Recently in Just Plain Silly Category

Remember this post, where I linked to a video that compressed our 22 mile bike ride into 11 minutes? I've done the same thing with a recent lesson - a tango lesson, to be exact. As we all know, the tango is a serious, sensuous, sophisticated, sultry sort of step. I think I've captured that essence quite well in the following clip. You'll never again be able to watch True Lies with quite the same perspective.

My sister-in-law keeps forgetting to plug in her crockpot, making for disappointing meals. One of her cousins suggested that she needs to find a slowcooker with an alternate energy source. I'm surprised that no one has thought of this solution before.

I was driving past the south pond this morning and something caught my eye on the far bank. I pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, grabbed the camera (which, for once, actually had a charged battery) and set out across the grounds to get a closer look. Turned out to be this guy:

They started building a new house across the street from us today. This is a momentous occasion, as it's the last vacant lot on our cul-de-sac...well, on our entire street, for that matter, although our street is only two blocks long. 

I realized tonight that whenever I run short on blogging inspiration, I need only visit a Domino's Pizza outlet for a few minutes and I'll come away with plenty of material.

I volunteered to pick up a pizza tonight if Debbie would order it, so she did via the Domino's website. Normally, you can track the status of your order through the various stages of preparation via the website, but tonight our order seemed to be stuck at "prep," even though the site told us the pizza would be ready in 20-30 minutes. After 20 minutes, I decided to drive over and pick up the order; surely they had just forgotten to update the website.

I arrived at the store, which is of course a small phone-order taking, carryout-only operation, and was promptly informed that our order wasn't ready. A minute later, the phone rang, and the manager announced in a loud voice "don't answer that...we're not taking any more carry out or delivery orders!" The phone rang continuously thereafter, and was promptly and earnestly ignored.

The door swung open and a young man arrived to pick up his order. He also announced that they "owed him a free pizza because they messed up his order." He insisted that "they" had told him he could just show up and get a free pizza. The manager told him they didn't do that; he then asked who told him that. "The guy" was the answer. "Well, when was this?" "A couple of months ago." I thought I'd crack up. "We don't do that," the manager replied, resting his case. The young man was obviously upset and displayed his defiance by refusing to give the cashier his zip code when he paid for his pizza. "You can't use your credit card without a zip code," she calmly told him. Nothing was working for this guy tonight, and he resignedly gave her his zip and left with his pizza, defeated on all counts.

Another young man carrying a can of Red Bull had come in during this episode, and it took a while for them to notice, and ask him if they could help. He wanted to place a carry out order. "Sorry, we're not taking any carry out orders." You'd have thought he'd just been told there was no Santa Claus. He looked at me with pleading eyes; all I could do is shrug my shoulders, and he left with his lonely energy drink.

The cashier also had the responsibility of scooping up the pizzas on a long-handled paddle as they emerged from the conveyor belt oven. To pass the time, I watched her at work. She was very short, and had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pizzas, even with the paddle. As I watched, one slowly came out of the oven and she wriggled the paddle under the crust. It was obviously a maverick, and she had a bit of trouble keeping it centered. Almost in slow motion, the pizza slid to the side and did a belly flop onto the floor, toppings down, of course. She immediately and calmly yelled, "re-do!" The prep guy answered, "what kind?" "I don't know; I'm trying to figure it out." I guess you need CSI training to recognize a belly-flopped pizza.

We apparently slipped in under the wire, and a few minutes later our order was ready, brought out by a guy with strange eyes and ear-lobe plugs. Our order may have been slower than expected, but I left with a smile. People are funny.

Big Honkin' Plotter, that is. Or, to be less dramatic and more boring, an HP T-1300 Designjet large format plotter. Yep, that's what I [almost] singlehandedly assembled and put into operation at the office yesterday, in fulfillment of my loosely-defined IT responsibilities.

I've decided I've been overworking and overthinking this whole how-to-transport-our-bike issue.

The City of Midland's ACTSSC Program (Annual Campaign To Stop Safe Cycling) is well underway, as it seeks to identify the smoothest, most comfortable sections of pavement in the least-traveled neighborhoods. Those bucolic byways are then targeted for tar and gravel in mass quantities scientifically calculated to wreak the most havoc on bicyclists and their machines. 

OK, before we get started, I'll wait here while you go watch this. G'head, it's OK; just don't get distracted by videos of babies biting kids' fingers, or mimes. I'll wait here.

So, we're driving south on "A" Street and I notice that a crew is pulling a pump from a water well at the northeast corner of the intersection with Solomon Lane. 

Ran across this video (via Neatorama) of a guy getting a tattoo of a QR code that links to a website.
My reaction? *yawn* Been there; done that.

I realize that picking apart the logic of any television ad is like taking candy from a fish in a barrel, but GMC's recent "I Vow" series touting its Sierra pickup line seems to push the envelope for damning with faint praise. Here's my cogent analysis of what the commercial says vs. what it really means. (Don't thank me for these revelations; this is just what I do.)

I don't know what category this goes in, but I picked "Art" because it's the sort of thing that probably draws big bucks in a Manhattan gallery. Heck, for all I know it really is a piece of performance art:

Some random thoughts - serious and not-so - about "Weinergate," the latest example of how skillful a politician can be in shooting his own foot. If only Rep. Anthony Weiner were so competent as a leader.

So, you've finished edging and mowing the yard in the 90 degree heat, and you're happy to have that chore out of the way. You grab a bottle of water and ease into the chair on the front porch to admire your handiwork. Despite the watering restrictions, the lawn looks pretty darned good. You swing your gaze across the manicured grass and...what's this?!

Make Your Franklin is a "community art project" that lets folks redesign the US one hundred dollar bill and upload the results to an online gallery. The site even provides a high resolution scan (7300x3000 pixel) of a Benjamin in case you don't have one handy (and I never do).

Today's newspaper ran this AP story under the headline, "Mutant pointy boots create a craze." When I first saw the headline, I thought, "well, so what's new? I've seen lots of pointy boots on the dance floor, at country dances."

OK, feast your eyes on this little jewel:

I think Dante left out at least one important level of Hell when he penned Inferno. Surely there's a special punishment reserved for whoever invented those plastic cake containers that you get at the grocery store. 

Debbie and I both dreamed about rattlesnakes last night.

Ladies, when it comes to manly things, don't ever tell your husband that something he's trying isn't going to work. It's like trying to teach a pig to dance. It never works, and it annoys the pig. 

Q: How many people does it take to change the light bulbs in the ceiling fan in my office?

My command of the English language fails me miserably as I contemplate how to describe the depth of desire I have for this.

I had a big ol' Random Thursday post ready to go, but at the last second I decided you were probably tired of that meaningless, Content Free™ junk, so I pulled the trigger on a project that's been rattling around in my head for a while, ever since I ran across this website. It's called Center of Attention, and it's simply a series of scanned artwork from vinyl records, both singles and LPs (if those terms are meaningless to you, there's a reason you're still sitting at the kiddie table at Thanksgiving).

CafePress sent a notice about their limited-time "storekeeper's sale" wherein those of us with virtual storefronts could order our own merchandise at a discount. Since no one else will order Fire Ant t-shirts (*sob*) I decided to refresh my own wardrobe (much to my wife's chagrin) and ordered three new black t-shirts in various colors. 

The dismayingly prolific Neatorama website has an e-commerce arm called, appropriately enough, the Neatoshop, and I just discovered that it has an entire section devoted to classic movie posters that have been reworked with a zombie theme. While I'm pretty sure you-know-who wouldn't consent to my hanging any of these on our walls (she can be so closed minded sometimes), I'll bet you could find a place for at least one of the following:

Despite the mental and psychological similarities, and disregarding the proven fact that they're never seen together, I've come to the conclusion that Charlie Sheen and Muammar Gaddafi are not the same person after all.

But...Bob Dylan? Well, you tell me.

