The Star "Spangled?" Banner

I was thinking about the word "spangled" the other day. What does "spangled" mean? I did not know. I had to look it up. It turns out that "spangle" can take various forms:

Verb. To adorn or to cause to sparkle. "Dude, check out how the light has spangled the skyline."
Noun. Something that sparkles. "Dude, check out those spangles of sunlight."

Outside of the context of the star "spangled" banner, does anyone say this word? Not that I am aware. I can't remember the last time "spangle" showed up in a conversation. I thought about breaking it out at the next party (get-together and/or social engagement), but I'm sure it would attract odd reactions:

"'Spangled?' Did you just say 'spangle'? What does that even mean?"

or

"'Spangle?' Isn't that the brownish, green mucus that comes out of your nose when you have a cold?"

or

"'Spangled?' Isn't that a verb that means 'to adorn or to cause to sparkle'?"

or

"'Spangle?' Is that similar to 'throat corn'?"

Gene: It's in the same family.

Oliver: Exactly.

Oblong Blog

You know what really "chaps my hyde?" It's phrases like "chaps my hyde." These colloquialisms are a bit outdated and thus unnecessary in my opinion (opine). Can anyone even describe to me what "chapping" looks like? I know what "chaffing" is. Is that the same as "chapping"? I know when my lips are chapped. Maybe that is what it means.

Therefore, I think the expression should be altered a bit. It should be: You know what really "chaps my lips"? Now, that is an expression people can identify with. People will be like - Oooh, I know the feeling of a chapped lip. That is not pleasant. This guy is about to tell me something unpleasant. I can dig that. I can't want to hear what this guy is about to say about what is chapping his lips, metaphorically.

But you go to that same person and say: You know what really "chaps my hyde," they will be confused. That person will be like - Hmmm. I am a bit confused. He is about to tell me something about how something has chapped his hyde. I have experience of hyde chapping. I'm not even sure what chapping is in this context. I don't know how to prepare myself for what this guy is about to tell me. Is this good news? Is hyde chapping a good thing? Or is this a bad thing? Does he not want his hyde chapped?

You can see how confusing such a phrase is. I'm going to start a facebook group: People who want to change "chaps my hyde" to "chaps my lips." (Or should "lips" be singular: "chaps my lip." That has a bit more zip to it if you ask me.)

Will you join?

An Inter-Planetary Copernican Revolution

Why does the stomach grumble (gurggle?) when it is hungry? No other body part that I can think of is audible when it is empty. It's not like the liver starts shrieking. It's not like the kidney hums. So why does the stomach grumble (grabble?)? Why this involuntary audio?

It's not like the bladder sizzles. And it's not like the gallbladder rumples. So why does the stomach grumble (gumple?)?

And why is there a bladder and a gallbladder? They couldn't name the gallbladder something original? They think that just by sticking the name "gall" in front of the pre-existing "bladder" that this was doing justice to the nomenclature of this organ. No sir. Not in my book. I think the gallbladder should have a completely unique identity apart from its connection to the bladder. And I think it should rumple when it is empty.

This goes back to my complaint about the naming of grapefruits. There is clearly already a grape...that is a fruit. So we couldn't come up with anything more original for grapefruits? There are really that many fruits out there that we totally exhausted every name available? We had to start dipping back and recycling old fruit names? No sir. Not in my book.

And it's not like the heart hisses. And it's not like the gallbladder waffles. So why does the stomach grumble (garble?)?

The Awkwardness of "Awkward"

The other day I found myself trying to spell the word 'awkward.' And my first attempt spelt ("spelt"....now that is awkward too) it this way: awkard. My indication that something has gone horribly wrong was the red squiggly line that appeared underneath it - always an alerting red-flag that changes are needed. So I stepped back and looked at this word: awkard.

"Are there really 2 w's in this thing?" So I took another stab (grab). a-w-k-W-a-r-d. And there it was. Awkward. And the more I looked at this word, I realized that its form embodies its definition. Just look at it for a second. Awkward. It is weird looking. What other words do you find the back-to-back combination of "wkw"? The word itself looks like a bird trying to get off the ground, but can't, due to one defective wing.

You know what else is an awkward word? Spelt.

Comb Over to My Place

At what point in the baldness process does one decide to start doing the comb over? Because this is not a neutral commitment. This requires at least two things from you: 1) to stop grooming your hair as you have been, 2) to start growing out one specific area of your hair longer than all the others so that it can start to function as the comb-over strip. This is a big decision. This requires much of you.

So, what does this conversation look like with the barber? Do you request this of them? "Yeah, give me a trim all over....except for this one little area right here. I'm growing that spot out."

Does the barber intuitively pick up on this strategy? He has to. You can't hide that. And furthermore, what does one do with this long strip of awkwardly grown hair before it is long enough to accomplish its task? Is it just sticking straight up - obviously longer than the rest of the hair? Does one try to prematurely press it over the bald area - only to have it stretch out and cover about an inch of fully bald area?

Ever seen one of these elongated strips of hair get snagged by the wind going the other direction? It's not pretty. It can easily lift off of the bald portion of the head, flip around, and slap the person on the cheek. It's that long. It's kind of creepy actually. It's like old-man-goth or something.

What do you call this long comb-over strip? Is there a term for this? The "built-in-toupee?" The "half-wig?" I'm not sure.

But I am sure of one thing. If my hairline continues to regress at the rate it is, these are going to be very relevant questions for me, I'm afraid.

Joe. (6 Pack)

I got to thinking about "Joe" today. Not Joe the Plummer. Not Joe 6 Pack. Not even Joe Manwich. I was thinking about "Joe."

"Joe" is shorthand for something longer, namely "Joseph." But why is this? Is it because the first syllable of "Joseph" is literally "Joe"? Or is it because the first two letters of "Joseph" are J and O?

Now on the one hand, if it is simply because the first syllable sounds like "Joe" then this is a bit unfair for Jody and Job and Jomamma. Not cool, Joe. Why do you feel so entitled to that name over against everyone else with a first syllable that sounds like "Joe."

On the other hand, if it is "Joe" simply because the first two letters are J and O, then this is quite unfair for Jordan and Joshua and Jocular. Not cool again, Joe.

Either way you look at it - "Joe" is stepping beyond the bounds of what it should. It assumes too much. It discriminates against names like Job and Joshua. It belittles names like Jope and Joliphant. It is puffed up and proud, slinging its tater-tot-loaded weight around in the playground of nicknames, presuming to wear a crown that only belongs to nomenclatures of Joseph alone. Sola Josepha.

But no.

We say no, Joe. Got to get tough, yo Joe.

Hankering: A Conversation

Gene: So I was thumbing my thumb drive the other day, and I had this odd hankering for some Mr. Pibb.

Oliver: Did you just say "hankering"?

Gene: Yeah, hankering. What's wrong with that?

Oliver: No one says that anymore.

Gene: I just did.

Oliver: Yeah, I know you just did....but I mean....other people. No other person says "hankering." Honest to goodness.

Gene: "Honest to goodness"? Now, seriously. Noooooobody says that anymore.

Oliver: You're just saying that to get me back for what I said about "hankering."

Gene: No, seriously. No one says "honest to goodness." I would have brought it up had you not even mentioned the "hankering" thing. Honest to goodness.

Oliver: How can someone "hanker" for something? Show me one example of hankering. You can't. I defy you to show me hankering. Bee tea dub, pass the oregano please.

Gene: "Oregano?" No one says that anymore. Who honestly says that?

Oliver: Why does no one like our conversations? I find them stimulating.

Gene: Good question....for once.

Oliver: Exactly.

Kathryn's Blogservations

A few nights ago Kathryn and I were watching a movie at home. We popped the DVD (digital video disc) in our DVD player and in no time, a familiar message appeared:

"This screen has been modified from its original version. The following has been formatted to fit this screen."

And Kathryn made a blog-worthy observation: Why are they informing us about this bit o' editing. Certainly, the editors have made plenty of editing decisions that they didn't feel the need to inform us about - so why this one. "This shot was originally 4 seconds long, but it has been adjusted to be 3.25 seconds." If we don't need every editorial detail, why do we need that one? Good call.

----

Kathryn: Isn't our body temperature 98.6 degrees?

Matt: Yeah.

Kathryn: So, how come when it is 98 degrees outside, we feel so hot? Shouldn't it neutralize itself out into equilibrium or something? Shouldn't that feel...you know, normal?

Matt: Good call!

----

Kathryn's good friend from college (Jen from Lost) wrote a real letter to the 90210 character, Dylan. Not Luke Perry, mind you. Dylan. I am curious what address she sent it to. What did she write on the envelope? Kathryn exclaims, "Was this like one of your letters to Santa that you gave to your mom but she never really sent it?" Oh, Jen.

Good call!!!

When Things Heat Up: A Conversation

Oliver: How's the eel?

Gene: Ah, it's ok. A bit eel-y if you ask me.

Oliver: I did ask you.

Gene: Well there you go. Eel-y.

Oliver: You should try putting some wasabi on it.

Gene: Wasabi? Naw, I don't mess with that stuff. Too strong. I prefer Tabasco.

Oliver: How is Wasabi stronger than Tabasco?

Gene: Wasabi cleans out your sinuses. It's like receiving a kick to the face. Smack! Plomp!!

Oliver: Plomp? Come on, that's not a kick-to-the-face noise.

Gene: Is it not?

Oliver: No. And furthermore, wasabi may be a kick to the sinus-

Gene: Face.

Oliver: What did I say, "sinus"?

Gene: Yeah.

Oliver: Sorry. Ok....so wasabi may be a kick to the face, but seriously, it totally goes away in like 3 seconds. Tabasco builds on itself, never really leaving your tongue. It just gets perpetually hotter and hotter and hotter and -

Gene: True, but I prefer the slow gradual heat as opposed to the kick-in-the-face (or sinus) heat. Plomp!! I don't know, that's just how I roll.

Oliver: Sushi roll.

Gene: Exactly.

Kernels and Colonels

I remember in the olden days where it was customary to bring a teacher an apple. Perhaps the shiny, robust, Red Delicious would grant you a little extra something something when your teacher was grading your quizzes. You counted on that apple to give you something back. It was an unspoken rule: I give you the apple; you give me the A.

