Maybe I Just Need a Goat

As I mentioned last week, I took some time off so that I could watch some World Cup action. However, I didn't just lay around watching guys kick balls and fall on the ground. Prior to the match, I decided that I needed to get out and mow the front part of my yard, which was seriously in danger of getting completely out of control. I was a bamboo shoot or two away from attracting herds of pandas--a most unsavory change for the neighborhood--and with pandas, of course, come tigers. Neither of these did I want living in my yard (least of all the pandas), so I decided to mow.

It was not a pleasant thing to do, by any stretch of the imagination. It was hot. The high for the day was only going to get up to 89, so I thought I would carpe the diem and mow before the US/Slovenia match.

Because my mower is awesome--I bought it at Lowe's, how could it be anything but?--the drive doesn't work very well. I know what the problem is. I'm missing a screw. One fucking little screw, but it's what causes the drive to actually engage, helping pull the fucking mower along my fucking bumpy and hilly piece of property. If it's not working correctly (like, for the past year-and-a-half), the job of mowing becomes at least twice as hard. When it's 85 degrees in the morning, it's about a hundred times as hard.

So, I'm out there fighting the natural contours of the yard, the overgrown patches of weeds, and feeling the sun bake away my soul. Sweat is running in my eyes, the mower is getting choked by the dewy grass it's trying to mulch, and my hands and arms and legs ache because I'm fighting the mower as much as I'm fighting the yard. Because I'm not completely stupid, I took breaks, drank water, sat in the shade and surveyed my handiwork. What I had finished looked great. The rest...notsomuch.

But then, I begin to look around my neighborhood. And I begin to feel like a chump. The more I look, the more chumpish I am feeling.

See, I have neighbors on three sides who don't mow their lawns. They let their lawns grow so out of control that other neighbors finally get sick of how shitty it looks and they mow it for them.

The people next to me moved out for reasons that could fill an entirely different blog post. The plus side of them moving out was that I got a new step ladder (and it's a nice one); the downside is that their lawn grows wild, so that it more resembles Catherine of Aragon's eyebrows than a front yard! Hi-yo!

To be honest, I wrote that joke for one person in particular...I apologize if my acerbic wit of dead historical figures did not quite ring a chord this morning...

Anyway, they've moved out. The people across from them have moved on, as well. About the only good thing I'm going to get from them is a free recycling bin that I can use every other Friday...but they're gone, and someone else mows their lawn.

And then...there's the guy across the street. Rex Mulletus, he whose children put sand in my kids' fucking squirt guns, he who constructs ramparts of garbage bags to protect against invasion by the Huns, he whose back porch light shines right into my bedroom window. This man owns no functioning stove, no working grill, and no lawn mower.

And apparently no concept that a mullet is not cool, man. Not cool at all.

For two years now, my other neighbors have been happily mowing this guy's lawn for him simply because he doesn't. And while I'm glad that someone else has decided to do all the work for him, I'm a little bit...put off. I mean, here I am, sweating my fucking balls off to ensure that, at least once a month, my yard looks passable, and these three fuckers all get someone else to do their work for them, mostly by being as useless as humanly possible. Or absent. I guess that's a decent excuse.

It's not fair, if you ask me. Which I'm sure you didn't.

It's enough to make me want to quit mowing my own lawn...or just get a goat.

Forever in Debt to Your Priceless Advice

I read yesterday that Rick Riordan is planning a new series based on Greek mythology. In case you're not familiar with Monsieur Riordan, he's the author of the best-selling young adult series, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, the first book of which, The Lightning Thief, was released as a movie earlier in the year.

So, Rick Riordan is that guy down the street gleefully rolling in a pile of cash thanking Zeus as he does so.

He might squeeze in a little bit of thanks for Ra, too, as Riordan's written a series of books based on the Egyptian pantheon, as well.

A quick read of his Wikipedia Biography shows that the native Texan dons the burnt orange and white as a Texas alumnus, and that he still lives in San Antonio. I'll bet he remembers the Alamo. While at Texas, he studied English and History.

Fascinating, I know. You woke up this morning and wondered all about the life of the author of the Percy Jackson books. Or didn't. And you're probably wondering why the fuck I'm so interested, other than the fact that I generally like people from Texas.

For the answer to these questions, we'll have to go back to 1993, when I was beginning to shift my focus from what was inside Jodi Hippensteel's shirt (mental note: stalk her on Facebook later today) and more what I would do with the rest of my life. More specifically, I was pondering what it was I should major in when I got to college.

My first inclination was to study English, as I was rather fond of English and language as a whole, and I also enjoyed dissecting books other than The Scarlet Letter for their depth, meaning and symbolism. As a backup plan, I pondered studying history, focusing on ancient history since I had been almost singularly obsessed with the Roman Empire since the sixth grade. Given this, I'd probably have sought a degree in the Classics.

Even then, I had aspirations of becoming an author (something I had been working on since the third grade). I was working for the local newspaper and also for the student-run newspaper at my high school, so I had some writing experience under my belt. I was just going to start getting serious about my possible career.

I voiced these opinions to my parents who enjoyed dangling me upon marionette strings, ensuring that they controlled as much of my life as humanly possible were interested in helping me make a sound and wise decision.

My father just seemed happy that I was going to college. My mother, on the other hand, began growling the moment I started speaking.

"I'm not paying for you to go to school and study some la-di-da subject that you'll never be able to get a job doing!" she howled, banshee like in the pitch and timbre of her vitriol. "I'm not wasting good money on you to tiptoe through the daisies for four years. You're going to go and study something that you can make a career out of!"

And that was the end of that. Since I had done well in my high school chemistry classes (in which things like "reaction mechanisms", "kinetics", "quantum mechanics" and "physical chemistry" aren't ever really mentioned, giving you that whole false sense of security thing), I opted for a major in chemistry.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my undergraduate institution. It's just that...well, the facilities were a bit dated and we didn't have a whole lot of laboratory equipment, especially instrumental equipment. So, while still in high school and weighing the idea of studying a scientific discipline, I pondered going to a larger school where I could get things like "hands on learning" and stuff like that.