It's so cold that I spotted this floating in the middle of our neighborhood pond earlier today:

We were still fighting colds last night and we used that as an excuse to brew some Keurig coffee (Donut Shop Decaf for her; Caribou regular for me) and stream a couple of movies (Netflix via Apple TV, if you care about things like that. And you should. The technical details are crucial to the whole ambiance thing.). We didn't plan it, but the movies ended up having a common theme.


First up was 1981's Wolfen, a "horror/suspense" movie starring a gravelly-voiced and grim-countenanced Albert Finney (yeah, OK, those are his normal acting modes) and a wise-cracking and jive-talking Gregory Hines (uh, same thing, although he does meet an unexpected fate as dinner) who are trying to solve a series of gruesome murders in The Big Apple. As we all know, it turns out to be a pack of wolves (or are they?) who prefer tenement living and derelicts to woodlands and Bambi.

About halfway through the movie it occurred to me that this wasn't the film I was expecting to see; I had it confused with The Howling, a somewhat-better-than-average werewolf movie from - coincidentally - the same year as Wolfen. Same oeuvre, more or less. Common mistake, I'm sure.

What I did not realize is that Wolfen was written by Whitley Streiber, the author of Critical Mass, a novel about nuclear terrorism that I teased a bit in this post last December. Streiber also wrote The Day After Tomorrow and The Hunger, both of which were adapted to movies of varying quality. The latter starred Catherine Deneuve, who should make any top 10 list of sexy actresses, regardless of era. But I digress.

Well, actually, I don't digress; I'm tru wit dis one. (Quick: what movie is that line from?*)

Feeling somewhat unfulfilled by an absence of werewolves, we then chose Frozen (which reminds me of a joke about Presbyterians that wouldn't be appropriate at all at this point), a movie made just last year about three yahoos - a girl and two guys - who get stuck on a ski lift. The fact that it's already made it to Netflix's streaming catalog should give you some insight as to the quality of this production. It stars some Gen Y/Z actor slackers who look awfully familiar, but, then, they do all look alike, don't they?

I guess Shawn Ashmore would be the most recognizable of the cast, as he has a recurring role in the X-Men series. I'm sure it's one of those little Hollywood insider jokes that Shawn's X-Men character is known as Iceman, and in this movie he battles death by freezing.

Well, I'd like to say that Frozen is an undiscovered, under-appreciated gem of a movie, and it does have its moments, but for the most part you're left despairing about the destiny of our nation if kids like this are its future. You know how in the teen slasher flicks the soon-to-be-decapitated and/or disembowled kids always approach the closed closet door, trembling but without the apparent will to resist, and despite the audience's audible warnings, open the stupid door anyway? Those kids were Rhodes scholars compared to these three bozos, for whom logic is as evanescent as ambition.

I actually awoke in the middle of last night thinking, "I can't believe they didn't ..." Sure, that probably says more about me than about the movie, but that's not the point.

Anyway, I mentioned above that these two movies had something unexpected in common, and that was that - well, remember that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine posits that a wild Australian canine devoured a lady's progeny? Well, guess what the leading cause of death in Frozen turns out to be? That's right; nobody gets iced (in the literal sense), but a pack of wolves does turn out to be a troubling complication to being stuck on a chairlift. I think we both know where this is heading, so there's no need to say more. Suffice it to say that by the end of this movie, we were all rooting for the wolves.

Every movie review must provide a reference to another movie in order to establish the credibility of the reviewer (while ironically exposing his inability to come up with anything original), and so I will compare Frozen to Open Water, the 2003 movie about the scuba divers who are stranded in shark infested waters and end up detonating a nuclear device over Las Vegas to extract revenge. OK, I may have embellished that a bit, but I was trying to avoid irony. Anyway, in both movies the protagonists go through the same "bonding through tribulation" phases, sort of. So, I hope that helps.

There you have: our Friday Night At the Movies en la casa. We should have had popcorn.

*Here's a hint: it starred that annoying actor with a recurring role in the Lethal Weapon series. No, that other annoying actor.

I no longer pay much attention to this blog's visitor stats. When I first started the Gazette, I had a free Site Meter account and monitored it regularly, but that was back in the salad days when blogs were the only social media outlet (and when I actually worked harder at it). When I redesigned/relaunched the site a couple of years ago, I dropped the account and now I just have the stats program that comes with my hosting account, and it records visits to my entire domain, not just to the blog. So, the stats aren't that meaningful for gauging readership.

That doesn't mean they aren't entertaining and sometimes perplexing, though. The one reporting category that I occasionally enjoy reviewing is the list of search keyphrases - phrases that people enter into search engines and that somehow lead them to the Gazette.

It's sometimes obvious why this blog came up for a particular search phrase. Take this one, for example, from earlier this month: is toby keith giving credit to robert earl keen for bullets in a gun. That's an obvious match to this post (and, as far as I know, the answer to the Unknown Seeker's question is "no, he isn't.").

Others are less obvious, but still logical. For example: american bandstand had regular dancers there was a dancer named debbie but i can't remeber [sic] her last name. While I never posted any single article that provided a good match for this quaint query, the Gazette has a "Ballroom Dance" archive page that combines all the posts in that category, and the fact that I have a wife named Debbie and she's a dancer makes that page come up in the third spot on Google when that term is entered.

This month I've gotten a steady stream of visitors who are searching for articles related to Netflix DVD-only plans, A&M/LSU football history, the Canon S95 camera, QR codes, and fire ants (I always feel bad about those poor souls coming to the Gazette in hopes of solving their fire ant issues). Those topics could lead logically to this blog, as I've recently posted about all of them (well, except for fire ants...wonder why anyone would come here looking for that topic?). But there's a whole slew of phrases for which the link to this blog are rather tenuous:

• what's my personal year
• nincompoop generation
• lyrics button up your overcoat daydream you'll get a pain when you re on a treee [sic]
• deadhead skulls
• what scary tv show had tumbleweeds on a porch in the intro?
• he hails from a country where they speak of spokeless wheels
  

Finally, there are the searches that cause one to wonder about the emotional state of the seeker, or the circumstances that might lead to the necessity of googling these phrases:

• tell google maps that we exist
• how to write a story about a fire after christmas
• pictures of big rats*
• discharge of an unloaded gun
  
• I hate Midland
• ever had one of those days
• it's going to get ugly
• bad service when to fire employees
• is there a virus that causes a coomputer [sic] to catch fire
• why do bicyclists wear those clothes

And my personal favorite:

• ballroom dances inspired by fish and ants

If nothing else, this illustrates the paradox that accompanies the increased "intelligence" of search technology on the web. Search results are often more rich in content, but not necessarily in usefulness. On the other hand, usefulness is in the eye of the beholder, and I can but hope that people who came to the Fire Ant Gazette based on the previous search phrases were satisfied with what they found.

*Believe it or not, "big rats" was the most frequently used phrase in 2010 to find this blog via a search engine. Maybe I need to consider a name change for the Gazette.

Taking a cue from another local blogger who is recycling some of her material (I don't have clearance to link, in case you're wondering), and in response to something that recently arose on Facebook (an exchange between two sisters, one of which happens to be my spousal unit), it seems appropriate - essential, even - to revisit an event that occurred during the Christmas of 2006.

OK, so where were we? Let's see...peace, joy, presents, blah, blah, blah...oh yeah, plumbing.

We have to backtrack to early Christmas afternoon, when some potato peels were fed to the garbage disposer in my father-in-law's kitchen sink. I'm not saying who did it, or what volume was sent down the drain; that's not important and won't be, until we bring it up again at a future family gathering.

Anyway, we all know that while garbage disposers are marketed as being able to, you know, dispose of garbage, their actual function is to keep the federal government's Full Employment Act for Plumbers in effect, and the insertion of anything more substantial than melted ice and not more than eight sesame seeds at one time is a really bad idea.