But upon reflection, I realized that an apple is not that great of a bribe. I mean, think about it - an apple? First of all, who would want a free piece of fruit? Is fruit really that hard to find? Is it really that expensive? No, fruit is everywhere. It is growing on the trees that you walk by on your way home from school. There are literally stacks of boxes of mountains of fruit in the grocery store (I do realize that I am in America, mind you).

And why, might I add, was it only an apple? How did this particular piece of fruit get selected as the understood gift for teachers? If I were a teacher, I'd be fairly upset with this system. You get stuck with a whole bunch of apples you didn't need nor want. Why not twinkies? Or cupcakes? Or even if were to stay within the realm of fruit, at least some variety every now and then. Throw an orange up in the mix. Or a kiwi. Heck, I'll even hit up a pomegranate.

If I were a teacher, I would announce on the first day of class, "No apples allowed. If you want to bribe me, actually bribe me. I like Starbucks gift cards and DVDs. I'll also take twinkies and pomegranates."

I also remember having to bring your own box of Kleenex at the beginning of the school year. This was the teachers' way of paying us back for all those unwanted apples. You're gonna give me 800 apples this year? That's fine. But now you have to go out and buy me a box of Kleenex to make up for the lack of twinkies.

Colon: A Conversation

Oliver: Oliver colon so the doctor didn't dilate my eyes yesterday.

Gene: Did you just say "Oliver colon" before you spoke?

Oliver: Oliver colon yeah. What's the big deal?

Gene: Why are you doing that?

Oliver: Oliver colon I'm just talking like a movie script would read. You know, on the left side of the page, it reads "Oliver colon" and then carries on what Oliver would be saying.

Gene: That's really stupid. Stop doing that.

Oliver: Oliver colon stop doing what?

Gene: Why a movie script? Why not talk like how a comic book reads?

Oliver: Oliver colon how would that sound? Would it be like, "Bubble: Hi, I'm Oliver"?

Gene: Yeah, I don't know. I'm guessing "bubble" may be as good as you get on that one.

Rose: I can skate in a figure 8.

Gene: Woah! Where did you come from, Rose? You literally just popped out of nowhere.

Oliver: Oliver colon and apparently you can skate in a figure 8. Is that ice skating...or just chewing the fat....or what?.....Rose?......you there?

Gene: I guess she's gone. Have you ever eaten bubble fat, you know the fat that grows on bubbles?

Oliver: Oliver colon "Bubble" I'll be honest, I don't think this is really going anywhere.

Gene: Exactly.

Semi-colon Soup and Ampersandwiches

I found myself bouncing (and bounding) across various YouTube videos yesterweek and I happened to stumble upon a young woman's "vlog." Yes, her vlog. She regularly sits in front of her webcam and for anywhere from three to six minutes, she updates you on her life. Here's what I did today. This is what I think about Jonathan in class. I'm doing this and that this weekend. And as much as I didn't care one bit whatsoever, I watched. All three minutes and forty-eight seconds of it. And I have yet to discover why.

Vlogging. Who honestly would regularly watch these videos. Sure, one could make the argument that people watch them the same way I did - stumbling across them. And sure, one could go one to argue that I could have easily stopped it but didn't and that they must possess some inherent enjoyability. And sure, one could argue that I actually have bookmarked it and will check for updates regularly. But honestly, who else would watch these?

What does the internet world (hereafter webfam) care about what some seventeen year old is doing and thinking day after day after day? Does there happen to be a following for such vlogs out there in the webfam (hereafter compunity)? Or am I the only one watching these?

The following is my beef with vlogs. I have serious beef with this new (uncharted?) enterprise. However, to be fair, in addition to my beef, I will also add my cheese with vlogging - the things I find positive about it.

Beef #1 - While blogging is self-indulgent, self-focused, and self-involved, vlogging just cranks this dial up too far for me. "Not only do I demand that you avail yourself to my thinking, my agenda, and my perspective, you must look at me too now. If I didn't have your attention with my words, I will certainly now - now that you can see what posters I have on my dorm room wall behind me and speculate what school I go to."

Beef #2 - The word "vlog." It's hard to say. And it doesn't follow the same formula as "blog." Web Log takes the last letter of the first word "B" and combines it with the second word "Log." B + Log = Blog. If "Video Log" followed the same formula, it should be "Olog," not "Vlog." Furthermore, a "video log" is still on the web, isn't it? It's technically a "Video Web Log," thus it should really be "Oblog."

Beef #3 - No one cares.

---

Cheese #1 - Vlogging does have the potential for sing-alongs and video shorts that regular blogging does not. Also one could do puppet shows (Gene and Oliver puppets?).

Cheese #2 - One can "blog" visually to a set soundtrack. In other words, vlogging can capture audio. I would do something with Emo music. You know, that cool genre which is a shorthand for "Emotional." It could capture the emotional ethos of my vlog. Emo is nice. But again, Emo was so two months ago.

Beef #4 - No one cares.

Discovery over Veggie Chili

It was over a cup of veggie chili that I made this ground breaking discovery:

Arby's. Roast Beef sandwiches. R.B.s (roast beef). "Arby's."

It makes sense.

What doesn't make sense is how someone can actually roast beef. I've heard of toast beef. But roast beef?!? Come on people.

Joey Gladstone: An Analysis of Thought

Here is a single man, living in the big, cluttered world of San Fran, trying to make it as a comedian, and decides to move into this house "full" of his best friend's children. The following is why I feel sorry for Joey Gladstone.

First of all, his comedy. He is trying to earn a living via humor but he lacks the necessary qualifications, namely, being humorous. Let's begin with his Rocky and Bullwinkle imitation. Do you know why this isn't funny? It's because nobody watches Rocky and Bullwinkle. Most people don't even know what this is. Get some current material, Joey, not 1960s animated sitcoms with laugh tracks. But then you have his Popeye impersonation. Again, not quite up to date, but a bit more recognizable. Even still, why is this funny? "Woah...blow me down!" Just stupid.

But of course, his "tag line," his catch phrase, his bread-n-butter is his "Cut-it-Out!" accompanied by correlating hand gestures. You have the scissors for the "cut," the finger point for the "it," and the thumb thrown over the shoulder for the "out." He really wants people to cut it out. Badly. And again.....not funny. Just really, really cheesy. And really bad. It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it.

So you have a terrible comedy act. But secondly, I feel bad for Joey Gladstone because of his living situation. How is a single man in San Francisco honestly supposed to work the dating circuit when he lives in a house "full" of men and children? (Maybe he's working the dating circuit just fine and NBC didn't feel comfortable airing it??).

What drives this man? What motivates him to wake up and keep going? Is it the courtesy laughter that he is guaranteed? Is it because he honestly thinks he is funny? Is it because he enjoys tapping into his inner child via the children surrounding him? Is it his latent attraction toward Uncle Danny or Uncle Jesse (or maybe Kimmy Gibbler?!?)? Who knows?

The conundrum continunes...

How's My Driving?

I love driving behind large vehicles that are ornamented with the inquisitive bumper sticker, "How's my driving?" First of all, that is a fairly insecure question. It assumes the worst in asking it. It might as well be phrased, "I'm a bad driver, aren't I?" Second of all, they actually provide the number so that you can call in and give your two cents. I like this. I've actually called it. It's been too long, but I think it went something like this:

"Hi, this is Matt and well, yes, I'm driving behind this enormous truck. He's driving fairly well, I'd like to report. He's sticking to the speed limit and is staying in his lane. I would like to note though: He's a bit slow on the pickup. It really takes him a while to get going. That's a bit frustrating. What's that?....Oh no....this is not a formal complaint for your records, the slow pickup thing is just a personal preference of mine."

People have let me know how my driving is even though I don't have a sticker on the bumper requesting this information. And they usually don't let me know with words. Usually facial expressions and hand (and finger) signals.

Phone Ethics #2: A Conversation

Gene: So I was at home shaving my cat and using the fur to fuel my yuletide fire the other day, right?

Oliver: Right.

Gene: And out of nowhere, Rog knocks on my door.

Oliver: I thought it was pronounced: Rogg, with a hard "g," almost like "rock." Rogg.

Gene: No, it's a soft "g." Shhuh. Rahsh. "Raj." Like that. Rog.

OIiver: Are you sure? I once overheard Rogg introduce himself to someone and I'm pretty sure he pronounced it with a hard "g." Rogg.

Gene: What are you, serious? Rogg? No, it's short for Roger. Roge. Rahsh. Raj. Not Rogg.

Oliver: Call him.

Gene: You call him. I'm not going to call him.

Oliver: Fine. I'll call him.

...

Oliver: Hello, Rogg? Yeah, hey this is Oliver.....nothing....just sitting here chewing the birds with Gene.....downtown.....no, I'm not going to Firma's party tonight, it sounded a bit lame to me, what with all the line dancing and dart throwing and fire eating and all.....oh yeah?......HA HA HA!!!!......that's hilarious......HA HA HA!!!!!!.......you should totally tell her......uh huh..........uh huh.......yeah.........no way?!?!?............yeah..........ooooh good one!!!.........14?!?!?!?!?!?!? You are crazy, Rogg!!..........yeah.......nah.......uh huh.......Firma.......yeah, that's her name.........I'm serious........No, I'm with Gene here........No, not Geen, with a hard "g," it's more of a soft g "Schheen"......No, I'm serious......uh huh......ok, I'll ask him - Hey, Gene, is your name pronounced with a hard "g" or a soft "g"?

Gene: Hard.

Oliver: Really? Hey, Rogg, Gene says it's pronounced with a hard "g." What would that be? "Geen." Wow. I never knew that. Ok, keep going.....uh huh.....yeah... -

Geen: You know, I love sitting here listening to your conversation with Rogg. It's really how I wanted to spend my afternoon - sitting in silence, watching your expressions change with each new bit of unhearable dialogue. Yeah, I love that. I also love it when you laugh so boisterously loud that the people sitting next to us look over at me in annoyance. I love that too.

Oliver: Uh, hold on Rogg.....Hey, Geen, can you keep it down? I'm on the phone here.

Geen: Exactly.

Danza: A Conversation

Gene: So I was watching the Tony Danza Show yesterday and you will never guess who he had on -

Oliver: Wait a second.....The Tony Danza Show? Are you serious?