My mother would have none of this. "You're not going to a big state school!" she hissed. "They don't teach you anything there. You just get an indoctrination!"

Incidentally, I converted to Catholicism whilst in college.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Also, incidentally, my mother snarled--actually snarled! Feral growl, teeth-bearing rictus and all--that I should "get real" when I was thinking about going to graduate school, and tossed around the words "Notre" and "Dame". At this point, I had wriggled out from under her thumb enough that I wasn't going to put up with her bullshit and then I pointed out that I would actually get paid to go to school there. I guess a degree in the sciences does have its advantages...

It shut her the fuck up, which accomplished my prime objective, but anyway, back to the story.

So, I ended up studying a subject I wasn't really that fond of at a small school with limited resources to help bolster that study wondering if my job is going to be shipped to India tomorrow or next week.

Meanwhile, in my spare time, I study Latin and the history of Rome, from the founding of the city to the fall of the Empire and the transition period after that where the great kingdoms of Europe slowly rose from the ashes of the Empire. I am also writing a book featuring Greek gods and working desperately to sketch out a fiction series that will be an allegory to various aspects of the rise of the Roman Empire that may or may not be geared toward middle school girls so that I, too, can shit gold bullion.

So, Rick Riordan? I admire you, sir. Please, don't stop wallowing in that pile of cash. Enjoy every moment of it. You've certainly shown what a waste of time a degree in history and language is, not to mention how unhealthy it is to have an obsession with ancient mythological stories. Yessir, I'll bet you're regretting that degree these days.

Because I enjoy my own cleverness so much, I thought I'd share this little sniglet of what I wrote last night in my Greek gods story (though if you've read my status updates on Facebook, this is old hat):

"Walking into the bedroom, Amanda rolled her eyes. 'Please,' she reproached, 'Priapos you're not.'"

By the way...if you're not familiar, don't look up "Priapos/Priapus" at work...

I'm Sleepy (A TMI-ish Thursday Post)

I've come to a point in my life where I'm afraid I'm going to have to utilize a sleeping aid other than masturbation.

Don't get me wrong; polishing Darth Vader's helmet is still plenty enjoyable, but it doesn't get the job done like it used to. In the sleep department, that is. I'm still fully capable of ejaculating like a geyser. Allow me to allay your fears in that department.

It's just that now, I don't sleep quite as nicely as I used to. The simple solution is to blame it on the heat, as I am a man of ample girth. Especially where it counts. Don't believe me? Just look at a picture of my wife. Look at that smug smile of satisfaction permanently slapped on her lips. That, my friends, is a testament to girthiness.

I'm talking about girth in other areas of my body. *sigh* Okay, fine, I'll just come out and say it: I'm a bit overweight. I realized this the other day when a bunch of Chinese guys came by and rubbed me on the tummy and then questioned aloud why I wasn't made of bronze and just why was Buddha telling them to kindly fuck off.

Over the weekend, I was forced to close my windows and fire up the air conditioner. Usually, I try to hold out until June 1st, but I couldn't this year, mostly because the weather forecasters were wrong (insert shocked face here) and predicted highs well into the nineties for the holiday weekend. While the highs did not attain this lofty plateau, it was still amply humid around here, and so my hand was forced. Chilled, recirculated air became a matter of need, not just a matter of luxury.

The problem isn't even the heat during the day. That, I can deal with. The heat at night, however, is a whole different dog and pony show. A very sweaty dog and pony show, but a dog and pony show nonetheless.

The problem is that the temperatures don't drop below 70 at night around here, and if they do it's only in the wee hours before dawn that they accomplish that, well after I've slouched into the bed trying to grab a few hours of sleep. Coupling this with the fact that air flow in my house is fucking ridiculously stagnant, and you can see where the problems begin.

So, to recap: it's hot, it's muggy, and the air doesn't circulate so it doesn't ever actually get all that cool. And whatever cool air there is goes rocketing out through the piss-poorly insulated walls and windows. And the fan--though, it's a very good fan and I love it as if it was a third child--can only push so much air, and even that isn't enough to cool down me.

Thanks to this, I've entered into a sleep cycle where I drift off, begin the sweet, sweet dream cycle, and then, just as Natalie Portman is about to show me her V for Vendetta, I wake up. I toss about. I roll over. I mutter profanities under my breath. I finally drift off to sleep, rinse and repeat.

This means I wake up sweaty--which is never a good thing--and surly and listless and feeling as if I've taken one of those naps where you fall asleep on the couch for thirty seconds and then your kids start fighting over who gets to claim the remote after Daddy's drifted off. What? You don't have those fights in your house?

Well, kindly fuck off.

I'm sorry. Don't be offended. It's the heat and lack of sleep. Maybe.

So, this makes me think I should drug myself before heading off to sleep--that's where I'm a Viking, after all--so that I can make it through a night and wake up feeling at least a little refreshed and maybe not quite so surly.

Of course, waking up and having some of the morning sex would be nice, but I can really only take that matter up with one person--maybe two, if I'm lucky and someone's feeling kinky. *sigh* I can feel the glare through the computer monitor now, and she hasn't even read this yet.

My apologies for the digression. Won't happen again. Today, at least.

It does look as though I'm going to have to resort to some kind of chemical agent in order to help me through the night and sweeten my disposition.

I'm thinking rum.

Like Sand in Your Buns

I'm a little bit pissed this morning.

I know, what else is new, right?

And by "pissed", I mean angry. Not the good kind of "pissed" that would imply that I woke up this morning and started enjoying a good tipple.

A couple of weeks ago, in a moment of what can only be described as "impulse", I decided it was time for my children to own squirt guns. So, I shelled out all of ninety-nine cents (apiece...I'm not THAT cheap) for two water guns. We took them home, I showed them how to fill them, and they were off. Oh, what fun they had, chasing one another around the back yard, squirting and being squirted. It eventually devolved into having a squirt gun in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.

But, you know what? They're kids. They need to run around and have fun and play with squirt guns. It's all in good fun.

