the experience of listening for oneself.


Where does one begin reviewing such a singularly pleasing and compelling novel? The asinine answer to such a query would undoubtably be, "at the beginning," but a novel of this character needs a more dutiful and thoughtful examination. A point should be made early on, in such a discourse, to direct the mind to a feature of such great import that it very well serves as the crux of the writing, and I shall endeavor to illuminate it thusly: a contemporary author (the above mentioned Mr. Grahame-Smith) has taken a beloved novel written by Ms. Austen, who has predeceased him by some 200 years, and so seamlessly added the presense of brain-devouring undead to the narrative. Careful attention must be paid to the fact that Mr. Grahame-Smith accomplishes this unorthodox feat with such deftness that one can scarce detect the intrusion and despite the unholy nature of the abominable beasts found throughout there is not even a hint of desecration to soul of the classic work. All due acclaim and adoration must be given the American gentleman for his execution of this task, where even the slightest misstep could rendered the entire prospect utterly baseless and bereft of merit. But succeed he did, much to the delight of literary minded people the world over. And lo, has even gone so far as to so thoroughly encompass my thoughts and musing that mine own written word has taken on the hue of their speech. I do find it most agreeable to put words to paper - such as it is - in this manner.

Now, one must speak to nature of the piece and my disposition toward it. On the whole, I can heartily recommend to any and all who wish to have their thoughts engaged simulateously with beautiful prose and brutish battles. The casualness and common tenor with which the author injects the manky dreadfuls does great justice to the whole of the work, allowing for the original's unfailing pretension to carry on and is perhaps thus enhanced. At no point does one feel the need to question the authenticity of the mysterious plague, for not one of the characters therein find cause to wonder, it simply is as the country is. One does allow that reflection upon the story afterwards can stir ponderings on the origins of such all-encompassing devastion to the isle of Britain, or how the population of London and her surrounds can continue to spew forth the sorrowful beasts even whilst our protagonists behead them by the score, but in the actual course of reading all such valid concerns are lost to the conscious mind.

Appreciaive though I am of the prowess of Ms. Austen and her skill with quill and parchment to create fulfilling characters, I must confess that for mine own tastes I would have found the tale wanting without the  unrivaled bladework of Ms. Bennett and her sisters or the harsh and soulless moans filling the countryside with promises of unquiet death. Too much aristocracy, forced civility, and properness otherwise fill the plot to a level of which mine own sensibilities could not reasonably comprehend and maintain high interest. Having never had the priveledge of taking in any unmodified versions of Ms. Austen's works through my schooling this rendition has been the sole source to which I've been exposed, and, though it might be considered ill of me to say so, am honestly gratified for such a distinction.

Also, I cannot dare to speak of enjoyment garnered from this novel in its written form, for these eyes have not perused the pages themselves, but there are no recommendations high enough to be made of the audio version I have so very much enjoyed, and for that much credit must be, and shall with no hint of prejudice, given to the grace and cadence of Ms. Kellgren.

In summation, "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies," is a greatly enjoyable work and do suggest the prompt and dutiful reading of it at your earliest convenience. Four stars of the night sky shall shine brightly and full of pride over this novel and the fifth is visable, though not entirely on the scale of its brothers.

Sincerely,
Your Ever Faithful Servant
Gabe