Gene: What's wrong with that? It's not like watching The View.

Oliver: No, actually it is a lot like watching The View. What are you? A middle aged woman?

Gene: Does it look like I am a middle aged woman?

Oliver: Well, you're telling me you watch the Tony Danza Show, so, I don't know, you tell me.

Gene: Tell you what?

Oliver: If you are a middle aged woman or not.

Gene: You want me to tell you that I'm a middle aged woman?

Oliver: Yes, say those words to me.

Gene: Can I just tell you who Tony had on his show?

Oliver: Did you just refer to him as "Tony"? Like you're on a first name basis with this guy or something, you middle aged woman?!?

Gene: Ok, clearly you are not in the mood to hear this story.

Oliver: No, no, I am. Really. I'm dying to hear who "Tony" had on last night.

Gene: Steve Urkle.

Oliver: You sure it wasn't Stefan Urquelle?

Gene: No, no, that was when Steve transformed himself into the smooth-talking, lady-crazy, sexy hunk.

Oliver: Did you just say "hunk"?

Gene: I did.

Oliver: Remember his "Did I do that?"

Gene: Oh, do I. How could I ever forget?

Oliver: Exactly.

Panic!!! Button

We have an alarm system in our house. And conveniently, the alarm system people have provided us with little remote control dealies (for lack of a better word) to put on our key chain. That way, when we come home and open the door and the alarm begins going off, we simply have to press the correct button on our key chain and, boop!, off it goes. This prevents us from coming in, quickly throwing our bags down, and frantically running throughout the house to the keypad to punch in our code before the scary alarm starts and the swat team comes out.

This little remote-control-key-chain-dealy also comes with a panic button. The panic button is different. It isn't white. It is red. If you hold this button down, the scary alarm begins going off immediately. Obviously, this button is to be pressed only in emergencies.

But what I don't understand is this: Why do the alarm people assume this frenzied, panic-stricken emotional state on behalf of their customers? Why call it a "panic" button? Do the alarm companies see the users of this button as utterly freaking out? "Why else would they hit it?" they are probably asking themselves. Is this the button you hit when you are simply panicking? Why not use a more emotionally-neutral term and call it the "Emergency" button? Just because I am in an emergency does not necessarily mean that I am panicked. I don't like being pigeon-holed into certain emotional states.

And what happens if you are having a panic attack? Do you hit it then? Certainly, one could make the case that this is legitimate. "Hey, I was panicking. So I hit the panic button." Perhaps one could make the case that this is the only time one should hit the panic button - when one is truly panicking.

Capin.

Phone Ethics: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was going through my neighbor's trash last night -

Gene: You what?

Oliver: I was going through my neighbor's trash....What? Why are you giving me that face?

Gene: You realize that is not normal right?

Oliver: Hold on.....I'm getting a phone call......uh.....

Gene: Why aren't you answering it?

Oliver: I don't recognize the number.

Gene: So what? Answer it.

Oliver: No.....I don't want to.

Gene: Are you serious? Why not?

Oliver: Well.......oops......Any way it's too late now. I'll let the voicemail get it.

Gene: Why didn't you just pick it up to begin with?

Oliver: I don't want to be thrown off by someone I don't know. You know, it could have been a telemarketer or something, I don't know. I'd just assume let the voicemail get it and then I can know who it was.

Gene: I don't see what the big deal is about answering. What do you think the worst that can happen is? Some terribly awkward person who wants to talk to you for 45 minutes? The mafia or something saying they are out to get you? Can't you just hang up if you don't like what you are hearing? I don't get this. Besides....it doesn't sound like they're left a voicemail.

Oliver: Yeah....no voicemail yet.

Gene: What are you doing now?

Oliver: I'm calling them back.

Gene: What?!? Now you are calling them?!? Just a second ago you wouldn't even pick up the phone for these people and now you are initiating a phone conversation? Does this make any sense?

Oliver: Shhhh....they're about to pick - uh....hello? Yes....did someone just call this number?

Gene: Exactly.

French Fries: A Poem

Curly Q or straight
Golden brown crisps and bite-sized
Potato vectors. Searing fleshy tongue
Microwave transforms leftover crunch to
Soggy, flabby. Swimming in grease pools
Taking dips in liquid crimson heaps
Fried and French: A Friend to the Fat
A Foe to the Flimsy
A Necessity at Burger King

French Fries: A Run On Sentence

The aftermath of Simon's unsightly barrage of formidable vituperation only left Lenny, Simon's loathly brother-in-law, with a lackluster and rather lethargic apathy, while on the other hand, it left Remmy, Simon's other, though no less loathly brother-in-law, utterly recalcitrant, who then decided to return the favor, not with his own invective opprobrium, but rather with a culinary assault of launching bushels of scorching-hot french fries from his Medieval catapult atop Simon's newly renovated house, which by the way, was only serving to perpetuate the ongoing gentrification in this particular neighborhood, which up until the late 90s was self-consciously opposed to any social trajectories deviating from traditional, historical categories, but unfortunately, after the congressional "push" in 2002, surrendered its priorities to the state's, which corresponds with what Hobbes wrote when he wrote, "When congress pushes; push back."

French Fries: A Conversation

Oliver: Are you gonna eat all those?

Gene: You mean, "all those" french fries I ordered? Yes. I am planning on eating what I ordered.

Oliver: Woah, easy killer. Don't get fussy with me. It's not that stupid of a question.

Gene: No, actually it's pretty stupid. And nice use of "fussy" there.

Oliver: You're telling me that it is a stupid question to wonder whether or not someone is planning on eating the mountain of fried potatoes that was just put in front of them?

Gene: It is a stupid question to assume the possibility that I might not eat what I ordered.

Oliver: Look at the amount of fries on your plate and tell me whether you are currently committed to the principle of "finishing what you started" or that you are actually in the process of developing an eating strategy to consume all 400 french fries.

Gene: Do you not think I am able to eat all of these?

Oliver: That's not the issue. The issue is whether or not my initial question was stupid or not.

Gene: It was stupid.

Oliver: You're stupid.

Gene: Prove it.

Oliver: You ordered 400 french fries and you are planning on eating all of them.

Gene: You're just being fussy because I'm not going to share with you.

Oliver: Exactly.

French Fries: A Portrait

fries of the french

French Fries: A Short Story

Jean, the Pastry Master (also and otherwise known as the 'Bread Artist') scrambled about in his kitchen for the confectioner's sugar. It was not in its place. You see, everything had "it's place" in Jean's kitchen - meticulously organized spice racks (alphabetical order), strategically placed pans (the heavier pans on the lower shelves), and methodically structured oven times (muffins and scones in the morning; cakes and tarts in the afternoon). But his system was is utter disarray now. The confectioner's sugar was not in its place.

"Rose!" Jean snapped to his understudy, "I am missing zee confectionah's sugar! Whuh izz eet?!?!"

"I have not seen it today, Pastry Master (Jean made all employees refer to him as that). Is it not in its place?" Rose responded elegantly.

"NO! Eet izz not in eet's place!"

Jean was now bustling about in haste, turning over pans of scrambling eggs, sweeping off entire table tops, and knocking over a full stock pot of bubbling stew (he also dabbled in soups, stews, and stoups in addition to pastries) trying to find his very much needed confectioner's sugar. "WHUH IZZ EET?!?!?!?!?!"

Jean was in the middle of preparations for his famous lemon bars. He was at the last and most crucial step in the process - a gentle dusting of confectioner's sugar. But without the confectioner's sugar, there would be gentle dusting.
It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Jean knew that the after-school-crowd was like clockwork: Every day at 3:30, his quaint pastry shoppe ("Ye Quaint Pastry Shoppe") filled up with students fresh out of school and freshly in need of lemon bars. In fact, he kept his entire shoppe financially stable due to the lemon bar sales alone. And with thirty minutes (actually twenty-nine now) counting down, he had no lemon bars.

In utter desperation, Jean surveyed his kitchen for a back up plan. He could, of course, whip up a batch of his cherry tarts, but alas, those need a good 3 hours to cool before serving. He could, on the other hand, throw together a few eclairs, but alas, he had not made any custard that morning. And then it hit him. It hit him like someone had thrown a rock through his window and it smashed into his cranium. It hit him like someone taking a baseball bat and swinging with all of their might into his rib cage.

French Fries. Of course.

Jean and Rose quickly chopped up some potatoes (they had plenty on hand from today's Potato and Tomato Stoup), sprinkled them with salt and paprika, and immersed them in the deep fryer. With only a few minutes to spare, Jean removed the piping hot fries ("chips" in Britain), packaged them appropriately, and waited for the after-school-crowd.

At 3:30, the door swung open and in poured the excited, sugar-dependent pack of hungry students. But their looks of excitement quickly vanished and were even quicker replaced with looks of disgust when Jean, the Pastry Master, was not waiting for them with a plate of lemon bars, but rather a few grease-stained bags of french fries. Sensing their frustration, he bellowed, "Surprise!!! French Fry Day!!!"

They were not amused.

French Fries: An Adventure

I just discovered something that I did not know. This week is officially recognized as the National Week of French Fries. It is the one consecrated week of the entire calendar dedicated to fried potato strings - actually, French fried potato strings.

Thus, in lieu of the National French Fry Week, I have decided to dedicate a blog-a-day for the remainder of the week towards the end of honoring the beloved French Fry. If they (the powers that be) can dedicate an entire week to the French Fry, then I (the power that be) can dedicate a blog-a-day for the entire week towards the honoring of the French Fry.

And here begins our adventure...

Mispunching: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was swimming at the community pool yesterday and I happened to see this one kid flailing, lurching, and mispunching in the shallow end.

Gene: Mispunching?

Oliver: Yeah, you know, shadow boxing.

Gene: Shadow boxing isn't the same as mispunching.

Oliver: So, you knew what mispunching was to begin with?

Gene: Yeah, I knew what it is. What I don't know is why a child in the shallow end would be mispunching.

Oliver: Interesting. You got caught up more on "mispunching" than "lurching"?

Gene: Sure. I could see a kid lurching in the pool. But mispunching? Come on. Get real.

Oliver: I don't see why a kid mispunching would be any less believable than a kid lurching. If you told me you saw someone both lurching and mispunching, I would find that believable. It seems to me that if you were lurching, you would almost by necessity have to be mispunching.