So, the other day, the neighbor girls from across the street came over, and they ran around in the backyard playing with the squirt guns, too. Now, the girls from across the street are harmless, but kind of annoying. One of them is terrified of bugs, and shrieks at the top of her lungs this long, piercing, keening wail whenever she sees a bug, let alone have one land on her. Do you know how many bugs there are in North Carolina? All of them.

The other one...well...let's just say I fully expect her to graduate--with honors--from the Elmer Fudd Academy of Public Speaking, if you know what I'm saying. *wink* Uh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!

Anyway, yesterday, when I released the hounds children into the backyard to run and play while I cooked dinner, I found that my kids' squirt guns no longer worked. Hmmm, curious. Two weeks is all ninety-nine cents buys these days? Well, I guess that's no problem. Their birthdays are four to six weeks away, so I can get them new ones, and possibly upgrade them even. Yep, father of the year.

And then...then I hear why my kids' squirt guns don't work anymore...

Seems as though Bugluver and Elmer from across the street put sand into the squirt guns when they were playing with them. Sand. Motherfucking sand in the squirt guns! Who the fuck does this? It's a water gun, not a silica grit gun. What the fuck?

But, of course, they're not my kids, so I can't go off on them like I want to. And, the guns were only ninety-nine cents, so I would feel like a true asshole if I went next door and demand that Fudd senior repay me for the lost use of two squirt guns, but a tiny part of me wants to go and grab that fucker by the mullet and ask "Who the hell teaches their kids to put sand in a fucking squirt gun???"

Now, being a chemist, I'm familiar with certain materials and whatnot. I could get a hold of some shit that would dissolve the sand right quick, and--I'm fairly certain--wouldn't damage the water-shooting mechanism too much. However, when considering all angles of my options, the risk of getting HF burns quickly outweighs the recovered use of two squirt guns that set me back two bucks.

Oh, and by the way, if you're squeamish, you probably don't want to click on that link up there.

So, I guess I'm going to swallow my anger and bottle it up inside (always healthy) and just get the kids a couple of good squirt guns for their birthdays.

In the meantime, be vewy vewy quiet. I'm twying to discouwage the kids next door fwom coming over.

Still Powersless

My wife and I brought a friend to bed with us last night. And I'm bearing the marks of that little threesome still today.

Apparently, a spider insidiously inserted itself into the place where I lay my pretty little head to escape reality sleep. When I awoke, my neck was ringed with raised red bumps, and down my chest and over my belly were marked with the remains of whatever attack I endured during my restful hours last night.

While the bite marks don't hurt and don't itch (they are slightly irritated by the collar of both my shirt and my labcoat rubbing against them), they do carry one specific annoyance: a distinct lack of super abilities.

*sigh*

I'm getting a little tired of this. I've been bit at least a dozen times, and yet there's no super strength, no webs coming out of my wrist (or my ass, where spider webs should originate), no wall-scaling ability, no chitin exoskeleton, no book lung, no spidey sense. Nothing. I'm the same pudgy little fucker I was when I went to bed last night.

Unfortunately, that's not it. I've endured being blasted by X-rays, sonic waves, microwaves, intense localized magnetic fields and gamma rays, and yet all I have to show for it is a strange spot on my leg and a thumb that sometimes wiggles involuntarily. These are not exactly the sorts of things that one can hang a crime-fighting career upon.

I've even endured explosions in the lab, and yet, nothing. Fortunately, I don't even have a scar from those particular mishaps, though I am a touch gunshy when I go to put one of my reaction vials on a vortex mixer in the lab.

On the plus side, I guess, my parents haven't been gunned down in an alley after taking me to see The Mask of Zorro, nor has my home planet been destroyed, so I guess I shouldn't complain too much, right?

Still, it's enough to make a guy not believe in what you read in comic books.

Dear Weather Channel

Dear Weather Channel:

Suck it.

Do you know what your main role in life is? Here's a hint: it's in your name, and I'm not talking about the word "channel" nor am I speaking of the word "the". That's right! Weather! Perhaps we can sink through that thick concrete cranium of yours yet.

Now, I understand that, much like every other network in the entire world you focus on New York and Boston all the time. I also understand that you're centered in Atlanta, so we get to see that oh-so-exciting weather prospectus for such exotic locales as Macon and Warner-Robins and Screven possibly more than, you know, we should. And then there's the inexplicable "Hey, Omaha, the sun is coming up! Whee!!!" I'm willing to overlook all this because every ten minutes, you show me the local radar, at what time the sun will rise tomorrow, and what phase the moon will be in for the next four weeks.

Ah, see, here's the rub: you're not showing me those things every ten minutes. Instead, I sit through five minutes of commercials for whatever piece of contrite kitsch that the Late Billy Mays would (or still is...eerie) hock in that delightfully endearing brazen and brash fashion of his. When it's not a commercial for the latest and greatest (and shittiest) piece of detritus that I'm opting not to purchase and to clutter up my home, it's a commercial for one of your other shows, which are only peripherally involved in the weather. Or it's a commercial featuring Al Roker.

Mother.
Fucking.
Al.
Roker.

Do you know when Al Roker was last cool? It's when he was interviewed on Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast. And that might have been because I was drunk and maybe had a bit of a contact high: my year in Merlini Hall seems to just fly by (in hindsight). And I'm pretty sure Al Roker was cool only because Zorak called his ass out and subsequently fried him with whatever energy weapon Zorak wielded with impunity.

And yet, here I am, tuning in to see if I have to grab a jacket on my way out the door, and instead of an extended forecast, I get Al Roker's face on my screen. "Aren't I funny?" he says into the camera. "Laugh with me! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!!!" No, you're not funny. Go back to wherever you escaped and stop ruining my weather channel viewing experience!

While I'm speaking of Al Roker, could you have found perhaps a slightly more annoying co-host to go along with his aw-shucks hokum? Yes, Stephanie Abrams is easy on the eye, is probably a nice person, but damn, is there another person on national television screaming to be featured on "What Not to Wear" more than she? Even I can see that, and I can barely dress myself without looking like a clown--a drunken clown at that.