So, the end result was a clogged kitchen drain. No big deal; happens all the time, especially during holidays, when professional help is unavailable, and the liquor stores are closed, too. We went ahead and ate Christmas dinner (consisting of the traditional brisket, pinto beans, mashed potatoes [peels off, unfortunately], and crescent rolls, the latter suffering greatly at the hands of the Nephew, who eats them by the dozen) and then waited until the Dallas Cowboys were looking especially ugly during another nationally televised embarrassment to explore the possibility that the clog was just under the sink. Which, of course, it wasn't. It never is, but you still have to disconnect all the pipes and get doused with yucky water in order to confirm what you knew all along.

We sent a poor man's plumbing snake (a metal tape measure) down the pipe that ran through the kitchen wall, hoping the clog was nearby. Which, of course, it wasn't. So we quickly reached the end of the very short checklist of Things I Know How To Do When It Comes To Plumbing, except for the last item, which doesn't do you any good on Christmas Day in Fort Stockton, because it's "Call a plumber," and good luck with that. Heck, even Wal-Mart was closed so we couldn't buy and apply the requisite ten gallons of Drano (The Extra Useless Version). We were somewhat optimistic that we'd make progress because we were able to send a pretty good load of water down the drain before it backed up again, so chances were that the clog was becoming more porous. Perhaps it would miraculously dissolve. It was, after all, Christmas. Did I mention that already?

So we did the next best thing which was to rejoin the Cowboy fiasco still in progress, biding our time until something more entertaining came on TV. We were just settling into a state of Christmas miasma...no, wait...that's not the right word. Myopia? Misanthropy? Something starting with an "m." Anyway, we were pleasantly zoning out when it happened. Without warning, great gouts of evil black water began spouting up from the double sink in the kitchen, as if we'd tapped the very springs of hell.

Much running around and yelling and waving of arms ensued, by parties varied and sundry, including the dogs, who, while limited by a lack of arms, more than compensated with what passed for yelling. It was a malevolent mystery (more "m" words, except those are right, I think): where could the water be coming from? The dishwasher wasn't running; even we were smart enough to know better than that.

Then I heard that familiar ka-chunk...ka-chunk. I ran into the garage, opened the laundry room door, and -- sure enough -- the clothes washer was busily pumping black water back into the kitchen sink, where it was attempting to re-create an Everglades Christmas. I slammed my palm against the knob to turn the washing machine off, and ran back inside to survey the damage. The kitchen carpet was completely saturated, all the way into the dining room. We rushed out to the workshop and grabbed the big honkin' Sears wet/dry shop vac and I started squeegeeing the water from the floor. Fortunately, the carpet is thin and not laid over a pad, so the vacuum was pretty effective in getting the excess water up; after all, those Craftsman shop vacs will suck the skin off an anvil. After the emergency vacuuming, we set out a box fan and let the dry west Texas air do its thing.

Nobody fessed up to starting the washing machine, and I can't argue with that, since there weren't any clothes in it. All we can figure is that all that water we thought we were putting down the drain and which was moving through the "porous clog" was, in fact, backing up into the washing machine, which at some point, for reasons and by abilities still unperceived, decided that it was time to drain, sending the water back whence it came. If anyone has a better explanation, we'll be happy to entertain it.

It made for quite an exciting Christmas evening, which we capped off by watching the first few episodes from the first season of Northern Exposure. So, things could have been worse.

Well, they actually did get that way, but that's another story for another time.

It's been a while since I posted a link to a weird website that has no apparent purpose other than confirming that some people have too much time on their hands. And I know you've missed them. So, here. [Via Twisted Sifter's Friday Shirk Report, which also includes a link to this bit of doggiecentric hilarity] 

It's the week after Christmas, a time when news reporters attempt to recover from the holiday stress by putting it on autopilot and running a series of "Year in Review" articles. I've never understood why they do it so soon, though. What if Major News occurs during this week - like, for instance, Hilary Clinton is found to be involved in a torrid love affair involving The Situation, or the Dallas Cowboys win a football game? They would have to re-do their lists and thereby get to coast another week. Oh, I see.

Anyway, while I don't find the reheating of old news to be particularly riveting, there is some value in taking stock of what was accomplished during the preceding year from a personal perspective, if for no other reason than to gain some slight motivation for making the upcoming year a better one.

I achieved two major goals during 2010. I read the Bible cover-to-cover once again, and I managed to average more than 30 minutes of aerobic exercise each day throughout the year. The former is perhaps easier than it sounds, while the latter is harder. But these are the only two goals I set for myself each year, and I get a sense of satisfaction in achieving them, not to mention the unquantifiable-but-real benefits that come with actually doing them.

But a successful year is measured not just in what was accomplished, but also in what wasn't done, and here's my Top 10 Things I Didn't Do in 2010 Thereby Making It a Very Good Year.

• I wasn't convicted of any major crimes.
  
  
• I lost no significant product endorsements.
  
  
• I leaked no state secrets to the worldwide media.
  
  
• I bought nothing from Microsoft.
  
  
• I avoided injury from attacking ferrets.
  
  
• I never looked directly at the sun.
  
  
• I didn't play Mafia Wars. Or Farmville, for that matter.
  
  
• I avoided scoring a goal for the other team.
  
  
• I didn't buy a vuvuzela.
  
  
• And, finally, I never spied on the new neighbors by peeking through their windows while they were home. Unlike my wife. But that's another Top 10 list entirely.

So, there you have it. 2010 was a pretty darn good year, overall, assuming disaster doesn't strike during the next four days. But if it does, well, I know how to edit this post.

So, I picked up my two new suits yesterday, and when I took them out of the fancy bag I noticed that a cuff button was missing from one of the jackets. I didn't notice that when I tried it on to make sure the alterations were done properly.

Non-parenthetical interlude: What's the purpose of cuff buttons on jackets, anyway? They're non-functional. And why have four of them on each sleeve? Is the number an indication of the quality of the clothing, like the stripes on the lining of ties allegedly did back in the days that certain college students took their sartorial tips from Playboy Magazine? I have sport coats and blazers with anywhere from two to four buttons on the cuffs, and there's no clear difference in quality. As far as I can discern, cuff buttons are just non-shiny bling.

Anyway, the way I saw it, I had three clear choices in dealing with the missing button.

First, I could drive back across town, confront the salesperson, and try to convince her that I really was that unobservant so as not to notice the missing button when I tried on the jacket in the store, and that it didn't pop off after I left. That seemed like a confrontational time-suck to me.

Second, I could do nothing. Who's going to notice a missing cuff button on a suit? It's not like I walk around with my hands in a perpetual attitude of prayer whilst suit-clad. And if someone did notice, I could tell them that I have all my suits tailored that way...just call it my special eccentricity. The downside is that my wife would likely be the one to notice and she's already on top of my special eccentricities.

The third choice was the clear winner. I snipped off the corresponding button on the other cuff with the scissors from my mini-Swiss army knife, thereby addressing two needs: the need for button balance, and the need to play with knives. (Fortunately, it was the top button that was missing; it would have looked odd - even for me - to have two identically-missing buttons in the middle of the series.) As an added bonus, I now have an extra button, so I've got that going for me.

Before you go judging me (especially you ladies), look me in the eye and tell me that you've never performed similar surgery on your own apparel. Yeah, that's what I thought.

I was a little amused by this story in today's local newspaper, which describes the situation where the Texas law governing the issuance of concealed handgun permits to retired law enforcement officers differs from the federal statute. It seems that in Texas, some officers have to undergo the same requirements as regular citizens to obtain a permit, whereas the federal statue automatically grants them a license by virtue of their law enforcement experience.

The amusing part of the story occurred in this quote (emphasis mine):I suppose ordeal is in the eye of the beholder, but a few hours of classroom time and shooting a box of rounds at a target hardly seems to qualify.

But it does make one think about the nature of a true ordeal. Here are a few items that might be used as measuring sticks the next time you consider what a horrible turn your life has taken:

A true ordeal is...

1. going through election season without a mute button on your TV remote control.
   
   
2. watching the Dallas Cowboys play football (yesterday's surprising win notwithstanding)
   
   
3. sitting through Bristol Palin's (bless her heart) Dancing With The Stars late season performances.
   