Gene: No, no, no. I totally disagree. Lurching does not necessitate mispunching. Not at all. Lurching necessitates....movement. But not mispunching.

Oliver: Lurching totally necessitates mispunching...which is movement, of course. Have you ever mispunched?

Gene: I've mispunched.

Oliver: Did you lurch when you mispunched?

Gene: No.

Oliver: Liar.

Gene: Exactly.

A Blogue

Asperity.

If Cameron Diaz was to marry Kirk Cameron, her name would be Cameron Cameron.

If Chino Espinoza married Al Pacino, his name would be Chino Pacino. (I like saying this one aloud repeatedly.)

If Meryl Streep married Will Ferrell, her name would be Meryl Ferrell.

If Meryl Ferrell separated from Will Ferrell and got married to Jacqueline Daryl, then Meryl Ferrell would be Meryl Ferrell Daryl.

Now what if Meryl Ferrell Daryl hid in a barrel? Singing Christmas carols? With Fred Harrell? Sending out posts via Errol? To her own peril? In an environment that is sterile?

An Epilogue

The following is taken from the Epilogue (After Word) of Reuben Thimpery's "Sandwiches: Neither Sand nor Witches"



So there you have it. The myth has been dispelled. The lies have been exposed. The rumors have been hushed. The whispering has dissipated. The longings have been crystalized.

Thus far we have traced the origins of the Sandwich - finding its vintage beginnings in the Middle Ages where men who "always needed to be holding something," developed a way to put lettuce between two hunks of barley dough. The Sandwich later intersected with the development of the Hamburger (which surprisingly did not originate in Hamburg, Germany, but rather Burgham, Russia. See ch. 19 - "Hamburg or Burgham?"), which of course, evolved and splintered off into several different modifications: the Bagel Sandwich, the Panini, the Wrap, the McMuffin, the Whopper, and the McRib. The concept was simple. The implications were devastating.

The government has long purported "sandwiches" to be a quick, easy, consumer product "on the go" (as they say, (see ch. 8 - "Sandwiches in Brown Bags are for Dumb People")) and have advertised them as such - roping in unsuspecting housewives, lawyers, children, and men who "always need to be holding something" (see ch. 14 - "Why Men Always Need to be Holding Something"). But "sandwiches" remain the most deceptive, duplicitous, egregious invention (with a patent) that the American government has produced. The lies have been exposed.

Sandwiches do not contain sand. All of the research reported in ch. 29 - "Mr. Sandman, Bring me a Lie" yielded that 99.9% of sandwiches across the globe contains no sand (with the only exception being the Sandy Clamwich in Menduza, India).

Furthermore sandwiches are not made by, nor have any known association with witchcraft. No spells, curses, magic, magick, sorcery, or any paranormal activity surrounds the creation and distribution of sandwiches, as our findings revealed in ch. 30 - "WitchCraftwich?"

So where do we go from here? Ethically, we must boycott. We must create new morally-significant ways of eating. Granola Bars are a great substitute. As are Porridge Bars. Soups are good. Stews, as well. Any Victorian Classic that pre-dates "sandwiches," really.

A Prologue

The following is taken from the prologue of Alexander Heath Yeamen's "Discovering Discovery for the First Time: A Journey through the Pallawanee Rain Forest"....



186 days. 10 degrees fahrenheit below at night. 108 degrees fahrenheit at day. You do the math.

The contents of this book are the contents of my lack of contentment. Contentmentless, I ventured away from the city to the forest, away from the chaos of the sirens, gunshots, and advertisements to the chaos of animals devouring each other and no working toilets. I abandoned my post at Lunar Jack's Snack Shop to take up the post of picking berries, trapping and bar-b-que'ing squirrels, and not shaving. I didn't shave for 186 days straight. I didn't bathe once. I didn't brush my teeth. Not so much as a mint, an altoid, a mentos, or an altoidos. And I didn't even watch television once. It was rugged. raw. real. ridiculous.

In the city, I was anonymous. In the forest, I was king. In the city, I was a robot - churning the cranks and rods and spurnets of the Machine. In the forest, I was free. In the city, I had air-conditioning. In the forest, I didn't. Just the clothes on my back. And a canteen. And some toilet paper. And a few altoids (ok, so I lied up there).

The Rain Forest served as a Metaphor for me. It provided the insight (and the outsight, mind you) that the city obscured. I was removed from the clutter of traffic, schedules, and rent payments. I entered the jungle of mosquitos, large growling things at night, and sunburns. (I didn't shave once.) The Metaphor of the Forest was that I had abandoned my former life to discover my inner life - that at my core, deep down in my soul, beneath the hair, skin, fingernails, and hair, I was destined and designed for refrigeration. And air-conditioning. And microwaves. And clean, hygienic razors for my facial stubble. That is what I discovered. I realized that I am Man, not savage. I am Man, not walrus. I am Man, not tree bark. And as Man - I have needs. Needs that the Forest could not meet. Needs like Hot Pockets. And hamburgers. And chimichangas. And clean, hygienic razors for my stubble (I didn't even shave once.)

This is my journey. My song. My discovery of discovery.

A Monologue

Eleanor: I wonder if other people lick the top of the yogurt and pudding lids like I do. Is that something only I do? Surely not. Surely at least one other person licks the tops of yogurt and pudding lids. I don't really see why you wouldn't. You're saving some of the yogurt (or pudding). You're not wasting a drop. Although the bottom edges of the rounded cups are hard to get with the spoon. I often give up on those edges down there. I guess I do waste some. But what I waste in the edges I make up for in the lids. See....that's not bad. Lid licking isn't gross, is it? I don't think so. Oh crap, what if its gross and I don't know it? What if every time I've lid licked in front of someone they thought, "Oh, Eleanor is so disgusting. There isn't anything she wouldn't lick if she licks pudding lids. She probably chews the gum she finds under her lunch tables." But surely not. I wouldn't lick the outside part of the lid. Only the inside part - protected and sealed from the elements. Surely people don't lid lick on account of it being gross. So why wouldn't they? What is wrong with lid licking? I honestly don't understand why someone wouldn't enjoy the yogurt appetizer. You at least get 2 licks worth. That's 2 more licks of yogurt you wouldn't have received had you simply peeled the yogurt lid and tossed it. Man....I'm getting in the mood for a brick of guacamole. Or a hay ride. Or an egg salad.

A Dialogue

Oliver: So you're telling me you know how to change the oil in your car?

Gene: That's what I'm telling you.

Oliver: And you're telling me you have had no professional training in oil-exchanging?

Gene: Yup.

Oliver: Impossible!! I'm calling your bluff.

Gene: Call it then.

Oliver: I just did. BLUFF!!

Gene: That's not really "calling my bluff," that's more just saying the word "bluff" really loudly.

Oliver: No, that's actually calling it. I called out your bluff.

Gene: No, you don't understand. You didn't call out my bluff. You just called out "bluff."

Oliver: I don't think you get how bluff-calling works. That's all that is required, me "calling your bluff." Bluff has officially been called. End of story.

Gene: No, no, no. You can't just say "I'm calling your bluff," you actually have to do it. You can't just announce, "I'm doing something right now" when you aren't doing anything. A bluff-call has not happened yet.

Oliver: What are you talking about? Bluff-calls happen when you bluff-call. There is nothing else to it. What else is involved in bluff-calling?

Gene: You call my bluff.

Oliver: I don't even know what that means anymore.

Gene: Exactly.

Mercantilism, Feudalism, and Pop Tarts

I think I have come across something more frustrating than 7Up! advertisements: customer service on the telephone. A few moments ago I had to call up our cable company to discuss a bill. You would think with "customer service" there would be some form of "service" for me - the customer. But no. No human contact. No personal representative. I had to talk to the Robot Lady - you know, the automated voice of some computer.

And this was the type that didn't want me to press any numbers, this robot actually wanted to engage in dialogue. "Please...tell...us....the.....phone.....number....associated.....with.....your....account." So I began speaking. And miraculously it understood. And then parroted back to me the correct number. I was a bit surprised. This usually does not work for me, especially surrounding the robot's confusion over the number 5 and number 9. They sound alike to robots. They get easily confused.

And now the robot wants to know "in two or three words" the reason why I am calling. It is polite. It gives me suggestions, "You....can....say...."Account Information"....or....."New Account".....or......"Service Desk." So, in a very abrupt and out-of-context-sort-of-way, I blurted out: "Bill." And miraculously, it understood. Robot Lady repeated, "Billing."

And just when I thought I was getting somewhere, the whole system fell apart. Once again she gave me some options to repeat back to her: "Make a Payment"...."See Account Balance".....or......"Neither of these." I wanted option three. So I said, "Neither of these." And I was quickly interrupted, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" the robot insisted. I repeated myself, "Neither of these." And again: "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" So now I pretend like I am talking to a 2 year old foreign exchange student. "N...e....i...t....h....e....r...........o......f.............t....h....e......s......e......."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Now why do these companies think this is a good idea - to talk to robots as opposed to engaging with an actual human being? Oh I know....you don't have to pay a robot to talk to you but you have to pay a real human. So that's it, I guess. It's all about the Benjamins. So while they are loading up on the cash, I am growing more and more irritated with the robots I have to dialogue with.

Dottin Dips

I'm sure that you've seen this kiosk in the mall. Or perhaps you have even seen them in certain vending machines. You know what they are. Dippin' Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. For $5 or more you can have a 3 oz. cup of ice cream pellets. What a wonderful idea. And what a complete rip off.

What I have been thinking about is....what if Dippin' Dots actually is the ice cream of the future. Are we no longer going to have normal tubs (or cartons) of ice cream? No more traditional scooping? No more ice cream cones? I suppose that in 3030 there isn't going to be any of this. Ice cream will come balled up in little "dots" that you can "dip."

I cannot conceive of any possible reason why the future would yield such results. What futuristic, space-age, technological need would there be to change traditional, creamy, tubby ice cream into little ice cream balls? Ok, maybe the lack of oxygen in space? But that's why we have that astronaut-Nasa-space-ice cream that comes in an aluminum pouch and looks (and tastes) like Neapolitan-colored styrofoam. But that's not the ice cream of the future. That's the ice cream of space. Down here on earth and in the future, we are still eating tubby ice cream. Not ice cream "dots."