And seriously, if you're going to continue to feature programs revolving around the Stephanie Abrams experience (*shudder*), can you do us all a favor and turn her fucking microphone off. I've heard dogs with diarrhea that are more engaging in conversation than she. Not that I want to say that she's a touch...insipid...but when I hear the word "vapid", immediately her image comes to mind. I hope you've got a good insurance plan for your employees, because I'm sure Mike Bettes goes home every night and drinks himself to the point where he no longer desires the sweet release that opening his veins would provide.

Okay, okay, I might have gotten a bit off track. I originally began penning this letter so that you would stop with the fucking "specialty" programming. Seriously, I spent way too fucking long today trying to catch a glimpse of the immediate weather forecast, and yet all I got was commercials for your shitty shows embedded within those same shitty shows!

And let's discuss these shows, shall we? You call it "When Weather Changed History", but I can only guess that it's because "When Weather Didn't Really Have Much of an Affect on the Somewhat Historical Events Outlined in Our Programs" doesn't have much of a ring to it. But, that would be what we refer to as "truth in advertising". Besides, the History Channel is where I typically go if I want to see documentaries about historical events.

And then there's "Storm Stories." *sigh* This could be about five minutes worth of a show, to be honest. I realize that it's supposed to be about human hardship, so that we feel sorry for our fellow human beings, but after so many minutes of footage of bemulleted billhillies who try to drive their truck through the raging flood waters of the Chattahoochee, the program becomes a touch...repetitive.

(That means "the same thing over and over again", Stephanie).

We won't even go into the failed experiment of showing us weather-themed movies on Friday night. When did that finally sink in that it was a bad idea? After the second showing of The Perfect Storm or the third replay of March of the Penguins? Somewhere, Morgan Freeman is shaking his head, ashamed that he was involved in such a farcical attempt at garnering an audience.

And now, you're springing more shows on us. Not satisfied with drowning inbreds, you've ratcheted things up a level with "Cantore Stories". Apparently, Jim Cantore, perhaps the least charismatic cast member of the Weather Channel's vast array of meteorologists (barring Greg Forbes), will now be interviewing the wives and mothers of those drowned rednecks. Scintillating! Derivative!!! I can certainly see why the seven-day forecast is being preempted for this!

And then there's Weather Proof, which features our favorite socially-inept Weather Bunny, Stephanie Abrams. From what I can gather in the previews (which are often and typically shown in place of the weather I tune in to learn about), this features someone with a giant fan and a wall with a window in it, and they throw shit at the wall and window. Wow! Look! Glass breaks when hit with a terra cotta pot! That's edge-of-my-seat excitement right there. And then, wow, Stephanie Abrams yells out something about how she didn't expect that! Yes, I'll be sure to stop tuning into Mythbusters for this. Can we get Stephanie Abrams to wear a beret like Jamie Hyneman? Preferably shoved down her throat?

In short, please, stop with the shitty "programming". You are the Weather Channel. Please show us weather.

And, perhaps, the occasional mud wrestling match between Heather Tesch and Jenn Carfagno.

Sincerely,

A Weather Fan

P.S. Bring back Sharon Resultan, like, yesterday. And give her some more really tight leopard-print tops.

Okay...Really?

Last night, as I was working on the current manuscript, I needed to relate a story about Athena between my characters. Athena, of course, was a war goddess (among other things) in Ancient Greece, and, as such, she was typically shown garbed in the dress of a warrior. This usually involves holding a spear or a shield or a helmet or any combination thereof.

Since, of course, Athena is female, I was going to use the term "warrioress" as an epithet for her. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure if "warrioress" was a word or not, so I turned to the online dictionaries that I often frequent when I'm unsure of a word's true existence or not. Turns out, warrioress is in a dictionary and it is defined, as you might guess, as a female warrior. I then decided that I didn't actually like the word "warrioress" and just went with "warrior goddess", figuring that that covered both bases when it comes to epithets for Athena.

I couldn't leave well enough alone, however. I decided to check out images and pictures that would come up if one searched for "warrioress". I almost immediately wished that I hadn't.

My cursory study of female warriors reveals that, when a woman becomes a warrior, she no longer has need for armor. Or, any clothing at all, for that matter. Her breasts grow as big as or bigger than her head. Her hips flare, her waist shrinks, and--naturally!--she pulls on a pair of high-heeled boots or sandals in order to go running off into battle. All of this seems rather impractical--especially in the costuming department--but perhaps I'm just misguided. To my eye, it seems as though a woman's flesh would be pierced by an arrow or a sword since there is absolutely nothing there to slow the weapon's progress. Silly me, I guess, assuming armor was for protection.

Also, the Amazons, a famed tribe of warrioresses, cut one of their breasts off so that they wouldn't be hindered in drawing a bow. It does seem to be a bit of a hindrance for a female warrior's big, floppy breasts to be in the way when in the middle of battle--especially when she opts for either no bra, or one that really doesn't do anything for support. But, hey, what do I know?

Apparently, not enough about female combatants...

This is something that I have vowed never to do. Though I have no objections to scantily-clad women, writing a female character into a story simply to have her strip and/or run around naked for long periods of time for no apparent reason is something I refuse to do. Female fighters in my stories tend to follow the path initiated by Eowyn (she of Lord of the Rings fame); that is, they dress for battle just like men, they fight just as hard as men, they die just as easily as men. I might be writing stories that can be classified as "fantasies", but they certainly aren't going to be sword-and-shield erotica.

Not that it really matters for my current work, since there isn't much in the way of women on the battlefield anyway. The closest thing I have is appearances by Athena, and she's wearing a chiton whenever she shows up, anyway.

I'll end my rant now.

I'm nearly finished with the sixth chapter of the manuscript, and the main arc of the story is finally shaping up. When I finish this chapter, it will be as the hero of the story is embarking upon his quest. He just got the information for the quest...though he doesn't know it yet...and is about to do his big impulsive, hot-headed act of braggadocio that will see him on his way and the quest undertaken. Fortunately, I have the subsequent chapters already mapped out, so I don't need to pour a lot of extra research into what happens.

While I was researching ancient Greek funerary practices this week (turns out, they're not that different from our own...though we don't typically sacrifice rams on top of the fresh graves of our dead family members...much...these days), I came across one of my favorite words, and I thought I'd share it here. It is Sunday, after all (at least where I am).

threnody: n. a poem or song of mourning or lamentation.