   
4. waiting for the next platter of Sunday brunch cinnamon rolls to emerge from the Wall Street Bar and Grill's kitchen after the guy in front of you took the last ones.
   
   
5. trying to use the wifi (or find a parking space) at Midland Memorial Hospital.
   
   
6. watching Oprah interview Whoopi.
   

I'm pretty sure I've seen it before, but it's been long enough that I had forgotten most of it (meaning that I may have actually read it just last week, but that's a completely different story). Anyway, Charity has posted a list of "Universal Truths" and it's perfect for a Monday that lacks any defining characteristic other than "meh."
I think my favorite is this one:
We humans are a vindictive lot, aren't we? Good on us!

Why would Sears create a remarkably graphic (but still tongue-in-cheek) ad campaign that features zombies? Beats me, but I'm impressed, if slightly unnerved. I mean, they've gone all out, including three videos using the undead to pitch their products, and their zombieized website is at least a couple of clicks deep before you get to actual merchandise. You can even click a link that re-translates the site's verbiage into zombie-speak (although I cannot vouch for its accuracy).

Two thumbs up for the effort, Sears! Now, why are you looking at me like that...?

Note: The following will seem relevant only to those who consider themselves runners, but it also applies to anyone who routinely, or even occasionally, tries something that's hard. And if you don't fall into any of those categories, go ahead and read it simply to enjoy the sublime beauty of my prose.

Have you ever had one of those runs where everything just clicked?

Where your shoes moved so lightly across the road that the overriding sensation was one of floating, and the briefest contact with the surface propelled you forward as if friction and drag were unprovable theories because every joule of energy generated by your body was instantaneously converted into forward motion? Where your breathing was effortless and silent, and the steady rhythm of soles on pavement provided a winsome back beat to the strong throb of your heart?

Where the rutted caliche road offered not trip hazards but acceleration assists, because every footfall was perfectly placed...just to the side of those rocks, just in front of this berm, smoothly gliding over that patch of sand? Where the coyote pacing you in the pasture twenty yards away grinned as he loped along, silently acknowledging you as hermano, and the rattlesnakes beside the trail recoiled at the sheer awesomeness of your movement?

Where the sweat dripping down your face tasted as sweet as spring water, and rather than burning your eyes, it washed them clean as a spring mountain rain, and the flowers sang for joy as stray drops, gleaming like drops of liquid gold in the sunlight, enervated them?

Have you had that experience? Have you?

If so, I hate you, because if you take all the preceding and multiply it by negative one million, that perfectly describes my run this morning. So there.

Norman Johnson is a local cartoonist, illustrator, and artist. His work is familiar to most folks in the Midland/Odessa area, whether or not they know its source. Norman is also a gifted caricaturist, and his friends (or, as he would put it, his rapidly-dwindling supply of friends) are frequent subjects. Debbie and I (and even other family members) have fallen into his artistic cross hairs on more than one occasion; below is an example of one he sent me last night.


While I must protest certain inaccuracies in this image - I haven't ridden a conventional bicycle in more than a decade, being now of the recumbent persuasion, and toe-clips are soooo 1998 - I do appreciate Norman's generosity in providing me with more hair than is strictly realistic. I'm still trying to figure out the Aqua Velva in the water bottle, though.

Don't be surprised if parts of this eventually appear as my Facebook profile picture.

I'm the world's worst (or best, depending on your perspective) fair weather sports fan.

I'm not a huge sports fan to begin with. I do have some favored teams, but I'm generally content to follow their fortunes in the newspaper or online, after the fact. I can't remember the last sporting contest that I watched from start to finish, regardless of sport or level of competition. I guess I consume sports like I read...in fitful starts and stops, skimming and scanning.

But when I decide to watch a game, I want my team to win, and win decisively. I'm not in it for the humiliation of the other team - that's not my motivation - but if that's how they choose to react to a 72-0 drubbing, that's their problem, not mine. For example, my favorite Super Bowl game of all time was the one where Dallas beat Buffalo 52-17, and I was upset because Leon Lett had a stupid fumble to thwart yet another Dallas touchdown.

Football and baseball games are just too time-consuming to sit through without getting a big payoff for what I'm investing via my viewing. In my internal risk-reward system, a close game doesn't cut it, because the chances are too great that it's going to end in disappointment. (Which, of course, may say more about the teams I choose to support than the nature of the game itself. Don't go there.)

This whole line of thought comes up because of the pitiful showing by the Texas Rangers last night in the first game of the American League Championship Series. The Rangers blew a 5-0 lead and ultimately lost 6-5 to the hated New York Yankees. That game perfectly typifies all the reasons I don't watch sports: three hours down the drain, and nothing gained, and, in fact, much emotional and psychic well-being forfeited.

So, the Rangers will have to get along without my presence for the remainder of their season (which will last two more games, I predict), as will the Cowboys. I won't be watching the Aggies today, either, unless I check in at halftime and find they have a 64-0 lead. That's MY kind of game!

So, I was returning from Sonic with our foot-long coneys and tots (hey, don't judge...you know you love 'em, too, especially topped with jalapeños and onions) and as I drove around the curve in front of the clubhouse, something black and tool-like resting in the middle of the street caught my eye. I backed up, open the car door, and retrieved the object.

It was a lock-back razor knife housed in a carabiner-style frame, with swivel-out screwdrivers, one flat and one Phillips. I felt guilty picking it up - what if the owner realizes he lost it and comes looking for it? - but decided to take it home and send out a message on the neighborhood mailing list to see if anyone claimed it. If not, well, finders-keepers and all that.

I put the tool on my workbench and we ate our guilty pleasures* and then I remembered my plan to email a note to the neighborhood. I went into the garage, picked up the tool, and thought, "this looks an awful lot like the one I have, only mine doesn't have the screwdrivers." I decided to compare the two, and reached up to the rack where I kept mine handy for all the box cutting work. I reached in vain, as mine was mysteriously missing.

Only then did I realize that the owner of the lost tool was actually me. I had used it earlier in the afternoon to break down a carton so it would fit in the trash, and I laid it on the truck bed rail. I forgot to put it in its rightful place and when I later left for Sonic, it made it about two blocks (and two corners) before falling into the middle of the street, waiting for someone to pick it up. Which I did about twenty minutes later.

There are many morals to this story, chief among them being that hot dogs destroy one's cognitive abilities; also, you probably don't know your tools as well as you think. But at least I didn't have to feel guilty about taking someone else's lost property.

*Our 25 mile bike ride this morning served as our penance, and believe me, it felt like it.

Have you noticed that some restaurants have become rather stingy with their oven time?

First, it was IHOP, doing away with their iconic warm syrup, forcing us to us the decades-old, occasionally mislabeled communal dispensers. Now, as a kid, I was always amazed at the bounty of available sweet and sticky substances to be found in those containers - who doesn't love dollar pancakes drowned in a combination of pecan and blueberry syrup? But that sort of thing lost its appeal roughly four decades ago, and now all I desire is a simple maple-like flavor delivered in a form that will actually melt the solid lump of butter atop the short stack. But, no, even that simple pleasure is now denied,*

And then there's Cracker Barrel, which has apparently adopted a strategy of combating global warming by serving its breakfast muffins cold.* (And without butter, although that's a perverted blessing given the inability of the muffins to melt it.) Does anyone really prefer their blueberry or apple bran muffins unheated?

C'mon, folks. Life's short and hard enough without making us suffer these basic indignities.

*In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that warm syrup and heated muffins will be provided, but only upon special request. But that's sort of like ordering a bottle of wine with dinner and, oh, by the way, do mind also uncorking it for us?

It's a good thing I have the patience of Job, the calm of Buddha, and the wisdom of...well, never mind that. My life has been a living heck for the past few days and if things continue the way they've been going, I may be forced to do something drastic, like watch the Cowboys try to play football.

It all started Saturday night, when we returned to our truck following a dance to find that the Country Club's sprinkler system had applied a heavy layer of Midland water, which, as we all know, is really just damp minerals. In other words, if our water was an actor, it would be Chuck Norris. I was mad enough to spit (although that would have only exacerbated the problem) and I'm tempted to join the Country Club just so I can resign in protest.

