Like Frankenstein's Gamer

As my children have gotten older, they've become increasingly more computer game savvy. My daughter, like me, enjoys sitting and playing Civilization III for hours on end. Both my kids fight over the use of the Gameboy, and they even act civilized toward one another long enough to make it through missions of Lego Star Wars together. It's truly a feat to behold when they actually work together to achieve a common goal.

If only something like that would happen to the living room floor.

I digress, however! My daughter--my eight-year-old daughter--knows just enough about Civ III to be dangerous. She knows the mechanics, but the finer aspects of the strategy are still eluding her. For instance, she'll start a war with a neighboring civilization, but not have enough soldiers to complete the overall invasion and conquest of said civilization. It's something that, I assume, she will develop and learn to appreciate over time.

As much as she enjoys playing the game, she also enjoys watching it. This entails her standing at my right shoulder, staring at the screen.

Since I'm still in an emotional trough--though it's big enough now to be a cellar, I assume--I've been cranking through some Civ III for a the better part of a week and a half now. For some reason, it's a little bit cathartic to sit and play and watch the pixels take out my frustrations on my neighbors. France, I have my eyes upon you...

Sunday night, after an afternoon spate of cleaning and organization that left our house slightly less chaotic but much better smelling, while I dinner was cooking and while my wife and I both were winding down from the day, I popped in the Civ III disk and started playing.

My daughter came in and took up her usual place at my right elbow, watching. Except, the problem is, she's an eight-year-old girl, and so her mouth never. stops. making noise.

(Before anyone gets bent out of shape, the five-year-old boy only falls silent long enough to swallow his food and to sleep.)

And so here she is, going to town, telling me what I should be doing in the game. "Oh, you should irrigate there!" "Are you going to fight them?" "You should research gunpowder, it gives you musketmen." "Oh, oh, you definitely need to research and build Sun Tzu's Art of War!"

And on. And on. And on.

Being that I've been married for ten years, I'm fairly good at tuning out female voices. However, when it's one long string of syllables mashed together at such a rate and quantity that it's impossible to decipher where one word or thought ends and the other begins, the task of tuning someone out becomes a lot less easy. My last nerve was being poked and prodded and trod upon verbally to the point where I thought I was going to snap.

However, as much as I wanted to turn and scream "SHUT THE FUCK UP!", some part of my subconscious said, "Hey, Father of the Year, maybe take a moment and tell her why you're doing what you're doing, so that she can learn. Also, it's not cool to scream 'Shut the fuck up' in an eight-year-old's face."

Sage advice, that.

And so, what began as an exercise in frustration and annoyance turned into a lesson in how to play Civ III for her, and a lesson in patience and tolerance for me.

I'll take my award now.

It's a Literary Device, Kids

Do you know what you get when you put two piers beside one another? Paradox.

I realize the votes are still being counted, but I'm going to go ahead and assume that, in a landslide victory with an impressive 81%, I was able to win the coveted Drysdale Award for the longest posts on a blog.

I just want to say thanks.

Award Winning Sesquipedalianism

Finally! All of this crap hard work that I put into this blog has paid off, especially on the Sunday slot. Okay, sure, there's the 131+ gorgeous followers and then of course Some Guy telling me about how I helped him with Jeopardy once. Oh, and Soda & Candy giving me a golf clap whenever I use the word "paucity".

But now...now I have something to polish up and put in the trophy case.

Have you guys met Travis? He likes to fish. He's also a big fella who doesn't like sleeping in the back of Mitsubishi Outlanders, and he wonders if there will be bacon in heaven...a curious query, to be sure, since God was pretty cut-and-dry on that whole "don't eat the flesh of pigs" thing, and Jesus was the King of the Jews. But then, there's a company called Blue and Gold that makes delicious peppered bacon, and Blue and Gold just happen to be Notre Dame's colors and God loves Notre Dame, or so I was led to believe while I was there. Therefore, with Blue and Gold getting God's blessing, there probably is bacon in Heaven.

Can you see why I like reading this guy?

Anyway, Travis skated in here one day on a TMI Thursday (I think the one where I was kissing Margaret and puking at the same time). I went to see what he was all about, found discussions of bacon and a color-coordinated dissection of his...ampleness...and was like "I'm following this guy."

I'm even able, as I am with so many others, to overlook the Twilight references to see the truth and beauty behind the writer and the exquisiteness of his blog. But, seriously, people, stop with the Twilight obsession, okay? I mean, Christ, you don't find me obsessing over poorly-written stories, do you?