It comes from the Greek word threnos which means "lament" or "dirge" and oide which means "song" (such as in "melody" or "ode"). A threnos was a song of lamentation sung at during the period of mourning during a funeral. The Greeks, afraid that they would offend their dead relatives, really put their all into mourning them by wailing and beating their breasts and clawing at their faces and even hiring professional singers to come and sing the songs of lament. A professionally-sung song was called a threnos.

After digging through my rant about the dress code for women on the battle field and the boring ancient Greek lesson, here's the writing updates:

6883 / 50000 words. 14% done!

25915 / 100000 words. 26% done!

Twinkle, Twinkle

I love Christmas lights. It's one of my favorite traditions of the holidays. Honestly, I would keep my Christmas lights up all year if it wasn't, you know, tacky to do so. I figure the deck that is basically falling off the side of the house is about the level of tack that I'd like to reach, so down come the Christmas lights the weekend after Christmas.

Now, people have been dragging lights into their houses during the middle of the winter months as a way of "celebrating" the darkness of winter pretty much ever since the house was invented--this custom has been seen especially in the northern hemisphere for millenia. These lights started out as candles and little lanterns and lightning bugs strung out on crack, so it makes sense that some people would prefer the all-white miniature lights that are very common today. My wife is one of these miniature-light elitists people. Over the course of the nine years of wedded bliss, I've been conditioned to like the happy little white lights as well.

Deep down inside, however, I love the multi-colored lights. She has relented in her "no colored lights" stance and has allowed me to string some red and green lights in the front bushes. It's all very pretty...but in an Italian flag sort of way.


As much as I love Christmas lights, and as much as I love multi-colored lights, I have an issue with the LED lights that are beginning to become more popular.

I realize the appeal of the LED lights in that they last longer, use less energy, and don't have that whole one-light-burns-out-and-the-whole-string-is-fucking-useless-now-where-is-that-fucking-useless-fucking-bulb-I'm-going-to-throw-the-whole-fucking-string-away-oh-here-it-is-and-it's-been-broken-and-holy-fuck-I-just-gashed-open-my-fucking-finger-on-the-fucking-broken-glass-season-of-peace-and-joy-my-ass thing. I think all of these things are great, plus it gives electrical engineers something to do during the summer months. Not to mention, they're a fantastically practical use of all that gallium and indium we have just lying around, taking up space.

But, there's just something...odd...about a display made up of all these LED lights. It's like the blues are too blue. They burn my eyes with their blueness. I look at them while I'm driving by on my way home, and my eyes sort of lose focus and drool starts to run down my chin a little bit. I begin to hear voices and angels trumpeting the glory of God in the highest. It's all a little disconcerting. Not to mention, it's slightly dangerous to be driving down the roads like that.

It's like it's not even blue anymore, but instead it's some sort of portal into an alternative universe where up is down, left is right, cats love dogs, and Tiger Woods only plays 72 holes in a weekend. *shudder* I don't want to go to that universe.

The rest of the LEDs? They've fine. They're great. I love them. I applaud them. *slow clap* But, the blues? No thank you. They're just so wrong in their intensity. Plus, that whole portal to another, more terrible dimension just isn't my cup of tea. I prefer my portals to hell to be more of the coven of thirteen witches variety. Wait, I'm sorry. Let me rephrase. A coven of thirteen sexy witches variety.



Besides, we all know Muddy Waters made the best blues around.

You're a Dirty, Dirty Snowman

This could be one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time (a notable exemption for when I got naked this morning for my shower).

I'll admit it: tears came to my eyes when Frosty busts open the refrigerator car and yells "It's my porn collection!" Now that, my friends, is what's known as comedy. At least, that's how I see it.

But, since it's funny, there are some people who want--nay, need--to ruin it for everyone else. If you're one of those people, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that God didn't gift you with a sense of humor or decided to give you a little dick or a stinky snatch or whatever it is that has made you so cranky with life itself.

When dealing with an overblown moral outcry over something that is meant to be funny or humorous, it's always best to turn to the experts. Therefore, I thought I'd give you the FOXNews story. No, really, you should read it.

My favorite part of the story? When this Colleen Raezler person says, "It really drives home the idea that nothing is sacred anymore."

Sacred? Frosty? Oh, silly me. I thought that, at the first Christmas, there was Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, a manger, some donkeys, sheep, camels, a talking dog, a little boy tapping out a beat on his snare drum, some angels and shepherds. I must have somehow lost the Holy and Most Sacred Snowman figurine from the Nativity sets that I own.

I'll let you in on a little secret: Frosty the Snowman sucks. It is awful. Terrible. I would rather watch a hobo taking a shit into his own hat rather than watch Frosty the Snowman. I want to puke whenever I hear that fat fuck yell out "Happy Birthday!" whenever the hat gets placed upon his head. Someone fetch me a hairdryer.

It's sad when you can take a perfectly good song and ruin it with a Christmas special. Of course, Rankin-Bass did the same thing to "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", so it's expected at this point, I believe. I mean, I know a little something about fucking hot redheads named Jessica, and it doesn't make you that fat and bearded overnight. You can trust me on that one.

Inevitably, whenever something like this happens, people will throw themselves in front of whatever media device is before them and bemoan the state of the children. Won't someone please think of the children? Well, here's the thing: the children in the video? All animated. They're not real. They're made up. Figments of someone's imagination (you know, kind of like the evilness of this video).

Real life children? This isn't marketed to them. It's a video for CBS' website. You have to actively seek it out in order for it to be viewed by children. Unlike, say, news on what Tiger Woods has stuck his dick in this time, which is everywhere. I mean, it's fucking ridiculous. I can't go anywhere without being smacked in the face with Tiger coverage or opinions on him or speculations about his future. I'm just waiting for this:

Tonight, on a very special episode of "Spongebob Squarepants": Bahahahahahahahahahaha! Patrick! Can you believe the shit Tiger's pulling? Yeah, Spongebob, did you see some of the pictures of those chicks he was banging? I sure did, Patrick. I think Steve Phillips must have been Tiger's wingman! Bahahahahahahahahaha!