Tubby, Danza ice cream.

J

Kathryn and I were discussing recently how it might be possible to change your name into an initial. You know, instead of me going by Matt Howell - I'd go by M.T. Howell (my first two initials). There are plenty of people out there who do this - C.S. Lewis, R.C. Sproul, J.K. Rowling, A1 Steak Sauce, etc. But how do you start this trend for yourself? That's the question.

And the more we thought about it - we realized that the crucial denominator is the letter J. Most every initialized nomenclature possesses the letter J. Here are our findings:

A.J. - the Apple Jacks "mascot"
B.J. Novak - Ryan on The Office
C.J. - there is a C.J. that goes to our church
D.J. Tanner - Full House
E.J. - Kathryn knowns an E.J.
J.J. - the "DY-NO-MITE" guy from Good Times
K.J. - Kendall Jackson winery
L.J. - Larry (Grandma) Johnson, LL Cool J
M.J. - Jordan, Jackson....
N.J. - New Jersey
O.J. - hmmmm
P.J. - a coffee house, a type of wine, shorthand for pajamas
R.J. - Again, Kathryn knows one.
S.J. - Sarah Joy
T.J. - I happen to know 2 T.J.s (for the price of 1)
V.J. Singh - the golf-o-matic golfer

I am going to go for HJ. It doesn't really roll off the tongue....but it does roll off your back.

When Hearts Attack

The heart is the only organ I am aware of that will actually turn on its owner and attack them. Other body parts seem to simply be reacting to disease - the heart goes on the offensive and attacks.

Although, now that I think about it - you do have asthma attacks. But to get technical, that isn't actually a lung attack, per se. It is something foreign, some outside genetic disease doing its attacking...not the actual lung.

The heart is like, "Naw man, I'm done with you. I'm sick of beating and beating. I'm sick and tired of this. I will attack you."

And there is not much you can do about it.

Metric, Imperial, and Starbucks Measurements

Yesterday I popped into Starbucks to “get caffeinated” and “get some work done.” And as is my custom, I ordered a small cup of coffee “for here” (you get free refills if they put it in the ceramic “for here” mug). But I didn’t order it correctly. Again. I ordered a “small” cup. And of course, no “small” cup exists. They have “tall” cups. Tall for small. Grande for medium. And Venti for large.

Now, Starbucks is not a new company. They’ve been around a while. And I still don’t get their measuring system. I have to look up and scan their menu every time to make sure I’m ordering the right size by using the right language. My thought is – If I’m not getting it yet, other people aren’t either. Starbucks, it is time to change your stupid measuring system and adopt the normal language of small, medium, large.

Everyone knows “Grande” means large. But not here. Here - Grande means medium.

Everyone knows "Tall" means big. But not here. Here - Tall is the shortest.

No one knows what "Venti" means.

They should have made Venti be the small, Tall be the medium, and Grande the large. That at least has some rhyme or reason (and rhythm) to it.

Long Walks on the Beach

Socially, there is the standard joke often placed after one of these types of questions: "What do you like to do?" Be it flirtatious, a genuine attempt at comedy, or another very bad reason, someone inevitably punches in: "Well....I like long walks on the beach....ha ha ha....ok, no, seriously...."

It is the token "joke." (The joken.) It is a reference to, what I would suspect, was a popular thing to put on personal dating ads in the 1980s. I'm John. I've never been married and I'm 36. I like cats, long walks on the beach, and limeades.

But I was just thinking about it - though it is widely used, terribly unfunny, and boringly cliched - I believe that NO ONE actually enjoys long walks on the beach. Just think about it.

First of all, you got beach. I will refer you to my previous posts about my hatred of this geographical terrain. Sand gets everywhere. In between your toes. All over your sandals. And you track it back into the car, onto the carpet, and somehow - into your hair.

Second, you got walking. Sand is HARD to walk on. You try to use it like concrete (or asphalt), propel off of it with your toes, and instead of supplying the much-needed resistance, it gives and ebbs away with your foot, making you have to work twice as hard to actually get leverage and forward movement.

And finally, as designated in the line, this is a LONG experience. You are doing this exhausting, sand-trekking and sand-covering exercise for an extended period of time. I could see maybe a "brief" walk, but a LONG walk? Who honestly wants to do this for more than 2 minutes?

I think the honest response should be "I enjoy taking brief strolls on concrete....to get to my car....so that I can be sitting down, in the air-conditioning, with no sand, as it speedily carries me to wherever I need to be."

I Almost Died Today

Today, I almost died. Or at least I thought I was going to die. And I'll be honest, I was a bit disappointed...not with the fact that I survived but that I didn't have the experience of my life flashing before my eyes. I wanted to see the past 27 years in the hyperspeed of a split second. But no. Nothing. Not even an old memory. Actually, my mind just went blank. It froze. This means one of two things: 1) The whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes thing is a hoax or 2) My mind knew better - that I was not in fact about to die. And so the instinct to go into life-flashing didn't trigger.

What is that about the mind? It just decides - Hey, I'm going to stop working normally and now rewind the summation of your memories "before your eyes" in a split second. Why does it just decide to do that? And why can't I make my mind do that right now? I'd love to watch The Movie of My Entire Life in a split second. And you have to wonder - what does that do to one's self-esteem when they survive the near death experience and realize that their entire life - all their accomplishments and successes - can be boiled down to but a second of time. Sheesh.

Ok....so I almost died today. I was out walking our dog, Thena - taking an enjoyable saunter (and meander) when out of nowhere, an enormous, monster-of-a-dog began charging toward us. Let me explain - this was a thick, husky, meaty Rottweiler/bulldog/boxer looking thing. Probably 150 lbs. It looked like a boar mixed with bear. A boar-bear. It was snarling, barking, and charging toward us as fast as it could. It had no leash. No collar. Just a random, stray Terrordog Boarbear roaming the streets and approaching us rather quickly.

So I began to run away from it (after soiling myself, of course). By God's providence, this ferocious beast didn't feel up to following us after we moved out of its bull-like-charging path. It could have. It had nothing stopping it. As I rounded the corner to safety (knees wobbling and heart pounding) I began to think about what I would have had to do had it decided to continue its aggressive pursuit. I would have had to kick it in the face. As hard as I could. And pray that I didn't merely wound it and infuriate it anymore. I didn't want to have to kick it in the face. But I would have. It could have swallowed me and Thena whole, I believe.

So there. No death. No life-flashing. Not even any face-kicking.

The Vivian Banks Conundrum

Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. You all know it. Shooting some b-ball outside of the school.

But let's talk about Vivian. The Matriarch of the Banks estate. For the first three seasons of this award-winning sit-com, Vivian Banks was played by actress Janet Hubert-Whitten.

And then something happened. Vivian....just....changed. At the start of season 4 and onward, Vivian was played by a different actress - Daphne Maxwell Reid. No heads up. No reason. No explanation.

This was quite confusing to me as a growing adolescent. Metaphysically, this makes no sense. Here is a completely different woman - yet her identity is the exact same. Everyone refers to her as "mom" and "Vivian." Uncle Phil seems to have equal affection for the new Vivian as he did for the old (and he doesn't seem to miss the old Vivian at all either). She dresses like Vivian, acts like Vivian....but is she Vivian? You can see how these philosophical puzzles plagued my young mind.

What attributes or characteristic elements are essential for identity? Obviously not physicality. Identity must extend to how others relate to you. But wait....your identity is solely contingent on others? If the other characters in the Banks' household treated New Vivian differently - she would be a different character??

And why did the NBC producers think they could just slip this one by us? Like we wouldn't notice or something? Come on. And whatever happened to Old Vivian? Why did she leave just 3 seasons in?

I miss Old Vivian. I never really quite got used to New Vivian. It disrupted my show. I'm glad this was the only show I know of that didn't pull the switch-a-roo with other characters. Imagine there being a New Mona. Things just wouldn't have been the same.

P.I.E.S.

The dessert (or treat) of pie is delicious. It's my favorite. As I've said before, I prefer birthday pie to birthday cake. Jim Gaffigan calls it liquid cake, but that is still putting a bit too close to cake in my opinion. Pie is amazing. It is simply breathtaking...for it simply takes your breath and sprints with it away from you.

But as I've discovered, "pie" as a term of dessert designation is vague. There are a lot of things described as "pie" that bear no resemblance to authentic, traditional pie. The term is being used way too broadly. So I'm here to set the record straight (and strate) and determine once and for all what is actually pie and what isn't.

1. Moon Pie. Not pie. Should be called "Moon Disc." Or maybe "Nasty Moon Disc That Necessitates Milk." (There is a banana flavor available for you banandy fandys.)
2. Pumpkin Pie. A bit more gelatinous than your average pie, but yes, still, certainly pie. And delicious.
3. Oatmeal Cream Pie. Not pie, but still delicious.
4. McDonalds Fried Apple Pie. Not pie. But close. And can be served boiling, lava hot in the middle.
5. Chicken Pot Pie. Nothing "pie" about this except for the crust replica. Should be called "Chicken Casserole Disguised as Pie." But it isn't fooling anyone with its disguise. "Wait a second! This doesn't taste like pie! This is chicken casserole! I don't want this for dessert! Why is all this Cream of Mushroom poured into a pie crust?"
6. Pie in the Sky. This is just confusing. Does the pie have wings? Jet engine? No more comment.
7. Pizza Pie. Despite contrary opinions (Steger), pizza pie is not actually pie. It is really just pizza. Not pie. It you baked a pizza inside of a graham-cracker crust and put whip cream on it, it would be a better fit for "pizza pie." But it would still run into the problems of Chicken Pot Pie above.
8. Coconut Cream Pie. Definitely pie. And definitely delicious.
9. American Pie. Bye, bye Miss American Pie. I don't think this is pie. I don't think I know what this is.
10. Humble Pie. Not pie. Not even food. Humility can't be eaten. Huckleberries can though apparently. This is a stupid pie type.

While we're on the subject, I also don't like back sweat.

Cold and Sore

I have a cold sore in my mouth. And it is ruining my week. It is in the perfectly unavoidable spot too - right on the other side of my lower lip - face to face with the gums on my lower incisors. It's in that front lip pocket where people often stuff snuff in. Yes, in the snuff-stuffed pocket. Convenient, huh?