Oh.

Touche.

Anyway, Travis saw fit to saddle enrich my life with an award, and this one is one I can actually be less ashamed proud of: The I Use Big Words... Award.


I was relating the whole saga of not wanting to turn on the heat in my poorly-insulated house the other day in his comments section and trotted out the word "parsimonious" (you know, just like I did yesterday when I recycled the not-wanting-to-turn-the-heat-on story?). So, I figure that's a good one for my Sunday bout of wordly edification:

parsimonious: adjective frugal to the point of stinginess, restrained, sparing. Exhibiting parsimony.

It comes from Latin parsimonia from pars-, part of the perfect tense of the verb parcere meaning "to spare, to save" and -monia, which is a suffix denoting an action or condition. Like pneumonia (a condition of the lungs).

I've described a couple of characters in the big story as being overly parsimonious, which allowed for them to, in times of war, hire more knights for their personal protection. So, it's already been used, but I'm too lazy to look up where I've written it in.

So, there you have it. A brand new award and a how the word parsimonious secured it for me. Plus, you have a new blog you may or may not want to read, depending on your opinion of bacon and Heaven.

Also...I wore a green shirt yesterday. It was the only long-sleeved t-shirt I could find. That's why Notre Dame lost. It has nothing to do with the fact that our defense still can't figure out how to tackle. It was my fucking green shirt.

*sigh*

TMI Thursday: Honest Scrap

So, last week, OtherWorldlyOne saddled awarded me with the Honest Scrap Award. She got the award from the lovely Rita. I'm not sure how it was passed down, but in my mind it was some hot girl-on-girl action and then at the end, Rita was like, "Here you go."

I don't care if that's not how it happened. That's how it happened in here. *taps temple*

I was thrilled for about five seconds and figured, hell, why not actually do one of these meme things. Cuts down on the creativity, right? Then I looked into what I needed to do, and holy fuck, it's a lot of work. First, I have to jump up and down without pants on, but I do that every night when I get home, so check. Then I have to list ten things that no one else knows about me, which is really kind of impossible, since at least someone knows this other shit, most likely because I brag about my many accomplishments and just how effing perfect I am. And there's the other things like saddle award this thing to ten other people blahblahblah take your top off.


And then I thought, oh, hells yeah, I can morph this into a TMI Thursday because I have a lot of little vignettes that wouldn't really make a great TMI post by themselves, but combined together, their power will be unstoppable! Kind of like Captain Planet, but a whole lot dirtier.

So, here is my contribution to both the world of the Honest Scrap Award and TMI Thursday. Holy shit, I'm a multitasker.

1.) In high school, I had a girlfriend who worked at Target. One night, I went through her line and bought a single jar of vaseline. She gives me a look, cocks one eyebrow, and asks in a real knowing fashion, "What is this for?" And I said, "Well, I figure I'm going to need a lot of this since I think things are over between us." We weren't having sex, but I couldn't pass up the chance to be a total dick, especially since I still chuckle at that memory when it floats to the surface. It's one of the bigger dick moves I've ever pulled in all my life...and one of the funniest.

That night I made good on my announcement. Twice.

2.) Speaking of Vaseline, that used to be my autoerotic lubricant of choice. Until one day I was laying in the bathtub and I looked down and saw some horrible carbunkle on the shaft of my penis. Immediately, I thought it was genital warts. I looked at my hand and said, "Who else have you been having sex with?" My hand was curiously quiet on the matter, which automatically means guilt. Whore. Then I figured out that it wasn't genital warts, but just a big nasty zit. On my dick! Fortunately, I was in the tub, so I could soak it until it was soft (the zit, not my dick...you'd be amazed at how unhard a dick can get when you realize it's afflicted with acne). I burst the zit, and then I found a second one, and burst it to.

The next day I switched to KY.


3.) On the suggestion of a friend, I once smoked a cigar while taking a shit. It was the most relaxing thing I've ever done. If I could get a blow job at the same time, I think I'd be in heaven. Curiously, I haven't found a woman willing to fulfill this ultimate fantasy.

4.) I once won a pissing contest. Not the kind the where you mark your territory. No, I was going for distance. And I had two witnesses. And it was in the bathroom at the bookstore where I worked.