So, anyway, Frosty is coming on Friday night (December 18), if you're interested. If not, I recommend the Phineas and Ferb special, which will, hopefully, make fun of how fucking lame Frosty the Snowman is.

Or maybe you can, you know, bust out your porn collection.

Time for a Christmas Rant!!!

I'm sure where you are, you also have radio stations that play Christmas music all day and all night. I'm fine with this. This is not the nature of this rant. I actually kind of like the Christmas music all day and all night, especially if the kids and I are out having one of those special moments together. You know the ones: where daddy is fighting through traffic and the kids are picking up new and creative swears to share with their friends. Ah, the holidays.

No, instead, my gripe rests with the lack of variety in Christmas songs. It's the same thing, time and again. Every 45 minutes, we start back with the same goddamned seven Christmas songs, three of which are three different versions of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree". I'm about to burn an effigy of Brenda Lee; I don't care that she's 64 years old. Someone spread a rumor that Brenda Lee hates America. Maybe we can go all Dixie Chicks on her and burn every fucking copy of that song ever made.

I will say that, fortunately, we've gotten away from the "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" song that plagued the airwaves for a few years. If it makes a resurgence, then I'm definitely leaking to someone that Elmo and Patsy have links to al Qaeda.

And, yes, people, I know that "Carol of the Bells" is fucking awesome. I love it. You love it. I don't love twenty different fucking versions of it playing 24 hours a day. We all tend to love things a lot less when they are raping our ears over and over again. Take note, please. Mannheim Steamroller, I'm looking at you.

But, perhaps the most perfidious of all the "Christmas" songs comes from everyone's favorite Glitter star, Mariah Carey. Ugh. Can anyone possibly ruin a season of love and harmony like her? I mean, honestly. "All I Want for Christmas Is You" is ear-bleedingly bad. In case you're one of the very few people blessed enough not to have had this thing violate your ear canals, let me give you a brief summary of how it goes: fourteen stray cats are placed in a burlap bag; someone swings the bag against a wall, thus pissing off the mangy, flea-ridden felines; music ensues; someone chants "Christmas" over and over again in the back ground.

There's another one that she mangles, but I can't think of what it is. Maybe yet another version of "Santa Claus is Coming in my mouth to Town". I'm not sure. I feel an aneurysm threatening to burst right now just thinking about the first song. Please don't make me do the research on the second one.

But here's the thing: I don't mind Mariah Carey that much, when she's not ruining Christmas music. I'm not saying that I own all of her albums or anything (I might still have a tape copy of Vision of Love somewhere, don't judge). It's just that her holiday music that makes my stomach tie itself into knots and my testicles to recede into the safety of my body as if a solid punting is imminent. I would naturally assume that I'm just not hip or cool, but these fucking songs have been plaguing us since 1994, when I was a senior in high school, arguably at the pinnacle of my hipness and coolness. So, it can't even be that.

So there. While I love Christmas, and while I don't mind the Christmas music playing at all hours of the day, the monotony is what kills me. Plus, the screechy implications that "you" can satisfy what I need and want for Christmas (maybe if "you" came with, I dunno, a PS3 and maybe a 47-inch flat panel television, then we're getting close) just don't do it for me.

Fortunately, someone else has done my bitching for me in regards to Dan Fogelberg, everyone's favorite leather mug maker from the Renaissance Fair.

So...Orange

I got back from my Thanksgiving travels last night late. My feet hurt. My ass was kind of numb. And I was probably a bit punch drunk from being in the car for however many hours it took me to get from Knoxville to Durham, with detours through Morganton, NC and Hickory, NC. A fellow's got to eat, after all. Plus, his wife and kids, too, I suppose.

I must say, though, I really like Tennessee. This was my second real visit to the Volunteer State (I've driven through several times before). There's a different sort of atmosphere there. It might actually be a bit more friendly. I'm not sure.

One thing I do know, though: The price of premium grade gasoline in Tennessee was cheaper than the price of regular grade gasoline in North Carolina. And yet, they still talk about raising our gas taxes here in the Old North State, mostly to cover up the millions of dollars the last governor stole from the cookie jar while he was in office.

The other thing about Tennessee: There's a lot of orange. It's a combination thing, though. There's the clay-enriched soils of the southeast that are very, very orange. That, coupled with the University of Tennessee's home colors, orange and white, make for a state that's really, really effing orange. This is not to say that I dislike the University of Tennessee; I'm just not a fan of their colors is all. It's...so orange. While this wouldn't normally be an issue, orange is perhaps my least favorite color.

However, unlike North Carolina, there wasn't an abundance of cones and barrels left sitting alongside the roads as a testament to half-abandoned road work projects. Here in North Carolina, our road construction motto is "Yeah, we'll get to that later." Annoying.

I don't know if any of you live in Tennessee, but if you do, here's to kissing your state's ass. I love it. If the commute wasn't hell, I'd live there, but six hours is a little much to ask a fellow to drive, no matter how much he enjoys his job.

I just wish it wasn't so orange...

This Kind of Pisses Me Off

Okay, first off...a little note from Friday evening's anti-Trebeckian rant. My wife looked up the phrase "vox populi" (Latin for "voice of the people") on Merriam-Webster's site the other night. There, they listed both pronunciations--vox popu-lie and vox popu-lee--as correct. However, "vox popu-lee" was listed first as the more correct version. No mention of "wox popu-lee", which doesn't surprise me since sometime during the Middle Ages, the letter v stopped carrying the /w/ sound and started adopting the more modern /v/ sound. This is fine with me, because, honestly, wagina is a silly word that should never be uttered by anyone.

During my daily avoiding doing real work morning reads, I checked CNN.com and found this little story about how authors are turning to web publishing in order to get their books published. Now, I don't know Lisa Genova. I'm sure she's a fine person and a good writer and all--I'll ignore that her last name is synonymous with that country for mutants ruled by Magneto. No, wait, shit. That's Genosha. Sorry to confuse the two.