Did you know that when you pierce the skin of a fresh, summer-time, acid-saturated peach that the juices squirt directly into the snuff-stuffed pocket? I do. I do now. Because I writhed all the way through my afternoon peach experience today.

Don't forget about hamburgers. Mustard, tomato, pickles - all the acidic juices seem to b-line (bee-line?) their way into the snuff-stuffed pocket. Oh, man. Not fun.

I hate this thing. If you have ever had one...you know because you hate them too. How do these things happen? Where do they come from? How does it happen to get in THAT spot?? How do I get rid of it?

And what's with the name "cold sore"? There's nothing "cold" about it. "Cold" conjures up images of Aspen, winter-green, and Altoid commercials, slish-sloshing on white, dusty snow. That sounds soothing and refreshing. This thing in my mouth is not soothing and refreshing. It is ruining every piece of food I place in my mouth. It should be called "Hell Sore." That's a bit more accurate. Or perhaps "Don't-Eat-Oranges Sore." Or maybe even "Don't-Eat-Anything Sore."

Danza Sore?

Review: May Madness 2 (For You (Ewwww))

ONE A DAY FOR ALL OF MAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As is my consummational custom, I review the previous 30 days of Madness and invite my loyal audience to chime in on what was the highlights, the lowlights, and the lights in between. Now is your turn to get mad.

Le' Review:

1. Sequels and Home Alone
2. Pros and Cons of Pros and Cons
3. Banandy
4. Squirrels and Rain?
5. Cinco de Mayonnaise
6. Territorial Dog Urine
7. Saving Water While Showering
8. Oranges: Hard to Open
9. Blame it on Dwane
10. Double Double
11. The Name Game
12. Three Thoughts
13. Jinx! Buy Me a Salad Bar!
14. Close but no Cigar
15. Emotional Cons
16. Chewing: The Lost Art of Self-Entertainment
17. Ms
18. Size O' King
19. Alex Li and Square Pizza
20. Gummy Insects
21. Milk: Why Advertise?
22. Grinning and Chagrinning
23. Dishwashing Philosophy
24. Easy Hearing Music
25. More Questions
26. Octopi and Freak Nastiness
27. Categories
28. TV Likes Odd Living Arrangements
29. Cats: Yuck
30. ¡Mexicana/o Gender Roles!
31. This.

It's over. Now I can finally rest. (And ingest (And digest.)). 

Gender Roles and Mexican Food

One a day for all of Mayo

The other day I found myself in the Taco Bell drive-thru with Kathryn. You have to realize, this never happens. Kathryn wouldn't eat Taco Bell if I forced her to at gun point (or point blank (or good point)). But there we were. At the Taco Bell drive-thru.

We were with some friends of ours and after acquiring our food, Kathryn asked this question, "Hey, did you get a Gordito?" Did you catch that? Gordito? I informed her, "I'm sorry, Kathryn, but GorditAs are feminine. Not Gordito!" I laughed. I made fun of. And then I got thinking about how odd it sounds when you switch the gender of Mexican food.

No one orders a soft taca.
People don't sign up for burritas, or enchilados, or chalupos. Or nachas. Or flautos. Or chimichangos. Or Mexican Pizzos.

Or Cinnamon Twistos. Or Danzo.

Why Cats Suck

One. A. Day.

If you are a cat person, this post will offend you. Stop reading now if you like cats. This is your chance to retain your current mood. Because if you like cats and you continue reading, your mood will get worse.

Because I don't like cats.

1. They destroy my allergies. And I'm willing to bet that they destroy yours too.
2. They are unbearably lazy. They lay around all day. Which makes them worthless. Sort of like fish. They are like enormous fish...only covered in fur...and don't usually die in transport.
3. They don't offer "just-got-home-and-happy-to-see-you-affection." Dogs do. Cats could care less. They just look up at you from their "spot" as if to say..."Hey, can you get me a bottled water while you're up?"
4. They eat nasty food. What is that stuff in that tin can? Fermented puke? Chocolate foot fungus?
5. They don't do tricks. No impressing your friends with this animal. Not unless their trick is to play like they are arrogant and worthless.
6. They shed. See complaint #1 above.
7. They have sandpaper tongues. Enough said.
8. They don't "move" like a normal animal. Instead, they are skitzy, crazy, unpredictable, and frantic. I don't understand. They are either uncontrollably nuts or sedated. Stupid animal.
9. As hinted earlier, they are pampered and spoiled by nature. They simply expect. They feel that they are entitled. They have rights. Dogs are grace-driven. Dogs are grateful for toys and food and pats on the head and comfortable spots to sit and lay. Cats demand them/
10. They poop in cat litter. Which means their poop remains exposed, naked for all to see who happen to pass by the litter box. They also urinate in there too. Dogs at least have the decency to take that trash outside. I think cats don't like to go outside because it isn't air-conditioned.

And that, my friends, is why cats suck. I'm sure there are plenty more reasons but alas, I am done for now.

The Brady Bunch Legacy

One a day for all Of may....

The Brady Bunch started it all. Well, what is "it" you ask? Good question. (Good use of diction as well, I might add.) The Brady Bunch started the sit-com trend to exploring the comedic bass line behind peculiar living arrangements. Here you have a single woman with three daughters and a single man with three sons. Throw them all together under one roof, toss in a live-in maid, and you have comedy.

Does this sound like "Step by Step"? It should. It's the same show, only 25 years later (minus the live-in maid). Odd living arrangement. Comedy.

"Who's the Boss?" Now you have an entire show built around a live-in maid, only with this hilarious twist of irony, the maid is a man. And there is a sexually-active grandmother up in the mix. Odd living arrangement. Hilarity ensues.

"Golden Girls." Again, more sexually-active geriatrics who happen to be living together. [I still can't get my mind around how this became a show.]

"Alf." Here's a weird living arrangement for you: A normal, white, suburban family with a talking, sarcastic, pun-spittin' alien for a pet. Now that is funny!!

"Growing Pains." This wasn't a weird living arrangement, but it had a character named "Boner." I don't care where you are from, that's hilarious.

"The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." Take a well-to-do, cultured, upper-class African American family in Bel-Air, CA and throw a wacky, urban, "Fresh," teenager in the house. That's an odd living arrangement. And that's hilarious. I can hear the producers around the table brainstorming about this: "Oh! Maybe he can do something crazy and RAP!"

The semi-current and current mutations of the Brady Bunch legacy? "The Real World." "Friends." "Will and Grace." Odd living arrangements. Funny. Pure, comedic genius from the outset.

Ruining Categories

Day. May. One.

Yesterday Kathryn and I went to the pool to celebrate Memorial Day. We memorialized Memorial Day by lounging by the pool and getting pounded by the ferocious sun (the sunburns are not pretty). While lounging, we witnessed a game of Categories being played by a group of female youths nearby. You all know this game - One person stands out of the pool with their back turned and begins working through certain "categories." The other players are in the pool trying to make it across without getting caught by the player standing outside of the pool. Their cue to begin moving from one side to the other is when the player standing outside shouts out their chosen item from the given category. Ok. You remember.

One poor girl was not getting anywhere. She was working through the category of colors. She said - Silver, Yellow, Beige (BEIGE?!?!?), Black....uh......Yellow. None of the girls were crossing. And this girl was apparently running out of colors to call out. She kept turning around and none of the other girls were moving, so she had to keep taking steps forward. She really was stinking at this game. So...I got involved. A few moments later she called out "green" (she should have just worked through ROY G BIV) and one of the girls quietly dipped underwater and began her silent crossing. So I shouted out, "Uh oh!!!" The girl turned, jumped in....and didn't catch her. Hey, I tried.

Another weird thing from this game. At one point they were working through the category of "Soda" and the first two sodas that this girl named were "Sun Drop" and "Cheerwine." Honestly - is that the first two sodas that come to your mind?!? Kathryn and I were shocked. I don't think Coke or Dr. Pepper even made it into the mix. Just weird, off-brand, generic sodas. I think she even included "Dr. Thunder."

When the Octopus Got Freak Nasty

Day a May....bla bla bla....

This is the image that just crossed my mind. It did. So here it is.
Imagine this. A cartoon octopus. With cool, sunglasses on. He's in the middle of an under water dance club (not to be confused with an Octopus' Garden, mind you). There is a spinning disco ball spreading out fragments of glittery light across the dance floor. And the octopus is straight gettin' freak nasty on the dance floor (not to be confused with "freaky naughty," mind me). His tentacles are wobbling. They're wibbling. They're thrashing. Straight up freak nasty style.

That's what I pictured. But the phrase that obviously stood out to me was "freak nasty." This made me laugh. Not to mention the fact that it was a cartoon octopus that happened to be gettin freak nasty (not to be confused with "Getting jiggy with it," mind us). I think they should let Octopi into dance clubs. Just for the sole reason that Octopi could teach us a thing or two about gettin freak nasty. Or about gettin jiggy with it. Or about gettin low. Or about gettin loose. Or about gettin goose. Or about gettin Danza. We could all stand to learn a thing or two (or Danza) from the Octopi.

Questions Aplenty

yeah yeah...May a day....

Why is Bible paper so thin? Honestly, you can rip this stuff if you turn too frantically. Face-paced Sword drills result in torn Bible pages, people. Let's "get with it" and have Bible paper be "the normal thickness." Are other holy books made with thin paper? Or is just the Bible? Or just books starting with "B"?

And why is Yahoo! so excited all the time that they have to have an exclamation point after it? You can check Yahoo! Mail. You can read the Yahoo! News. Why does Yahoo! force me into a state of exhilaration and excitement. I'm just checking my email, people. I'm not entering into a pie-eating contest.

And what's the deal with chicken?

Easy Listening

one A day for all OF may....

Music. Genre. Easy Listening. This is actually a type of music out there. Easy Listening. I'm not sure I could pick it out on the radio, however. It isn't easy to identify Easy Listening. What is it, anyway? What is this claim this genre makes - that it is easy to listen to? What, other genres aren't? Sure, some of that "scream-gothic-primal-terror" music is not "easy on the ears," but I would think that every other genre is fairly easy to listen to.