5.) When I was a Freshman in college, I got shitfaced drunk. Okay, I did that a lot. The first time I got faced, I went running down to the bathroom to piss. I decided it was a long walk back to the urinals (all of five feet), so I whipped it out and pissed in one of the sinks. Two girls were standing in the bathroom, checking their make-up. I saw them watching me in the mirror, so I looked over and nodded at them. They smiled that sort of scared-yet-friendly smile you'd offer a homeless guy who is changing your flat tire for you. As I was finished and shaking the dew from my lily, I looked over and said: "So, you two getting laid tonight?" I left without getting a response.

To this day, I have no fucking clue who they were.

6.) Sometimes, when I crank out a particularly monstrous shit, I feel the need to share it with my fellow man. So, I won't flush. If it's one of those where one of the turdlogs is sticking up above the waterline, I will go to another stall to finish the clean up. I do not want my artwork sullied by the paper. When this happens, I refer to it as "The Nessie."

7.) I know what semen tastes like. Yes, I got snowballed. No, I don't think I was number 37. I must say, I have a rather piquant flavor with an earthy aftertaste.

8.) Once, in high school, the insides of my right thigh hurt, so I thought I'd smear some Ben-Gay on it. At the time, I was a big fan of the Ben-Gay. In order to access the groin, I dropped trou. I applied the salve and thought, "Hey, my pants are down, I might as well piss." So, I grabbed my dick in the same hand that I used to apply the balm. It wasn't so bad until I decided it was time to wipe off and some of the medicine entered my urethra through my pee port.

Agony.

My first thought after that was, "Hey, if I rub one out, maybe when I cum, I'll force the burning medicine out." However, before I started, I rethought that decision and just let the medicine run its course. It's perhaps the wisest thing--aside from marrying my wife--that I've ever done.

And, yes, Scope told a very similar story to this. I've been sitting on it, though, because I didn't want to look like a copycat.

I've also foregone the use of Icy Hot/Ben-Gay/Whatever other Salicylic acid product there is on the market since that day forth.

9.) I have pissed on Notre Dame Stadium. And while this might seem antithetical to my fandom, I must say I had a lot of beer at senior bar that night. I also pissed on Galvin Hall of Biology and on the bus stop out in front of Hesbergh Library--which you know better as Touchdown Jesus. How I managed to hold it all the way through D Parking Lot, I'll never know.

10.) After my daughter was born, we were going through that "no sex because your wife has just passed a newborn infant through her vagoo and it's tender and sore and trying to recover" stage. One morning, while I was getting ready to go into the lab, I turned on CNN Headline News while I ate my breakfast. Robin Meade and her gigantic breasts were there to greet me. Being that I had a lot of pent up sexual rage and my wife was asleep, I decided that it would be a good time to start Flogging Molly. Things slowed down a little bit when Dr. Sanjay Gupta popped up on the screen, but fortunately Robin was back quickly so I could seal the deal. A little bit might have gotten in my cream of wheat. Being that I've already been through #7 above, I ate it anyway.

So, there you go. Whichever ten of you haven't won this award yet and managed to make it down here, congratulations. You get your very own Honest Scrap Award to disdain love.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Stuff

I have a bit of a dirty secret that I'm now going to share with you. For the past couple of weeks, I've been cheating on you. I know, I know. Where's the trust, eh, blogosphere? It's just that, every so often, I come across your chest a blog that is spectacular enough, I become--for the lack of a better term--infatuated. I read. And then I get bored because the author only updates once a day, yet the author drips with such a profound exceptionality that I want, nay, need more. The only way to get said fix is to dig through the archives.

This has happened recently.

People, I want you to meet Kristine. She's over there, waiting in the van. Now, originally, I caught a glimpse of her in someone's comments and thought "Holy shit! That looks like my attractive friend, Kristine! I better check this shizz out." Well, it turns out that she isn't my attractive friend Kristine. However, she's now my new attractive friend Kristine! She's smart, she's funny, she puts stuff on her kids' heads and takes pictures, she hates her asshole cats, and, like me, she is a MASTER--or will be someday soon. Unlike me, she will be a MASTER in a field where she can get a job in ten years, whereas I'll be living under a bridge, reciting the periodic table and cursing the far east.

While she's as sarcastic and foul-mouthed as they come *dreamy sigh*, apparently her former blog is even more foul-mouthed, even more sarcastic, and even funnier. Alas, it remains hidden, and since I at least pay lip service to people's desires to remain as anonymous as the internet allows, I have gone looking for it. However, I'm sure it was fantastic, like the Lord of the Rings acted out by ninjas and stuff.