So, a good part of Sunday afternoon was spent washing the car in an attempt to keep the minerals from establishing a permanent residence on the paint. Having completed that task, I then decided to do some touch-up painting on the garage walls.

They needed touching up not because they had been scratched and gouged, but because I had applied touch-up paint a few months before. Allow me to explain. That initial touch-up was done using paint I found in the attic which we *thought* matched the color of the garage walls. After it dried, it was obviously one shade too dark. So, yesterday I pulled out the other leftover bucket of paint -- the one labeled "all other walls" -- and went over all the dark spots. When that paint dried, it was obviously one shade too light. All I know to do now is (1) mix the two and hope the average is just right, or (b) let Debbie repaint the whole garage. Hmmm....

Fast forward to this morning, where it was time for me to put the cinnamon biscuits in the oven where they would broil to a crispy, sugary brown and sacrifice their doughy little bodies for the sake of our appetites. As I lifted the foil lined tray, I caught the edge on the oven door, and half of our breakfast made a fast break. You'll not be surprised to know that every one of them fell cinnamon/sugar/butter-side down. Fortunately, the 5-second rule was in force, and Debbie was none the wiser. ("Take these, dear; I think they're the best ones!")

Fortunately, I knew that an inviolable  Hollywood law holds that disasters come in threes, so I was able to make my regular Monday morning trip to the grocery store confident that the worst was behind me, probably for the whole week.

Say, do you ever buy those bakery cakes that come in those plastic containers with the snap-on lids that can only be removed with power tools and large crowbars?  They will just not come off to save your life. Well, until you pick one up to put it on the little food treadmill at the grocery check-out, at which time it easily slips off and deposits your coconut cake sideways in the shopping cart.

*sigh* What's next? Surely nothing else can go wrong. The only way it might get worse is if my computer d

My assumption is that this creation was commissioned by an orthopedic surgeon looking to beef up his knee replacement practice:


Call me when they come out with a tandem version.

Link via Cool Material

Scientists have discovered what moves make a guy a good dancer, at least in the eyes of female onlookers (and, after all, what else matters?). It's apparently very simple, which only deepens the mystery of why so many of us are such bad dancers. We just need to move our torsos and necks more. *forehead slap* Why didn't I think of that before spending all that money on lessons?

OK, the sad fact is that almost none of us don't suck at dancing, when left to our own devices. I'm not talking about ballroom dancing, where the moves are choreographed and improvisation is frowned upon. (Don't believe me? You obviously haven't watched Strictly Ballroom.) I see a lot of highly skilled ballroom dancing guys on a regular basis, but when the band breaks into Louie, Louie and they have to rely on their own partner-less imaginations...well, let's just say it's a sad thing to behold.

(Girls, don't think you're much better. It's just that we guys have much different standards. Trust me.)

Further, I don't think there's any hope for most of us. Even with science-backed moves at our disposal, the best most of us can hope for is that we don't fall down too often when attempting the Water Sprinkler.

Personally, I think my best strategy is to emulate the classy moves of Los Chulapos dancing El Chotis, to wit:

A hilarious post entitled Having a 'life verse' appeared a few days ago on the Stuff Christians Like blog and it made me realize that I, like the anonymous author of that post, have never really adopted a favorite Bible verse that I could roll out to demonstrate my superior-yet-humble spirituality.

For one thing, my memory is terrible, and is worsening. So...um...what was I writing about? Oh, Bible verses. I need something short and pithy, along the lines of "Jesus wept" but without such a narrow focus.

Then there's the fact that the Bible is filled with too many good candidates. Why, it's almost as if it was written to apply to every conceivable situation, laughable as that concept may be.*

So, I've dropped the idea of using an actual Scriptural statement as a "life verse," and instead have adopted a secular - albeit pretty pious, as I'm all about piety, as you well know - statement. It's short enough that even I can remember it, and pithy enough that almost everyone will be impressed when I roll it out in the course of general conversation.

With a nod toward either Augustine or John Wesley (depending on which Wikipedia article you read), my new "life verse" is this:


This, I believe, will serve me well in many otherwise difficult situations, such as menu selections. So, for example, when ordering Tex-Mex, it will allow me to be open-minded about enchiladas, recognizing that there's equal validity to green or red sauce, as long as (1) we all agree on the requirement of corn tortillas, and (b) we have chocolate mousse for dessert. Brilliant!

I think it has a great ring to it. Is it possible to trademark a "life verse"? I can also see a CafePress t-shirt in my future.

*That's either sarcasm or irony, although it could be satire. I can never keep them straight. I'm pretty sure it's not hyperbole, but don't hold me to that.

Semi-interesting post over at the Freakonomics blog about the possibility that college professors who have tattoos could be more successful than their non-ink-stained counterparts.

I'm pretty skeptical about the relevance of the study cited in the post, as are most of the commenters. If nothing else, showing male undergrads photos of tattooed female models* is, frankly, a really dumb idea if you're trying to assess anything other than libido. But, perhaps I'm not giving the students enough credit.

I was almost able to type that last sentence with a straight face.

*I readily admit that tattooed models are not equally attractive. For example, compare this to this.

Scene: Master bedroom, this morning

Her: That's not the same shirt you were just wearing.

Him: No, I decided that other one looks like a clown shirt.

Her: What?!

Him: Well, those wide vertical stripes make it look like a clown shirt.

Her: So, you're never going to wear that shirt again?

Him: Well, not to church when I'll be up on the camera stand. I don't want to be a distraction to people, thinking there's a clown behind the camera.

Her: And what does the shirt have to do with that?

Today's "Close to Home" cartoon hits, well, close to home.


However, in our case the caption is wrong. In our case, the neighbors would be saying, "The Siegmunds aren't being tormented by wasps after all; they're practicing the rumba." Or the cha cha...or the foxtrot...or, well, you get the idea. Sometimes it's hard to tell just exactly what we're doing on the dance floor.

So, I stumbled across this - a mock-up of an add-on iPhone QWERTY keyboard - and while it's somewhat interesting in concept, it's still far from an ideal solution for those who can't seem to master the phone's tiny virtual keyboard.

But it made me wonder whether the iPhone plays well with the dockable keyboard* that Apple markets to iPad owners. I had never even considered the idea before, so I popped my phone onto the keyboard, and sure enough, it works.


I can assure you that this combination will make you the baddest geek in the Starbucks, if that's your aspiration.** (And, really, why wouldn't it be?)

*And, in anticipation of your next question, the iPad's Bluetooth keyboard also pairs up and works with an iPhone. This combination is even cooler because you can set your phone off to the side while keyboarding, giving people the impression that you're typing with no obvious device to receive the input.

**While the combination may appear ridiculous, I've actually found a legitimate use for it. I have a password management app on my phone and it's a royal pain to input new entries via the virtual keyboard. The next time I have several updates, I will definitely be using the external keyboard.

I'm referring not to facial blemishes but to the comic strip, which is one of my favorites due to its  ability to unerringly portray the foibles and habits of teenagers. And, apparently, me.

See, we've got this new car - a Honda Ridgeline, if you must know. It's loaded with toys - navigation package, XM radio, 115 volt auxiliary power outlet, and Honda's HandsFreeLink, a Bluetooth-based system for using your cellphone and the car's GPS without actually touching those devices. Those are all really cool things, but the owner's manual is almost 400 pages, and the configuration of the technology is not always intuitive.

So, I sat in the car in the garage for more than an hour yesterday, pairing my phone to the car's system, and [making attempts at] importing my contact list into said system. At one point, my wife felt it necessary to come into the garage and observe that I reminded her of Jeremy from the aforementioned cartoon, when he and his friend took possession of an ancient, non-running VW bus and, lacking funds and skill to make it go, contented themselves with just sitting in it. I couldn't really argue with the comparison, given the less than stellar success I was having making this hands-free thing go.