If you think about it, listening is pretty easy to do as is. You just....listen. So what is this genre claiming? That they are the most easiest to listen to? That isn't claiming very much. Jackhammering is easy to listen to simply because it is loud. It is noise. All noise is easy to listen to. Things that are hard to listen to would be whispering, mice chewing, and the natural response when someone says, "Shhhh...do hear that?" and stares blankly off into the distance with their finger over their mouth.

You know what else is easy to listen to? Cacti. And fungi.

The Domestic Areopagus

One blog post per 24-hour period for the duration of the entire month of May...

I have come across an ongoing philosophical discussion amongst marriages - One where argumentation is conducted with vehemence and determination. One which plunges us all into the mysteries of humanity, the age-old debates of yesteryear, and the conundrums that have plagued philosophers (and gnomes) for centuries.

Dishwashing philosophy. The crucial question is: Do you rinse the dirty plate before you put it in the dishwasher or not?

The "Non-washers" insist that this is the primary reason one is putting the dirty plate in the dishwasher to begin with: to have it washed. Their position insists that "if you are going to wash it off by hand, why even bother with putting it in there?" This view sees the "washing-off" step as unnecessary, arbitrary, and wasteful (of water). This view tends to view the "Pre-washers" as controlling, aggressive, and sensitive.

The "Pre-washers" insist that the dishwasher may not be powerful enough to remove the caked-on funk from dinner. Therefore, this preliminary step removes the funk and leaves the still-dirty plate to be thoroughly cleansed by the dishwasher. This view sees the "washing-off" step as necessary and helpful. This view tends to view the "Non-washers" as haphazard, careless, and calloused.

I hold to the "Pre-wash" philosophy. You?

Ever Chagrinned?

One a day...

"Much to my chagrin." This sounds like a good thing. It involves grinning. But ahh...don't be confused. It is not "much to my grin" it is "much to my CHAgrin." And this changes the grin into...well....a chagrin...which is bad, apparently.

You don't see much of the "cha" prefix, that's for sure. I've heard of people being "pro" choice, but never "cha" choice. I've heard of someone being a "hyper" Calvinist, but never a "cha" Calvinist. I think we need to utilize the "cha" prefix a bit more than we do. For example, I'd be cha-The Jetsons. The Jetsons don't make me grin. They actually make me chagrin. I'm also cha-Alf. And cha-black licorice.

Grinning. You don't hear much about people grinning anymore either. It is usually described as "smiling." Honestly, when was the last time you used the word "grinning"? "Hey, look at that guy over there. The one who is grinning." This word seems to have fallen out of our daily vernacular (and everyday language). And it needs to be brought back in. Much like the "cha" prefix. I am cha-not-using-"grinning." But much to my chagrin, most people are cha-"grinning."

Milk, Grass Stains and Paper Cuts

Day all of for a May one...

I looked through a magazine the other day and saw a "Got Milk?" ad in it. Apparently, they are still running this ad campaign. I was a bit thrown off, I'll be honest. It's been a good 8 years since I saw Cindy Crawford staring at me with a milk mustache. Or Kermit the Frog. Or Eleanor Rigby.

Here's another thing I'll be honest about - I don't understand why milk needs advertising. We know it is out there. We need it. We are going to buy it and we are going to drink it. And what is competing with it? There is nothing else jockeying for position on what to put on my cereal. There is no other ingredient I want to put in my MILK shake. Are the milk companies getting insecure? Do they think the American populous might forget about them? Do they think we can go on without it?

It's just assumed - if you are running low on milk, you make a note to go buy more. You have to have milk in the fridge. No one thinks to themself...."Hmmm I'm running out of milk. Should I get some more or should I wait a while?" No one thinks that. And furthermore, no one thinks, "Hey, you know what would be good for lunch? A handful of Skittles." No one thinks that either. And no one thinks, "Hey! If Skittles and Starburst got married, they'd be called Starttles. But don't confuse Starttles with Smarties. They are not the same. Neither is Fun Dip the same as Starttles. Or Fun Dipples. Or Eleanor Rigby." No. No one thinks that.

Gummy...Maggots?

one a day...

Gummy Worms. Let's think about that for a bit here. What can be more disgusting that a wringing, wiggly, slime-coated, dirt-covered worm? They are like a prehistoric, algae-like snake. No eyes. No legs. Just a wiggly tube that slides in and through the earth. Eating dirt. Pooping dirt. I personally think they are nasty. The cool thing about them though is that if you split them in two...you get two wiggly worms. Two for the price of one. (That one's free.)

So....who decided that we should craft a gummy replica of these disgusting things. I bet if I pulled a worm from the ground and plunged it in your face, your first thought wouldn't be, "Oh, I want to eat it!" And certainly not, "Hey, let's cast a mold of one of those and fill it with glucose, corn syrup, and gum acacia." But crazier things have been done.

Like the Tony Danza Show.

And a season of The Real World filled with the former members of Pearl Jam and Public Enemy.

The Letter E

onE a day for all of may...

Cauliflower au gratin. I ate some last week. I probably haven't had cauliflower au gratin since 6th grade. But last week broke the streak. As well as my heart. And my nose.

When I was in 6th grade I would buy my lunch from school. Only on Wednesdays though. That was pizza day. Square-pizza day, actually. I remember buying two slices (or squares) of pizza...which was a bit radical back then because everyone usually got one. You got one square and then some vegetables. I found out how to work the system though. 2 slices. No vegetables. Same price. I was a happy 6th grader on Wednesdays.

Well...until I had to go out to the bike rack to face Alex Li. He was older. He was bigger. He had long hair. And he wore one of those chain-wallet things. And I think he wore Jencos and Doc Martins. Everyone was scared of Alex Li.

King Size

one a day for aLL of may...

I'm a little upset by the false advertising of King Size candy bars. Sure, a King Sized Snicker comes in a big, King Sized package, but when you open it up, you don't find a massive, bar-of-gold-esque Snickers. You find two smaller Snickers in there. This whole "King" size doesn't exist. If I wanted two smaller Snickers, I would have gotten a "Fun" size. All a "King" size is is two "Fun" sizes wrapped together.

King sized beds are King Sized. It's one enormous bed. Not two twin beds pushed up against each other. Don't lie to me and tell me a King Size Snicker is fit for a king. A "King" size Snickers is only two "Twin" sized Snickers not fit for a king. If I wanted two twin candy bars, I would have purchased a Twix. Or an Almond Joy. Or a Mounds. Or a Nutto Bar.

Do we really need a "King" sized anything? We have stuff that you can get Super Sized. Biggie Sized. Jumbo Sized. And King Sized. I think we should have the option for "Obese Size." Don't waste my time with this "Biggie" light weight crap. With the amount of stuff that we Americans enjoy BIG, I would have thought someone would have complained by now about this whole, King Sized lie about King Sized Snickers. Perhaps America is content with two Twin, "Fun" sized Snickers in a King Sized wrapper. Or perhaps America is too Tony Danza to notice.

M & Ms

Day a one for May of all...

No one knows what M & Ms stands for. I've asked around. All people can come up with is: "Mars." Oh, thanks. That's helpful people. What about the OTHER M??? It isn't just Ms. You aren't eating a handful of Ms (that do melt in your hand, and everyone knows it). You are eating M AND Ms. Two Ms. So what does it stand for?

I did some research. Apparently, the creators are Forrest Mars Sr. and F. Bruce Murrie. We all know about Mars...so what happened to Murrie?

I did some more research. R. Bruce Murrie is the son of William Murrie - the unsung President of Hershey Chocolate Company. Hmmm. Mars and Hershey. The Chocolate Juggernauts. Two companies from originally one idea. I'd like to think the parting of ways originated from a massive chocolate battle - one enormous, cocoa-bean apocalyptic show down. The end result would be the creation of two companies and both Mars and Murrie would get a pie in the face.

Sit Boo Boo Sit, Good Dog

One a May for all of day...

Our dog has a toy bone that she chews. She sits there gnawing away for hours on this thing. She loves it. Pure, chewy entertainment. This got me thinking...

What if "chewing" was entertainment to us? Imagine carving out an hour block on your schedule with nothing but a good stick of gum. You're there, sitting there on the couch, passing the day with a good chew.

Friend: What are you doing?

You: Chewing.

Friend: Yeah, I see that. But why are you just sitting there?

You: I'm just enjoying my chew.

Friend: You're just chewing?

You: Well, I'm enjoying also. I'm chewing and enjoying. I'm doing two things, I guess.

Emoticons

OADFAOM...

You all know about Emoticons. It's "emotional shorthand." If I'm happy and I am interested in communicating that emotion, I no longer have to actually write it out (like a caveman would). I can simply type a colon, followed by a parentheses (like a college grad would). In case you haven't been around a computer in the past 15 years, I will demonstrate:

:)

See...it's a sideways smiley face. :) I'm smiling. I'm happy. I wanted to communicate that to you. But not in a way that one might confuse as being sincere. I am not going that far. I'm not going to elaborate on my happiness. I'm not even going to communicate in person (like people do). I'm simply going to communicate through rearranging punctuation.

Now, I'm sad. :( And now I'm crying. ;( And now I have a unibrow. }:(

And now I am a unibrow-cyclops with my mouth open. }*0

And now I am a unibrow-cyclops with an ampersand for a mouth. }*&
I'm really not sure what that emoticon communicates about my current emotion... Maybe that I'm constipated?

Close but no Oppression

one a day for all of ay-may

Yesterday I spoke these words aloud, "Ahh....close but no cigar." Upon reflection, I realized that I have no idea what this expression actually means. I think it should be removed from even the outskirts of our vernacular. No one gives away free cigars anymore for getting a right answer. I'm not sure that this practice was ever done, actually. Who has a sackful of cigars they carry around with them to give other people when they happen to answer a question correct? Honestly. And who decided that a cigar (of all things (for goodness sake)) would be the worthy reward for a correct answer?

What would you do if you opposed smoking and yet received a cigar for a correct answer? Could you trade it in for, say, a handful of lima beans? Does the person with a sackful of cigars simultaneously carry around a sackful of lima beans that the non-smokers could take advantage of? If they don't, that's a bit discriminatory to the non-smokers of the world, don't you think? Oh, I see...only the "SMOKERS" get rewarded if they get an answer right. All you non-smokers get nothing but a smile and a thumbs up.