Because awesome oozes from every pore on her body, she's recognized the content and character of this blog with a fabulous award. Behold, the James Frey Award!
She's right, you know. 95% of the stuff here is bullshit. The other 5% is dick jokes and Leelee Sobieski pictures.

So, join Kristine in her van. She drives it around, wanted by the government, and serving as a soldier of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find her, maybe you can hire Kristine to put shit on your kids' heads and take pictures.

Now, Gwentabulous over at Everything I Like Causes Cancer, posted a picture of her naughties yesterday. I'd say "unmentionables", but since I provided a link to the story, that pretty much supersedes "unmentioning", doesn't it?

Anyway, her challenge for today was to not tell a story revolving around shit, semen, sex or something else gross that starts with 's' (hooray alliteration!). Jesus, Gwen, you just knocked out 95% of my arsenal. Good thing I was planning on publically felating Kristine. Wait...

Gwen's challenge was to have us post pictures of our favorite sleeping shirts. I received mine rather recently. So recent, in fact, that it still carries the sweet, sweet smell of victory. Behold, the TRIVIA SHIRT!

Oh, oh, that's not the TRIVIA SHIRT you were expecting, is it? No, my friends. See, I won this shirt the other night when I went to Trivia Night at a local bar with the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Boudicca and her friends from work. See, they had a three-round trivia contest (we placed third), but in between the contests were special mini contests. Do you want to know the question I answered correctly and quickly?

"What disease takes it's name from the Latin for 'bad air;?"

The answer, of course, is "malaria". I emboldened a couple of parts. Since you're here every Friday morning learning conjugations and shit, you know I'm all about the Latin. However, you probably didn't know that I'm all about the tropical diseases. It's true. I work on a "neglected disease" program at my company. I don't want to brag too much--especially since none of my compounds have done shit to the parasite--but we've pretty much taken Sleeping Sickness by the balls, swung it around the room a couple of times, kicked it in the grundle, and then, for good measure, while it's lying there on the floor, we've whipped it out and pissed right in its battered and beaten face. AWESOME!!!

Also, the person who introduced me to Yuengling, that sweet, nectarous lager from Eastern Pennsylvania, reads this blog and I wanted to taunt him with my victory. I'm expecting an email shortly that will read something like "Bastard."

Shadows of the Past

One of the unfortunate drawbacks to having picked up so many new readers and followers over the course of the past year is that many of you were unable to bask in the glorious triumph that I celebrated at this time last year. And let me just say, that t-shirt is one of my absolute favorites. I mean, it does taste gloriously of victory and free, which are two of my favorite things in the world (right after boobs and bacon logs), so maybe the t-shirt has an unfair advantage.

Fortunately for me, my knowledge of college basketball is almost as vast as my desire to get free shit. Again this year, the concierge service ran the same contest. Again this year, I won. I am, in fact, just that fucking awesome.

I hope like hell that I won for knowing that the most points you can score on a single play is 3. That's so much better than knowing that you only get five fouls.

Last year, I chose an Indiana shirt (they are my favorite NCAA basketball team, after all). This year, I went for the alma mater, proving that someone from Notre Dame can fucking win something (hear that, football, basketball and hockey teams? I'm rubbing it in your face! Try stop being a bunch of cockfaces and put forth an effort already! And maybe suck a little less while you're at it!).

The other thing that I've proved is that, unlike Notre Dame, winning a free t-shirt is never overrated.

I swear, all I did was type the word "winner" into a Google image search!

Awards Time!

Everyone loves awards (moreso than Raymond), so I felt it my duty to hand a few out based on observations from my day yesterday. A little background: I got up, fed and bathed the kids and myself, dressed everyone, and off we went to the Natural Science Museum in Raleigh. It's a little bit of a hike, but not an altogether unpleasant one. Plus, it gets the kids to exercise as they run around from one exhibit to the other. Awesome, I know. Afterwards, we went to get some lunch, came home, cleaned the house some, and then watched those nefarious Tarheels upend my beloved Irish (and while the loss is suboptimal, it's one of those things that will help keep ND out of a BCS bowl that they don't belong in at the end of the year). After dinner and the game, I headed out to do a little writing and coffee enjoying, which is kind of becoming my Saturday evening plan-of-action. All caught up? Okay, good, let's proceed.