I did eventually get my phonebook imported, sort of. If your first name begins with "A" through "P" and you're in my contact list, then I can call you via the car's system, but for some reason, you who are in the dread "Q-Z" category didn't make the import. I'm really sorry, but you probably won't be getting a call from me anytime soon, at least not while I'm sitting in my garage, since I still haven't figured out how to do anything with the whole shooting match while actually driving down the road.

Baby steps. Or, at best, teen-aged steps.

We had our traditional weekly fajita dinner with friends last night, and I was looking forward to the prospect of sharing my acquisition of a new gizmo, something I was sure would induce envy on their part.

Most of our home lighting is in the form of inset flood lights. None of them are accessible except via ladder, and the bulb in the front porch ceiling is fourteen feet above the concrete. I don't have a ladder tall enough to reach it (at least, not without violating several OSHA regulations). So I finally broke down and bought a pole-mounted light bulb changer, complete with multiple heads for dealing with all types of bulbs. I was sure that this was cool enough to be the hit of our conversation.

So, we met our friends and I feigned interest in their day, just killing time until I could spring my surprise. "So, how was your Wednesday?" I asked.

"Well, pretty good, other than the airplane crash."

I don't know about you, but I can think of very few things in the "what's going on in my life" category that will trump a plane crash. Sure, a pole-mounted light bulb changer is pretty darned special, but even that pales in comparison to landing a Cessna Cardinal without nose gear.

Which is exactly what happened. Fortunately, no one was injured, and although the plane was extensively damaged, it's reparable and insured.

But I'm definitely going to have to ratchet up the excitement factor in my life if I'm going to compete with things like that. Does anyone know where I can get a crocodile, a cattle prod, and a bottle of hydrogen?

Have you seen the following graphic that's making the email forwarding rounds?


This is being put forth as a BP ad "from the late 90's." It is, of course, a fake, cooked up by those rascally rapscallions over at Despair.com (who make some pretty hilarious stuff, generally speaking). I'm pretty sure that Despair.com didn't try to pass it off as genuine, but whoever decided to try to add some legitimacy to it didn't do their homework.

BP's "helios" logo wasn't adopted until the year 2000, so trying to place the putative ad into the 90s instantly gives it away as a fake. At the same time, the company switched back to its BP name (it was BP Amoco for a couple of years prior to that) and adopted the tagline "Beyond Petroleum."

I'll leave to you to debate whether BP's ad agency would have been so foolish as to suggest the slogan shown above. I'm simply not going there.

I had a post written and ready to publish and the server ate it. Really. It's not my fault, and it should count toward my quota. [I'm now only 3, 452 posts in arrears, give or take.]

I'm sure that you've heard that Lindsay Lohan is suing E-Trade and its advertising firm for using the name "Lindsay" in one of their wildly popular TV commercials. The "actress" wants $100 million for "pain and suffering" because - her lawyer claims - she's a "one-name celeb like Oprah or Madonna" and the TV ad sends a subliminal message that reflects badly on her image.

Excuse me? First, I feel compelled to remind Lindsay that she's made a series of choices in her life that have relegated her to the B-list (at best) of impaired and out-of-control wannabes. Having a talking baby make fun of her (even subliminally) would actually be a step up for her.

Setting aside the fact that in 1986 (the year of her birth, in case she can't remember) the name "Lindsay" was the 46th most popular girl's name in the USA (and the variant "Lindsey" ranked even higher, at 39), I think she should give careful consideration to the implications of claiming an exclusive association with certain descriptors. If her lawsuit is successful and thus requires that every time we hear "Lindsay" (or, if we have a discriminating ear, "Lindsey") we think of her, then it will have to logically follow that we'll also bring her to mind whenever we hear "pathetic," "narcissistic," and "delusional."

Then again, perhaps that horse has already bolted the stable.

Update: This just in - Oprah and Madonna are suing Lindsay and her lawyers for associating their names with hers.

I have a subscription to the online version of the Wall Street Journal and I subscribe to an email list that sends three news updates each day: morning, noon, and - wait for it - evening. Those updates usually lead off with breaking stories about events of widespread interest - you know, disasters like earthquakes in Chile or Charlie Rangel in Washington, and economic/financial news of import such as the content of the latest Fed Beige Book* or Tiger's dwindling sponsorships.

But today must be a slow news day, because the noon update led off with this story - A Game of Tag Breaks Out Between London's Graffiti Elite (think Hatfields and McCoys armed with Rust-Oleum)  - and the evening wrap has this in the lead: Should This Move Be Banned? (an article about a "devastating penalty-kick" employed by the Brazilian World Cup soccer team). This had the effect of pushing down more important news like the status of Mideast peace talks ("promising and yet inevitably failing") and Leno's whupping of Letterman on his first night back ("promising and yet inevitably failing").

I'm not complaining, mind you (although I am eagerly awaiting a report of a devastating penalty kick delivered to Letterman; now that would be news). But it does make one wonder if the Journal is going for a different image, sort of a "Drive your Veyron to a 7-11 for a raspberry-lime Slurpee" vibe.

*"Beige Book"? Talk about someone whose image could use some sprucing up.

At least it's Friday.


Link via TwistedShifter

Oh, and here's where it gets even worse. Somebody needs to retake Fly Catching 101.

You have to hand it to the Japanese. For whatever reasons, they're the undisputed leaders in formulating the world's strangest TV shows. Anyway, via Neatorama comes this video of an exercise to determine which, if any, animals can negotiate a path without knocking down dominoes that line either side.

My only quibble is that they should have played the Texas state song at the end.

If you think tumbleweeds are mild-mannered critters with no agenda, you've got another think coming. You cannot begin to imagine the epic struggle it took to corral this one. (Word to the wise: never get between a lone tumbleweed and its herd.)

The US tabloid media has a lot to learn from the Chinese. Here's a computer graphic-enhanced report of how the "Tiger Woods Incident" really went down.

Update: I'm been taken to task for unfairly maligning Windows 7, the final version of which is far superior to the beta version depicted below. In the final version, Hitler's mustache also jiggles.

Via xkcd:

We enjoyed a DiGiorno pizza last night, a Thin Crust Supreme supplemented with extra mozzarella and pepperoni, if you must know. And while it was quite tasty and a completely acceptable and less expensive alternative to a restaurant offering, it was also square.

There were some logistical issues of fitting it on a round serving platter and figuring out how to slice the darned thing, but the shape also raised an issue that should be of paramount importance to every serious pizza aficionado: assuming the area is the same, do you get more crust from a round pizza or a square one?

I'm sure there are manifold websites devoted to explaining the relationship of the circumference of a circle to the perimeter of a quadrilateral shape, but I chose to do it the old-fashioned way, with a slide rule and abacus. Ha ha, just kidding. I used Excel. (I wanted to use my iPhone's calculator but it doesn't compute square roots. At least not like I want to compute them, with one touch of a key.)

And, of course, what I found shouldn't surprise anyone. By choosing a square shape for its pizza over a round one, DiGiorno has effectively caused the amount of crust to be...oh, look! A baby bunny!

You didn't really think I was going to deprive you of the joy of figuring this one out for yourself, did you?

I'm not sure why everyone is making such a fuss over the dress worn by that soap opera actress - Victoria Rowell - at the Emmy Awards ceremony last night, the gown adorned with an Obama-head pattern. Sure, it's ugly, but it's not like this is the first time that a dress has been ruined by a Democratic president.

My wife inexplicably added Dirty Dancing to our NetFlix queue. I inexplicably put it in the DVD player this morning (my copy of Die Hard 3 having mysteriously gone missing), and as is my habit while watching a movie during a run on the treadmill, I activated subtitles so as not to miss any of the deep and moving dialog.

You may not have noticed, but the writers of movie subtitles often exercise what I'll diplomatically refer to as artistic license when generating the text that accompanies the movie's audio track. The really good (or compulsive) subtitlers will even describe sound effects (craaaack!) or musical interludes (cello playing ominously). You'll occasionally see long monologues paraphrased, sometimes in ways that affirm one's suspicions that no aspect of modern industry is immune to outsourcing to workers for whom English is, at best, a second language.