It's this type of discrimination that slowly erodes our communities, our neighborhoods, our cities and eventually our country. "Close but no cigar" caters to smokers at the expense of non-smokers in theory, for it assumes that only those who smoke are worthy to receive a reward for precision and excellence. It indirectly indoctrinates the next generation to see a divide between humanity - the worthy are those who smoke cigars...and the unworthy don't. The slippery slope begins there. Soon, the smokers see the non-smokers as not only not worthy, but as lower, as "less human." Once they are seen as inferior, they can be marginalized and caricatured. And once this happens, they can be oppressed and treated with blatant hostility, injustice, and disrespect. Do you want to see this happen?

Do you want to see a world divided like this - saturated with oppression, discrimination, and injustice? I suggest you do as I do, and refrain from the expression "close but no cigar."

Jinx! Buy Me a Coke

one a day for all of MAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You remember what it was like at the junior high cafeteria table during lunch hour (block A or B?). You would be talking with your friends about last night's Saved by the Bell episode (it used to be on Prime Time television, didn't it?) and suddenly you would be saying the exact same thing in unison with the person directly across from you (they may or may not have been enjoying a Slim Jim). Now, you have three options here. You can 1) chuckle, giggle and snicker at the odd coincidence, 2) remain dumbfounded and perplexed and therefore silent by the irony, or 3) quickly shout, "Jinx! Buy me a coke!" to which the other person (the jinxee) was then obligated to remain silent until released from the jinx. The jinx was officially released by the aforementioned jinxer's speaking of the jinxee's name. However, depending on the charity (or lack thereof) of the jinxer, the jinxee could remain silent beyond reason and decide to "break the jinx" (and the rules) and begin speaking. The penalty for such behavior would result in the purchasing of a can of Coca Cola Classic (they actually used to be 50 cents) for the jinxer.

So what happens when both people opt for option #3 and shout "Jinx! Buy me a coke!" in unison? Were they both jinxed? Did it simultaneously negate the jinx? Was their a "second-tiered" jinx one could say, like, "Jinx! Buy me a can of snap pees!"? I'm not sure and I can't remember. But I honestly think that a simultaneous jinx would make the universe implode. Or at least Slim Jim into oblivion.

The First Three Things That Came to Mind

One a day for all of May...

Is it me, or am I the only one who has seriously thought about storing all of my toe nail clippings in a big mason jar?

----

Asparagus pee. Somebody help me out here people. You all know what it smells like. No answers. Scientific research needs to be done. Why? Why?! WHY??!??!??!?!

----

And by the way, what's the deal with cheese? The other day, I pulled some out of the fridge and it had a spot of green mold on it. Isn't cheese, by definition, mold? Mold grows on mold? And that's bad?!? We can eat the mold but not the mold that grows on mold? Does this apply to fungus as well? Do little, disgusting green mushrooms grow on normal mushrooms? I'm confused here, people.

Shirley Ellis - My Dairy Queen

One a day for all of...well....you know....

Matthryn Matthryn bo Batthryn banana fanna fo Fatthryn
Fee fie Mo Matthryn. Matthryn!

You know the song. You sang it in junior high (and high school (and college))). But did you know that it was a record that was actually #3 on the Billboard charts in 1965? I didn't. And it has other lyrics as well, I discovered. Here are the lyrics that basically explains what in the world is going on with all these bananas and fo fannas:

The first letter of the name, I treat it like it wasn't there
But a B or an F or an M will appear
And then I say bo add a B then I say the name and Bonana fanna and a fo
And then I say the name again with an F very plain
and a fee fy and a mo
And then I say the name again with an M this time
and there isn't any name that I can't rhyme

Please just watch this and get educated...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MJLi5_dyn0

Or if you are really brave...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6ycaH1Mzy0

Double Monkey

One a May for all of day...

We are officially into double digits, yall! Woo-wee! Wee-woo!! Pee Poo!!! See Through!! Pee-eww!!! Pea Stew!!!! Knee Glue!!!!! Tree Dew!!! Bee Flew!!!! Glee Chew!!!! Mee Moo!!!!!!! Me, You!!!! We, Who???? Sea Clue!!!!!! Tea, Blue!!!!! Free Zoo!!!!

Any takers??

May 10th. 2008. Only 21 more days of Madness to go.

Man, I hate this.

Blame it on "Blame it on the Rain"

one A dAy for All of mAy...

I found myself singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame it on the Rain" yesterday and as is my custom, I analyze and critique the lyrics. Here we have a sad story via really bad song about a man who "said good bye" and thus "sacrificed a good love" but is now feeling regret about the decision. He looks back on a poorly thought-through break up and decides that he "gotta blame it on something, gotta blame it on something." So he does what any rational, cultured, educated person does. He blames it on precipitation.

The part that never really stood out to me before but now does is the line, "Whatever you do, don't put the blame on you." This is clearly denial. I can see it now: No, no, it can't be my fault for prematurely breaking up with a "good love." It is just out of the question. It is isn't even an option that I might possibly be wrong here. It was the rain's fault. It was fallin' fallin'. And....and....(looking around frantically searching for something else)....I'll blame the stars! Yeah, that's it! It was the stars' fault! They shine at night. That is clearly blameworthy. But whatever I do, I won't put the blame on me.

I think I am going to use that excuse the next time Kathryn gets upset with me. "Matt, you said you would empty the dish washer." And I'll go, "Hey, don't look at me. Blame the precipitation. It was fallin fallin." Who blames rain?!? Honestly, people.

Oranges: Impenetrable Security System of Risk

Still, one a day for all of May...

There is nothing worse than spending an inordinate amount of time peeling an orange by hand to find out upon consumption that the orange is bad. You spend countless minutes (and seconds) carefully wedging your fingers between the thin outer peel/crust of protection and the soft, fragile, fruit beneath, pulling back and discarding the unnecessary "orange-bark" miniature-bit by miniature-bit. The anticipation builds. The suspense suspends. You anxiously await the first bite of pure, sweet, Florida Orange, the literal "fruit" of all of your labors.

And so you do. And something doesn't taste quite right. This isn't how an orange is supposed to taste, you think. So you keep chewing and give another orange wedge a try. You reason that maybe that first wedge tasted funny, but the rest will be good. And your reasoning turns out to be faulty. The rest is not good. It is, in fact, bad. Very bad. It tastes like chemicals. It is exceptionally chewy. It shouldn't be this chewy. It shouldn't taste like chemicals. It shouldn't be this way...not after all those countless minutes (and seconds) of peeling, discarding, wedging, wincing, gerunding, and tapping.

Pure Madness.

Conserving Water While Losing Dignity

One a day for all of May...

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Last night, I took a shower with a bucket. Now, don't misunderstand me. I didn't use a bucket to shower myself. I brought an empty bucket with me into the shower to collect the water that dripped off of my dirty body. Why did I do that? To conserve water for watering the yard. Translation: To save money on our water bill.

There I was in the shower standing next to an enormous 5 gallon bucket. I couldn't really tell where the most effective water-collecting spot to put it was. I tried beside me, hoping to catch some of those long, thick streams that seem to fall from my elbows. But it didn't seem to do the trick. So I then I thought about straddling it, having it be directly under me. This seemed to work fairly well, but covered the drain...so what didn't get collected by the bucket didn't get collected by the plumbing either.

Despite the awkwardness at times, I think it is a good idea. Brilliant even. Why waste all that water when you can snag it and pour it on your plants. It really sucks to be a plant, come to think of it. You get peed on my dogs and then dumped with 5 gallons of someone's dirty bath water.

My Dog Loves Urine

One a day for all of May...

Our dog has a propensity of sticking her face in urine. We go on a walk around the neighborhood and she incessantly stops to plunge her snout into a bush, a telephone pole, or a tuft of grass just to inhale a fresh wave of urine odor. She loves it. And I don't quite understand.

I don't understand why she would be so thrilled with that smell and not others (like freshly cut cedar, or roasted almonds). Sure...I know some dog before us has decided to "mark its territory" with a quick little squirt of pee, but why does my dog take the time to actually investigate? Perhaps she was thinking of "marking her territory" on that spot and wanted to make sure she wasn't going to get herself into some trouble with the previous "territory owner."

Ok...help me understand how urine equals territory. Everywhere one pees, that's now your property? That's how it works?! That is the #1 real estate law in the dog world, apparently. And what is with this global take-over mindset? I've seen dogs pee all over the place. Oh, so every single spot is now yours? That's really selfish. And a bit tyrannical and totalitarian, if you ask me. The dogs don't even utilize their new "territory" once they "mark it" anyway. They just pee on it, claim it as theirs, and move on. They may never come back to it again, but hey, they peed on it, so it's theirs. And my dog comes along behind them and breathes it all in...every last sniff of pure, dog urine.

¡Madness de Mayo!

¿Uno un día para todo Mayo?

May 5th. Cinco de Mayo. Today we celebrate Mexico. On May 5th, a long time ago, they became independent. We celebrate their independence. I'm not really sure what they were so dependent on. I am fairly ignorant on the whole holiday in all honesty. But that doesn't mean that I won't participate in the celebration. I will celebrate Mexico's independence. There is nothing like partying and celebrating the national history of a nation whose history I know nothing about.

It is a bit unfortunate that the Spanish word "Mayo" happens to be the American shorthand for mayonnaise. If you didn't know better, you would think Mexico was celebrating mayonnaise. A huge national holiday for whipped fat.

Confused....again

One a day for all of May...

A number of days ago, I stood in our backyard surveying the landscape. Wet. Everything was soaked. It had rained pretty hard the night before and now the earth was wet. The blades of grass were carrying beads of water. Puddles had formed in certain areas. As I metaphorically drank the scene in, one thought occurred to me.

Where do squirrels go when it rains?

I looked up in the branches for squirrels. Not in that tree. And nope, not in that tree over there. So I thought, those squirrels are probably a few houses down, in someone else's trees. But this surely can't be right. I looked across the way to our neighbor's trees. No squirrels. No squirrels anywhere.

Where do they take shelter amidst the downfall?
Do they even have a place to hide at all?
What would happen if a squirrel got wet?
Does the squirrel have the capacity to be upset?
When it rains and pours, do they climb up high?
(For surely a branch can't keep them dry).
Do they burrow in holes simply out of fear?
Or are they wizards and just disappear?