Fuckwit of the Day: The guy who came in with his family of six and a stroller to the sandwich shop yesterday at lunch time (12:30) and began to complain loudly that there wasn't anywhere for him and his brood to sit. He then proceeded to glower at anyone who had a vacant seat at their table, which would include me (the two kids and I sat at a four-seat table, rather than a two-seat table because, you know, there are three of us). Other four seat tables were taken up by a family of four, a family of five, two ladies with a young child and two more babies, a dad, his dad, and their 10-year-old boy who were probably heading to the ND/UNC game, and an older couple out with what appeared to be their son and daughter-in-law. And they were all eating and conversing as people will do over their lunch. Yet Fuckwit decides to storm around and stare at people, maliciously willing them to either shove sandwiches down their gullet whole like snake people, or shooting them the stinkeye in order to get them to pick up their lunches and simply leave. I mean, Christ, we were inconveniencing him, after all.
Douchebag Collective of the Day: I went to my usual haunt for coffe-swilling and writing--the Barnes & Noble cafe in Brier Creek, if you must know--and set up shop with the hopes of finishing the chapter I had been working on previously. Instead, these three...shitwads...came shuffling up to the table immediately beside mine (it was a touch busy and crowded) and proceeded to violate my space both physically and orally. Fem-shitwad was thrust up against my table while Shit-he-wad sat across from her and Master Shitwad sat at the apex of their unholy triangle of douchery. Fem-shitwad proceeded to tell everyone (in the entire store) how fast she likes to drive. "I made it from St. Petersburg to Tampa, which is supposed to be a six hour drive, in two and a half hours. I don't care if my spedometer touches 120. I just go." Shit-he-wad told the tale of how he must drive everywhere because he gets "carsick" and he's "terrified to fly". Shit-he-wad continued on, telling of how he wished he could remember every job he ever worked, but it was like, over thirty, so there's no way he could remember. The guy kind of reminded me of a very sad, very pathetic David Wooderson from Daze and Confused. He also has a best friend who is driving in from Utah because his best friend just got a new car, so they (the best friend and his apparent girlfriend, which very well could have been a Larsian type companion) decided a 2500-mile ride would break it in. Shit-he-wad then decided that he would read back a text conversation that "Lars" sent him, which was painfully predictable and ended with "I love that guy!"

This is the point where Master Shitwad took his chance to shine. At about this point, Master Shitwad started dropping every gay reference he could think of. Like, not trying to be insulting, but trying to be...funny?...I guess...in a really pathetic sort of way. Like, he referred to "Lars" as being Shit-he-wad's Brokeback Buddy, and then steered the conversation toward Clay Aiken and how he had come out but they should shove him back in, because we don't want him. I don't know if the guy was gay, or playfully gay, or just a retard. Or a little of all three. It was very...dare I say...queer.

After about forty-five minutes of this, I got up and walked around the store, looking for anything to distract me from this madness. After burning 10 minutes, I came back to find them still Douchebagging the place up. I sat down and tried to write some more, but Master Shitwad and Fem-shitwad were braying with laughter while shit-he-wad sniggered in a most servile fashion. Having enough, I gathered up my writing implements and headed toward the door. The sounds of their braying laughter faded--thankfully--as the door shut. For a few moments, I sat in my car, staring in at the blaze orange mountain that was Master Shitwad, relishing in the fact that I'm not a complete social retard.

Vas Deferens of the Day: Ever read a really good book and, as you're dashing toward the ending, you find that someone had razored out the last two chapters? Wow, that would totally suck, right? Well, I'm playing this game called Rogue Galaxy, and I've gotten everything taken care of right up to the final boss, so I'm geeked to finish this thing up. I load it up on Friday night and I get through the first two waves of the final boss and then, as the third one is supposed to come out, the game stalls. After fifteen minutes, I reset, go through it again, and the game stalls again. I do this four separate times, each time taking the disk out and cleaning it. I discover a tiny scratch/crack in the disk and, frustrated, I call it quits and decide to try and fix it on Saturday. So, I head out to the store where I bought the game (used, because I don't cry tears of gold), who told me that they would not replace the game as it was more than two weeks since I bought it and I didn't have a receipt. So, I tired to trade it in for credit, and they wouldn't give me any credit, since I told them the game was broken. Wonder-fucking-ful. Also, they didn't have a replacement in the store. I visited two other stores, and neither had a copy, either. Fucking Christ. So, now I have a game saved for whenever I can find a copy of the disk that will play. Lesson learned: always check the condition of the disks before you make that final purchase at a used games parlor. Fuckwads.