And, sometimes, they just get it wrong, having apparently thrown up their figurative hands in dismay, as if they'd been asked to subtitle the original version of Louie, Louie. Such is the case with one scene in Dirty Dancing.

Remember when Baby and Johnny are doing the mambo exhibition while Johnny's regular partner visits the butcher with the coat hanger? Of course you do; don't play coy. Anyway, she's all, like, nervous and he's all, like, just follow my lead, and he's talking her through the next steps (like anyone ever does that), and at one point he says, very clearly, albeit sotto voce, "cross body lead."

Now, as we all know, the cross body lead is one of the more common moves in ballroom and Latin dancing, where the male turns away from the female and then pulls her past his body in one fluid (theoretically) motion so that she ends up on the opposite side of where she started. One can do cross body leads in everything from cowboy two step to rumba to foxtrot (although I've never seen anyone actually successfully execute the move while doing the gator). So, it's not like it's some exotic move that was specially created at Patrick Swayze's behest just for this movie.

Anyway...well, I've lost my train of thought. Oh, wait; the subtitle. Yeah, when Johnny says cross body lead, the subtitle comes up as now spot a lead. Oh, my. Talk about a disaster of epic proportions.

I think (I hope) the message is clear: never rely on subtitles when trying to master subject material of a highly technical or life-and-death nature. Because it might just be that the next time you're trying to defuse a bomb before it blows up the nunnery, instead of playing through your head the proper snip the red wire, you'll hear strip and head higher, and not only will people die, but you'll probably be humiliated. 

The Twitterverse is abuzz about Woofer, the tongue-in-cheek "macroblogging" service that so closely resembles Twitter as to make IP lawyers walk funny, and which requires a minimum of 1,400 characters (vs. Twitter's 140 character maximum).

Most of the woofs thus far seem to be either randomly typed characters, or passages from famous books, like Moby Dick or the Bible. This tells me that people just aren't trying, because 1,400 characters is child's play for a blogger. For example, the first two paragraphs of this post (including this sentence) accounts for 655 characters, or 46.8% of what's necessary to woof it. (And, yes, I did have to iterate the character count a couple of times so I could get the actual numbers using Word's Properties feature. And if you include the rest of this paragraph, you're up to 60%.)

Now, I realized that actual writing has been rather rare at the Gazette lately, as I've tended to substitute one picture for, well, you know...a bunch of words. And I am beginning to worry a bit that Twitter is siphoning off what little creativity I had in the first place to apply to this here blog-like thing. So perhaps it's good that Woofer has come along, if only as a reminder that, sometimes, 140 characters isn't enough.

Or, it's a good reminder that using more than 140 characters for some things is a huge waste of pixels.

With that, I've achieved woofability. So, adieu.

For those who claim that math has no practical application in everyday life, our response has always been "oh yeah...well, what about an uprising of the undead?" Of course, that response was, unfortunately, a blustery theoretical, unsupported by actual computations and graphs and PowerPoint presentations, and therefore lacked credibility. But all that has changed, thanks to some Canadian college students who have wisely invested their parents' tuition payments in the creation of a mathematical model of how an "outbreak of zombie infection" might spread throughout the general non-Night-of-the-Living-Dead population. You can read their full report here (PDF document).

If you find reading about mathematical models somewhat, um, boring, here's an abstract that will allow you to be impressively conversant about the study without actually knowing anything. (In other words, you're qualified to blog about it.)


As the guy on the travel website TV ad puts it, this is serious stuff we're doing here. And if you don't think so, just skim through a few of the comments left on the Freakonomics blog post that originally highlighted the Canadian study. I for one am glad that we have people who are committed to addressing such pressing issues. And I suspect that you'll never again look at mathematical models in quite the same light.

I guess I'd never thought about it, but it doesn't surprise me that some Asian restaurants would have "secret menus" that contain dishes offered only to those in the know, those whose palates are better able to appreciate the presumably more exotic offerings than the normal riff-raff. I'm not going to get into the pros and cons or possible rationales of having a secret menu - the article linked above does a great job of that - but it did make me wonder whether any of the restaurants around here have secret menus, and if so, who they're aimed at.

For example, does the Cracker Barrel have a menu reserved for true crackers (I use that term with all due respect)?  Or if you walk into a McDonald's in full clown regalia, will they present you with an alternate selection of fast food? Does Schlotzsky's provide a menu for those whose inherent dignity makes them refuse to order using the chain's terminally silly sandwich names? And how about Olive Garden...does it have a menu for people who insist on real Italian food?

I could go on and on, but I think I need a snack.

Sometimes, I hate being right. We just got a call and the repair guy is on his way. The time? 4:46 p.m.

Debbie came through her dental surgery yesterday with flying colors (whatever that means), thanks to excellent pharmaceuticals and, I'm sure, some TLC from yours truly. She's now in the back yard tending to the planter; I wonder if it would be pushing my luck to see if she wants to mow the yard for me?

Anyway, we're having to stick close to home today because the dishwasher repairman is supposed to drop by at his convenience. Sears informed us that he would be by sometime between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Does that sound familiar?

I'd like to know the lucky sonuvagun who's given that schedule, and then has the service call actually occur at 8:00 a.m. Have any of you ever experienced that? I mean, somebody has to be first on the schedule, but it's never us.*

My guess is that since we have to be somewhere at 6:00 p.m., the guy will show up around 5:30 and take an hour to do the job.

*Now that I think about it, I believe we were, indeed, first on the schedule, a long time ago. And, as it so happened, something came up and we had to attend to other early morning business and missed that service call. As Basil Fawlty would say, typical...just typical.

If any of my loyal readers are in the mood to buy me a t-shirt*, here's the one I want.

Thanks in advance.

*XL, khaki, because this shirt in Heather is just not right.

Update (8/5/09): Yesterday, I sold the firearm described below to a fellow who wanted to carry it as a snake gun. I just couldn't justify hanging onto it. My only regret is that I never got to shoot it.

My brother and his wife live in rattlesnake country. Walking onto their front porch after dark on a summer evening is an act of courage (depending on your definition of "courage").

They also frequently encounter roving bands of javelina. Those wild pigs are unpredictable and it takes more than a sternly worded command to deter them. In fact, a large caliber bullet is probably the surest method of self-defense.

The combination of those ongoing threats is seemingly what Taurus International Manufacturing had in mind* when they designed "The Judge." It's a revolver chambered for the .45 Long Colt ammo as well as the .410 shotshell. You can mix-and-match the ammo in the five chambers if you want to be ready for anything. The .410s are effective for killing invading poisonous snakes up to about twelve feet, and the .45s handle everything else beyond that range.

Anyway, we stopped by the Cabela's store in Buda (just south of Austin) last Tuesday, and they had a couple of The Judges in stock. I decided that one would make a fine Christmas present** for my brother; I even rationalized that my parents would likely be willing to split the cost and thereby avoid the inevitable shopping hassle when December rolls around. So, I bought it.

During our regular Sunday night conversation after we returned to Midland, I told my mom about the plan. I didn't get the expected reaction. Instead, she described to me a trip to a nearby town taken by my brother and his wife, ostensibly to shop for his wife's birthday present. While wandering around that town, they happened upon a gun store. You can probably see where this is headed, can't you?

Let's summarize, shall we? On the same day I was 300 miles away buying him the gun, and probably around the same time of day, he was buying the same one for himself. It's like a redneck version of an O. Henry story. OK, maybe not, but it's still weird.

The upshot (no pun intended) is that he has a gun he wanted, and I have one that I didn't want but now that I have it am finding to be pretty cool, provided I can ever find any ammo for it. Perhaps it was just meant to be. I know I never look a gift revolver in the barrel.***

*OK, this is probably untrue. The Judge is being marketed as a self-defense weapon, and in fact derives its name from the fact that a fair number of the judiciary carries the gun for protection. Or so Taurus would have us believe.

