Matthryn

Carpet: A Conversation

2010-06-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

Gene: So I was gnawing on some barley the other day, and you will never guess who I ran into.

Oliver: Ruby?

Gene: No.

Oliver: Tony?

Gene: No.

Oliver: Gary?

Gene: Hey, I told you that you would never guess. So stop trying.

Oliver: Sammy?

Gene: You will never guess this person. It is impossible for you to guess who it was.

Oliver: It isn't impossible. It may be really difficult, but come on, if that person actually exists then theoretically it is possible for me to guess them.

Gene: No, seriously. It is impossible. Trust me.

Oliver: Does this person actually exist?

Gene: Yes, of course. What kind of a question is that?

Oliver: Well, if they exist - wouldn't you say that I could name every name on the planet and eventually guess it?

Gene: You could "name every name" but you wouldn't guess it. It's impossible.

Oliver: I don't understand why it is so impossible. This makes no sense. Sort of like when you were gnawing barley the other day.

Gene: So guess who I ran into.

Oliver: Ruby?

Gene: Exactly.

Maybe She's Born with It....

2010-01-25T05:48:00.000-08:00

I just discovered something yesterday - the meaning behind a casual marketing slogan that I have never truly paid attention to. Countless times this simple sentence has washed over me while watching television: "Maybe she's born with it; maybe it's Maybelline." Do you know what that means? I didn't. Until now. But I will inform you.

The ad begins with an image of a beautiful woman. She's all made up and looking at the camera, communicating something like, "I haven't eaten at Burger King in 13 years...and I had a twizzler for lunch." And of course, her hair is blowing in the wind....which to be honest, I've never really understood. Why are all these models congregating in places where there are gusts of wind. How is all that wind getting indoors? Did someone leave a door open? And furthermore, does wind-blown hair make you want to purchase lipstick? Apparently.

And then the voice-over: "Maybe she's born with it." Now, here is the first question that this is intended to raise: "Maybe this person is naturally beautiful." Maybe she was born looking like this. Maybe. But just maybe. The second sentence, however, clearly answers that question...."Naaaah. Maybe it's Maybelline."

She's not naturally beautiful; it's the make up. Here is some atrocious baglady that we pulled off the streets. But slap a little Maybelline on her and - ta da!! You have a wind-blown, pimple-less star!!

Is she born with it? No way. It's the Maybelline.

A Long Blog Sabbatical

2010-01-10T16:43:00.000-08:00

Well, this is a bit awkward. It's been....quite a few months since I've done this. I feel like I'm trying to relearn how to use a badminton racquet after years of inactivity. It just feels and looks awkward.

But as I attempt to shake off the rust, I felt that today's observation warranted a comment or two. And the observation was this: two gentlemen emerging from the forrest from a hunting trip. I happened to be driving down the road at the exact moment that these two young men walked out from the woods and into the open. And I was able to check out what these two gentlemen were wearing.

From top to bottom they were covered in camouflage. This seems appropriate. The dark greens and browns of their apparel blended them into their environment with ease, making unsuspecting animals unaware of their position. And yet, over the top of this camouflage was a bright, neon orange vest, sort of like the types that crossing guards would wear. And this seemed appropriate too. Hunters don't want other hunters to shoot them; so they make their position obvious.

And herein lies the problem. Hunters - do you want to be seen or not? Neon orange vests over camouflage is sending mixed messages. See, the hunter is really in a predicament, I realized. He has to be inconspicuous so as not to scare off his pray. And yet, he has to be completely visible so as not to become another hunter's prey. He is caught in this perpetual tension of needing to be both visible and invisible at the same time.

And so what is his solution? Wearing neon orange over camouflage. He goes for visibility and invisibility. And cancels out both. (But how would that work? (How can you be both visible and invisible at the same time??))

All I know is - Dick Cheney capped someone who was hunting. That guy probably wasn't rocking out the orange vest.

Matthowell.com

2009-06-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, I googled my name this morning. I thought - "Hey, I've got some stuff out there on the internet now. I'm on facebook. I have a few sermons floating about in cyberspace. What would happen if I were to search for myself?" Well, I found out what would happen. Nothing.

I did discover with some astonishment that there are a lot of other Matt Howells out there. Pretty strange. They are a lot more famous on the internet than I am. I even scrolled down to the bottom of the page and none of the Matt Howells had anything to do with me. Just a cluttered list of faceless clones. I hope they are nice. I don't want any Matt Howell out there doing something stupid and ruining the name that I have worked so hard to protect.

Towards the top of the page was a link to go to matthowell.com. I was intrigued. And so I went. Go there with me. Go right now. Click here.