So, there you have it, some awards from my weekend. As the world is a big place and populated with several people, I'm sure that this could become a bit of a recurring theme, so I won't even try to keep this at an annual thing.

Eleven Gallows on Your Sleeve

As I traipsed up to the mailbox this afternoon, I was suddenly shocked and taken aback to discover that I received a letter simply postmarked "Central Mordor". Worried that some gog-eyed, fish-eating, hairless freak had sold me out for my simian larceny, I snuck behind the nearest pine tree and opened the envelope. To my great surprise, I learned that I had won a coveted blogging award, and the granter was none other than his wooden cubedness himself, Eric Rider, keeper of Rider's Block.

Of course, I had to celebrate this sensational, and frankly monumental, moment in my life.



Once I was done with what became a very dirty letter, I read through all the things I have to do in order to claim my prize. At first, I was angry with all the hoops I had to jump through in order to claim this lovely slice of heaven, but then I realized, "This is the internet, and dammit, sometimes you have to jump through hoops in order to maintain the high level of integrity demanded by the internet!" Besides, apparently, I've been nominated to be Rider's Padawan, thanks to my fascination with what's inside Leelee Sobieski's shirt and my love of transcribing snarky comments into hovertext over all the pictures I steal from the internet.
First, the requisite picture of the award, courtesy of Arte y Pico:

And now, onto the esteemed five poor saps winners!

1) Homebrew and Chemistry: Here is the perfect co-mingling of two of my absolute favorite things not involving D-cups and Indiana basketball, beer and chemistry. Eric the Mad-Brewer spends his daytime hours molding the minds of America's youth as it pertains to the molding and reformulating of matter, otherwise known as chemistry. To be able to reshape existence as it pertains to your view of the world is akin to wielding the power of a god; to teach others how to do it is akin to wielding the power of the Jedi Council.

2) Lisa-Tastrophies: Her recounting of the tale wherein she purchased a Battery Operated Buddy for a friend is some of the greatest comedic genius I've ever witnessed since those waning days of my senior year of college when, unfortunately, Sparklebelly was born. Sadly, Lisa has a conscience (known as her mother), which means some of her stories are somewhat muted, but when it comes to rants, hers are tops among the PG-rated crowd.

3) Frank (slept here): The man loves robots, sleeping and bacon, which should be enough for the award in and of itself, but he also, for a while, sported a tagline which cames from the depths of my own insanity: "Frank (slept here): Come for the comedy, stay for the pop culture references." Plus, he lives in Chicago, and if there was a city that I would claim as my second home, it would be sweet home Chicago. Despite all of the Illinois Nazis (I hate Illinois Nazis!).

4) What Does It Mean? Nothing!: Jidai runs a blog that deals with reflections on a younger him, graphic novels, obscure references and movies, which is what this blog would be if it wasn't for all the pictures of Leelee Sobieski, novel-writing, and fart jokes. From the moment I clicked over after seeing him pop up in Frank's comments, he became a daily read, and he'll be the first person I tell if I ever manage to successfully keep down a piece of raw eel.

5) Scribe of Blackridge: In the fifth grade, Joel was my best friend. His love of G.I.Joe and Transformers, not to mention the fact that he lived two blocks from me, made him the coolest kid in town, as far as this reporter could see. Unfortunately, life intervened, and he had to move away later in the year, shattering my heart. However, there was this thing called the post, which moved slowly but kept us in touch for a while, until we inevitably fell out of touch. Then, through the magic of the ebays (and my clever trick over at Classmates.com), we were reunited, and it felt so good. Now we talk from time to time, blog more often, and Joel is, to this point, the only human being who has read through the entirety of the rough editions of both King of Shadows and King of Thistles, praising both entirely too much, at least according to this reporter. He's now (unknowingly) become my sounding board who will, inevitably, end up in all of my acknowledgments, thanks to his opinions.

Thanks again to Eric Rider for the keen award. Now that I've claimed it, it shall be set neatly upon the shelf next to my Golden Hound, which I won in the third grade for a poster urging you to knock your dog's nuts off, for the sake of the planet. Unlike Bob Barker, I didn't get to stand next to Heather Kozar as a part of my awards ceremony.

Disclaimer for the winners:
1) Pick 5 blogs that you think deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.