**If you're thinking that a gun makes a lousy Christmas present, you obviously don't live in Texas.

***You don't have to be a Texan to understand the wisdom of this statement.

We were awakened after midnight last night by the combination of an eerie silence punctuated by the plaintive beeps of four uninterruptible power supplies. Both were the result of a neighborhood-wide power failure of unknown origin, lasting less than an hour.

As I lay in the complete darkness (a rare phenomenon in itself; I'm not conscious of how many indicator lights and LED displays emit constant glows throughout the house until they're not there), my mind began to play with the implications of a prolonged power outage. Was this the way the end of civilization would begin? Our complete dependence on a reliable power grid seemed foolish and short-sighted at that point, but it was pretty much too late to do anything about it now.

But, I wonder, what does it say about me that my final thought before I drifted back to sleep was, dang, I just bought a gallon of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream.

Of course, the power came back on - it always does - and our ice cream survived just fine, but I'm not taking any chances, if you know what I mean. As they say, life's uncertain; eat dessert first.

Today is Debbie's birthday (I can't believe they didn't declare a holiday at her office!), and perceptive readers will recall that we celebrated our wedding anniversary two days ago.

If you're a woman, you're probably saying "how wonderful to have two special occasions so close together."

If you're a guy, you're saying "Ouch! What a hit to the wallet!"

If you're me, you might have been born at night, but it wasn't last night, and so you're saying nothing at all except...happy birthday, m'love!

Programming note: If you read this post yesterday and found that it had an abrupt and unfulfilling ending, you might want to take another shot at it. Not that the ending is any more fulfilling, but at least it has one now. In the meantime, I'll be away taking a remedial course in blogging in an attempt to remember the difference between "Save as Draft" and "Publish."


As I've mentioned a couple of times, we spent the July 4th weekend at Canyon Lake, in the Texas Hill Country. We went there without much of an agenda, other than tubing down the Guadalupe River (a pastime, by the way, whose attraction escapes me, but Debbie grew up with fond memories of tubing the Frio River so I suppose we were trying to recapture her childhood. But, I digress; this is not about that.).

Having a relatively uncluttered schedule, when we saw numerous signs advertising a "sock hop" featuring the music of Johnny Dee & the Rocket 88's, one of us decided that we ought to go.

Parenthetical aside, sans parentheses: Now, lest you misinterpret the preceding sentence, let me assure you that despite all claims to the contrary, I am not a stick-in-the-mud. Well, not always. I'm just, well, deliberate. I had my reasons for initially being less than enthusiastic, and those reasons proved to be remarkably relevant as we shall soon see.

It took us a while to discover the reason for this event - it was a fund-raiser for a community service group, but after talking to a couple of enthusiastic volunteers and learning that it was an annual and well-attended event, we decided to shell out $50 for two tickets. We decided that, if nothing else, we could hear some fun music, and maybe get to practice a few dance moves in front of people who would likely never see us again. That's a liberating concept, by the way.

Neither of us had packed in anticipation of a dance, but with the understanding that this was a very casual affair, we headed for the J.C. Penney's store in nearby New Braunfels where Debbie found a fetching sundress and I scored a couple of pairs of ridiculously plaid shorts, the kind all the Kool Kids are wearing nowadays. Shoes were a slight concern, but I figured that my low-top All-Stars would fit in with the sock hop theme, and Debbie never travels with fewer than a dozen pairs, and surely one of them would work.

We had been informed that while the dance got underway at 8:00pm, there would be a dance instructor on hand earlier to give a few swing lessons to those who were interested. Since this was our first time at the event, we showed up early, and joined in the group lessons even though they were pretty basic. It was during those lessons that my initial concerns began to assume enhanced credibility.

If you were anywhere near the Hill Country over the 4th of July weekend, you know how hot it was. Temperatures were in triple digits every day, and the humidity pushed the heat index into the danger zone. Thus the temperature was still in the upper 90s when the dance began, and did I mention that it took place in an non-air-conditioned, gym-sized metal building? The organizers had set up an industrial strength fan in front of one of the four garage doors set in the sides of the building, but there was no cross ventilation so the fan didn't provide any relief unless you stood directly in front of it.

And thus we found ourselves glowing intensely following the rather mild dance lessons...and it was obvious what was coming.

The band fired up promptly at 8:00 (and if you've never been to a JD&tR88s show, you're missing a great time; these guys are pros, in every sense of the word) and while the majority of the 300 or so in attendance were content to sit and listen, the concrete dance floor was crowded throughout the evening. As you might expect from a 50s/60s retro band, most of the music was fast, and so we spent most of our time doing swing and cha cha, with an occasional rumba thrown in. We also spent all of our time sweating.

We'll never again complain about the air conditioning not being turned up enough at our ballroom dances, because we learned that evening what it means to truly sweat to the oldies. I'm talking dripping-off-your-fingertips, flung-off-the-ends-of-your-hair (well, not mine, of course), do-you-think-these-clothes-are-ruined? levels of sweat. And that was after just three dances.

Still, we quickly realized that everyone was in the same boat - the same sticky, soggy, smelly boat - and we decided just to enjoy the music and the dancing. As I said, chances were good that no one would ever see us again, and there's a lot to be said for anonymity in a situation like that.

But when the band took its first break, the aforementioned dance instructor made her way through the row of tables to where we were sitting (and dripping). She crouched down next to us and quietly asked if we could come up to the front of the bandstand at the next break. Oh, great; we've violated a local standard of personal hygiene and they want to make an example of us before they run us out of town. OK, that sounds silly, but not as silly as the real reason.

The instructor leaned forward and said (I swear this is the truth), "we've been watching the dancers and we want to recognize three couples who are doing the best job, and you are one of them." Debbie and I could barely stifle our disbelieving laughter. I mean, while we weren't falling down on the dance floor, or if we were it was gracefully choreographed, we also weren't (in our humble opinions) doing anything worthy of what was obviously A Major Award.

But, I'll admit we were flattered. And so we gratefully and humbly accepted our Major Award during the next break, still sweating like Mississippi chain gang workers. Finally, we had tangible evidence that the literally thousands of dollars we've invested in dancing (if you total the cost of the lessons, dances, ball gowns and shoes, tuxedo and accouterments, and so on) over the last three years has paid off.

And we have the denim apron, soy candle, and bar of scented soap to prove it.

What can I say? It was a fund-raiser, and local merchants donated the awards. And, as they say, beggars can't be choosers. Especially really sweaty ones.

There appears to be a disturbing case of mass hallucination going on around here, as evidenced by the fact that some of you seem to believe that you read a certain post, when in fact such a post obviously doesn't exist. If you fall into that category, I recommend seeking immediate professional counseling.

Besides, even if that post you hallucinated that you read did exist - of course, it doesn't; I'm just humoring you - it would probably only be because someone experienced the heartbreak of premature publication.

I trust that we understand each other now.

I would say that our backyard smells like a Tijuana outhouse, but (1) I've never been in a Tijuana outhouse and (b) that would probably be unfair to Tijuana outhouses.

It's my fault. Sort of. I guess. I mean, I did leave a trash bag of grass clippings on the porch last Thursday when we headed off for vacation. I didn't expect that it would rain twice during our absence, and I certainly didn't expect that those grass clippings would take on the characteristics of the worst-smelling substance(s) you can imagine. But there it is. There are fewer flies swarming around a two-week old pig carcass in the middle of August than are on our back porch, and if you look really closely, they all have tiny clothespins on their little fly noses.

Did I mention that it's really gross?

Grass clippings in and of themselves should not be able to mutate into something that foul smelling. Perhaps I'm mowing over herds of little frogs or mice or other creatures and their dead little bodies are decomposing while mingling with the clippings. But, surely I'd notice that. Wouldn't I?

Maybe that last round of fertilizer was comprised of or contained something I'd rather not know, and it imputed (is that the right word?) its horrible qualities to the lawn.

Well, whatever. It's just sad to think that we'll have to spend the rest of the summer wearing hazmat suits in our backyard.