Anyway, as most of you know, I'm trying to publish the book that I wrote. For those coming late to the party, let me explain: I'm trying to publish the book that I wrote. There, I think we're all caught up.

In order to do this, I've been seeking out agents to represent my work. Like a friend of mine once said, I've got to get out there and pimp mah shit (I'm paraphrasing here...slightly). I did have that nibble from one agent about this time a year ago. I still have the letter. It's a reminder of "Hey, don't give up yet; your dick's not that little!"

So, then I read the above article on CNN. Obviously, this route of self-publishing and getting your friends to prop up your work for you (which is what I would be counting on you bastards...er...guys...to do for me, were I in a similar situation) worked for Lisa Genova. Frankly, I'm glad she was able to throw it in the eye of one obnoxious agent who didn't think anyone would want to read a book about someone suffering from Alzheimer's, since I've dealt with my deal of douchebags in the area while searching for my own agent.

Side note: Really, Ms. Literary Agent? You didn't think anyone would be interested in a book about Alzheimer's? Of course, I'm sure the guy who turned down Forrest Gump was probably like, "I'm sorry, Mr. Groom, but I don't think anyone would want to read a book about a retarded kid."

Anyway, from what I've learned--as in, everything I've read that wasn't this CNN article--says self-publishing is a lousy way to go. Once an agent or a publisher sees that you've self-published, they're turned off. Mostly, this is because it's a pain in the ass to get the rights to a book after it's already been published. And by pain in the ass, I mean a knobby, corny , dried, hard turd resembling a beer can in size and shape trying to force its way out of you--sideways. It's the very rare book that will ever get picked up from a self-publishing house to a main stream publisher.

My favorite part of the article, however, is how the self-publishers prop themselves up using today's buzzwords: "in this economy" and "the environmental impact". Fewer published books means fewer dead trees! Fewer cows means fewer cow farts, but that doesn't stop the elephants from farting.

I dunno. Maybe I'm just pissy because I'm not published. Maybe I'm just pissy because I woke up several times during the night for no good reason. Or, maybe I'm just pissy because I'm brewing up a big, knobby, corny masterpiece that's going to try and force its way out sideways, but the article still kind of pisses me off.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see a man about a horse. Er, something.

New Music: Apparently, Still Being Made

Liz over at Gingers is the Watchword posted a list of the albums of the year for 2008. Awesome, right? Sadly, I've never even heard of these groups/singers. In fact, it was news to me that new music is still being made.

Well, that is, except for country. Lots of country albums still being cranked out. I guess songs about shootin', dyin', drivin' in circles and blonde girls with big, floppy tits are still popular. To be fair, there's the occasional times when I feel in a "country mood" and will toss in a Garth Brooks CD or get seriously old school with a George album (take your pick, Strait or Jones), but those times are few and far between. Typically, if I'm in need of the equivalent of lyrical suicide notes, I turn to R.E.M.

But, to say that there's new music out there...wow. Blow me over, or whatever it is that Popeye mutters shortly before knocking the shit out of Bluto. See, I wouldn't know that, mostly because I have some of the most corporate of corporate radio shoved down my throat, and even then, it's nothing new. Sad, but true. A few years ago, all of the radio stations down here underwent format changes. The good classic rock station got turned to country and they stole my beloved Bob & Tom and replaced them with John Boy and Billy. Now, you might think Bob & Tom suck, and I wouldn't be able to argue with you very passionately or for very long, but Bob & Tom compared to John Boy and Billy is like comparing the collective works of Shakespeare to the contents and RDA information on the side of a box of generic Lucky Charms. Also, I will add here, the classic rock format that it was prior to being switched was actually filled with good music from a by-gone era, as in Elton John did not tickle the airwaves in between thunderous anthems by AC/DC and Black Sabbath.

This, of course, left a void on the airwaves for good to decent music. Unfortunately, we had two radio stations that decided to fill that void. One was a new rock/alternative station, the other was an adult alternative station. The new rock station suddenly became the classic rock station, except not. Everything's watered down now, and every third song is Metallica followed by Ozzie Osborne (gotta cling to the popularity of the reality television series, I guess) followed by more Metallica, I think. I don't know. I actually heard Space Odyssey on there the other day, and while I haven't anything against David Bowie--except maybe that his dick is much bigger than mine--it isn't the sort of thing I want to rock out to when I'm feeling angry, bitter, or just like turning the volume up. For some unknown reason (oh wait...we do know...they're lying to us!), the radio station dubbed themselves "96 Rock: Everything that Rocks!", when really they should be called "96 Suck: Everything that Sucks!" Probably won't sell as many t-shirts that way.

The adult alternative station turned over to a classic rock format, as well, except this one is like pussy classic rock. Lots and lots of Elton John. And Queen. But, not like the good Queen, no, we can't have any of that. It's Bohemian Rhapsody. All. The. Fucking. Time. If it's not Sir Elton or Freddy Mercury, we throw the door wide open and let in a lot of arena rock. *shudders* There's a constant mixture of Yes, Boston and Styx with a healthy injection of ELO playing all the fucking time! Again, not that I have anything against Elton John, but seriously, I can't take anymore Tiny Motherfucking Dancer, alright.

The remainder of the dial is littered with oldies (tolerable), 80s--and not the good 80s, either, mind--country (argh), religious (no thanks), jazz (passable, at times), and classical (soporific). As you can see, it's pretty much a radio wasteland down here. This is why I'm pretty much forced to listen to talk radio and sports talk radio. Even then, I can only take those in small amounts because the sports talk guys around here are pretty much douchebags. The only good sports talk personality down here is Bomani Jones, and he takes over during the lunch hour, so I don't even get the pleasure of listening to him.

This all brings me back to Liz's post. I pretty much have to rely on the rest of the world filling me in on the music scene because I am pretty limited on my music sources. Oh, sure, I could get back on the Pandora radio thing--and I just might, when Santa delivers unto me the new computer--but that would be pro-active. I would just rather you guys do all the work and then I can read about your thoughts on the music and then I can go out and sample these things. See how this is? It's give/take: You give; I take. Simple as that.

One final thought on the paucity of good radio around here: You'd think that, if you're such a badass that your on-air personality that you've createded for yourself is "Bob the Blade", you'd sound more like said badass and less like a fourth grader with allergies. Just a thought.

Can I Go Home Yet?

Today is the first day at work under these new "daylight savings time" rules, and things have not gone as swimmingly as I might have liked. I'm always reminded of how much I dislike this whole daylight savings time thing when it rolls around, mostly because half the time I'm frustrated and confused by what the clock is telling me. Oh, sure, there's the inconvenience of setting the clocks back, or forward, or ahead by 42 minutes if you just wanna fuck with someone, but today is that day that I'm really reminded of just how inconvenient this whole thing is.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this to any of you, but I grew up in the great state of Indiana, where we didn't have such things as daylight savings time or hobbies other than shooting and plowing. When I moved to North Carolina in the fall of 2002, I got my first taste of this crazy semi-annual event and it was then that I realized it left a sour, terrible taste in my mouth.

See, currently, it's 4:32 pm, but my finely tuned internal clock is telling me that it's 5:32 pm, and that means food and SpongeBob time. My brain is telling that precision instrument inside my body that, no, it's set up two more Suzuki reactions and update your notebook time. Well, perhaps my brain isn't saying this, but the clock on the wall, my computer and phone are saying this. More importantly, the clock on the wall, the computer and the phone are telling my boss that it's set up two more Suzuki reactions and update the notebook time. This causes me to sigh wistfully and wonder just what that plucky little poriferan would be up to now, had the world that suddenly jolted on its axis and stopped time momentarily, thus causing the world's clocks to lapse by an hour.

This happens at several times during the day for the first few painful penetrations days of daylight savings time, but it always seems to be exacerbated by the first day at work after we've changed the clocks. I get hungry during the midmorning hours, I don't get sleepy until the hour grows to an obscene lateness that all but ensures that the following day will be met with listlessness and fatigue, and I wake up an hour early, wondering why the hell I can't get back to sleep, despite the fact that it's pitch dark outside and no one is screaming that a passing aircraft has terrified them from their otherwise peaceful slumber.

I guess the only silver lining in this whole thing is that President Bush--rather than doing the intelligent thing and abolishing this madcapped, crazy scenario designed to save candles--shortened the duration of "standard time." It means that, in five months, we'll be switching back to "daylight time," and that finely tuned, precision crafted hourglass in my head can get back to getting hungry at noon, rather than 1pm. Or, wait, if I'm eating at noon, now, does that make it 11 am, or when we switch it up, will 11 am be 1 pm?

Oh, fuck it all, I'm going to get a drink and watch cartoons.

Emotional Desolation

Oh, hey. How are you doing? Have a long week? Glad that the weekend's here? Yeah, it's supposed to be nice weather. Got any plans? That sounds like fun.

Me? Oh, you know, the usual. A little tired. Was up late last night and all but--fuck you Ted Thompson!

That's right. I'm an emotional wreck because of you and that cheesedick you call a head coach. Mark Murphy, where's the open arms? Huh? Where are they? You know what...here's $25 million. You three go away for ever.

And Brett...you are dead to me, sir. I was all prepared for you to go to the Vikings. I was like, "Hey, I like Purple" and "I used to fuck a girl from Minnesota" and "Now Eric and I can be buddies bffs" and "Man, I 'm going to have to find a hat with horns and some fake blond braids. This will be fun." Then I made that horn sound that the fans in Minnesota blow all the time. You know, the one that sounds like a horny humpback whale out looking for some play? That one.

And then rumors of Tampa Bay abounded and I was like "Hey, that's alright. Jon Gruden has some ties to Notre Dame. That'd be cool" and "Tampa Bay has some hot cheerleaders" and "Heh heh, they're pirates. Farrrrrrrrrrrrrrve. Heh heh."

And someone was even like, "Hey, Dolphins need a quarterback" and after I threw up in my mouth a little, I was like, "Well, my best friend the Eye Doctor is a Dolphins fan...maybe we can comiserate..."

But then it happened. You went to the Jets, Brett. The J E T S Jets Jets Jets. Just End The Season Jets Jets Jets. Dude. Come on. Rip my heart out of my chest and punt it across the room, and then it can slide down the wall and land in the trash can. Thanks Laura Powers Brett.

I even tried to justify it. I was like "Hey, they're green" and "Kevin wore a Jets jacket on the Wonder Years" and "Fucking Jets. Jesus I hate the fucking Jets." Yeah, that didn't work out so well. Don't you remember a few years ago, Brett, when you were poised to go into the playoffs with homefield throughout, and then you rolled into Giants Stadium to play the hapless Jets and they pasted you 41-3 and dropped you to the third seed and you bowed out to Dogslayer Michael Vick? Yeah. You totally just went and made out with Jimbo.

So, I should turn back to my old team, right? Oh fuck that. The collection of bumblefuckery that is the front office down to the head coach in Green Bay deserves my scorn and disdain. I hope you've got your resumes brushed off and updated, fellas, because the first losing season (or the end of this one), you'll either be run out of town on a rail or your heads will be served on a silver platter, Salome-style.

Ugh, so here I wander, teamless, the wide plains of Gorgoroth stretching out around me. The wind is bitter and bleak. Tiny grains of sand pelt my skin, raising knobby red whelts in their wake. To whom do I turn? I guess the easy answer would be the Colts, since I grew up in Indiana, but they've always been more like that second team to root for, that kid in class who tries real hard but never gets it right, but you still pat them on the head and say "Nice job, Jimmy." Plus, they don't fully articulate my disdain for the Bears--though with the Sex Cannon at the helm...or the Neckbeard--take your pick--hating the Bears is akin to disliking a Pop Warner league team.

I'm distraught, and it's all your fault, Ted Thompson. Hitch your wagon to the Titanic (sorry Hap, that was beautifully put, so I'm thieving it) or Charon's ferry or a dog turd laying in the sun drying up and getting hard. The Packers are dead to me, too. At least until Aaron Rogers gets hurt and Brian Brohm takes over (week three?). Ugh. At least college football starts soon. Oh, Jesus, that's right. Well, how long until basketball season? Fuck.