You'll notice that the link takes you to a singular page of a simple photograph. No other distracting tabs or pop-up ads or things to click. Just an idyllic snapshot of white sand, clean turquoise waters, and a pillowy-clouded sky. Just looking at this page relaxes your nerves, you find your heart beat slowing down, your eyes get heavy, and you sink into your chair with the cares melting off of your heart. You feel at peace, finally. Your limbs feel like they are barely dangling off of your mellowed torso. Your brain tingles with mossiness. You are content. You have no worries or thoughts. Only bliss. Pure, peaceful, rested bliss.

And so I thought this was an appropriate website because that is typically what happens to people when they think of me. Matthowell.com captured it pretty well.

Completion. Commencement. Consummation.

2009-05-31T07:07:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May Madness

Done.

So many C's. So many opportunities. So much madness.

As is our Madness o' May custom, we review the month's madness, reflecting upon the insanity, rolling the flavors of mania around in our mouths and drinking deeply of the lunacy. This is what we do at the end of May. We also sigh deep, billowy grunts of relief and question why we put ourselves through such creative torture for one of life's busiest months. We then think about why we even own blogs, how utterly self-indulgent they are, and we ponder shutting it down completely. And in those dark, despairing moments, a soft and mellifluous whisper speaks truth: "You can't stop now. You have years invested into this. Keep going. And make next year's May Madness even madder. Do it."
And I submit...again...to the soft, mellifluous voice.

1. It's All About C!!
2. Corn Syrup is the Key to Utopia
3. Couch Cushion: Just Flip it!
4. Thinking About Fruit Again
5. I Want Your iPhone
6. Gene and Oliver Strike Back
7. Cankers
8. Laughing Courteously at Bad Jokes
9. Captain Hook
10. (I Got Nothing)
11. Self-Check Out Aisles at Grocery Stores Make Me Mad
12. MC Hammer Has Quit (Negating His Legitimacy)
13. Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing Stew
14. Craigslist....ugh....WOW
15. Carbon Copy Terminology in a Digital-Cyber Universe
16. Chicken Empanada Counting Problemo
17. My C-Movie Ratings
18. Meat Liker's Pizza
19. Digital Chores (Email Cleaning)
20. Coffee. Camomile. Crustaceans.
21. Tipping Guilt
22. Sight for Sore Eyes....Undetermined Meaning
23. Picking Up Dog Poo
24. Doctors' Office Waiting Room Artwork
25. Wingdings
26. Chester Cheetah vs. Joe Camel
27. Cell Phones
28. That Boy is a Chef!
29. A C-Novella About Birds
30. The Case of Cluttered Conscience
31. This.

Call me Crazy. Seriously. Do it.

2009-05-30T05:06:00.000-07:00

One A Day For All Of May.

"I went to the car dealership the other day for an oil change (I have free coupons there). Big mistake. I never have pleasant experiences there. A simple oil change ends up taking over an hour. And I bring a book with me to read while I wait...only I can't read it because the Today Show is cranked up to unheard of (pun) volume levels. Very distracting. And the coffee is bad. And it smells weird. And people talk too loud on their cell phones."

This is how I wanted to begin this morning's blog post. I was going to pry deep into my irritation of car dealerships. Call me crazy, but I am going to hit the brakes (pun) and not go there. Call it conscience. Call it conviction. I realized today that my blog posts are simply forums for venting irritation and frustration. I hop on here, think about something that has recently bugged me, and I aim my lasers, tasers, and rockets at it (pun), pouring out hot, steamy, poisonous satire. And today, I will refrain (at least in part....I did include that paragraph at the top, didn't I? (pun)). Today I will write about something that I enjoy:

I like ice cream.

Hmmm. Not too much comedic mileage on things that are pleasant.

Countless Captive Curlews and Cormorants

2009-05-29T04:06:00.000-07:00

one a bird for all of may

Countless captive curlews and cormorants (chicks comparable to canaries) cried for compassion cause they were chained up in copper cages. Their corrupt and criminal captor, Captain Crunch (contra the commercialized cartoon), caterwauled in contemptible contentment. The Captain, a celebrated crow and chick capturer (and curiously, a clarinet competitor), cackled with cheer at his current collective conquest (his capturing the curlews and cormorants) cause his cook called for chicks to be chopped to concoct his chicken coconut chowder.

Christopher Columbus caught the close cries of the captive crows, currently (and conveniently) confessing his care to a certain Catherine. Consequently, Christopher cast Catherine and charged on course for their crying calls, compelled by compassion. (Catherine was cross at Christopher's choice!)

Courageous Christopher convened a crowd of cannon craftsmen and upon his command, they caused a combustion (creating a caliginous cloud), and a cluster of cobalt cannonballs careened, coming toward Captain Crunch's chest cavity. Conversely, Captain Crunch was callow and credulous - he couldn't confer a care for the coming cannonballs, choosing to chop carrots for the captured chicks to consume.

With a cluttering clamor (comparable to castanets), the cannonballs crashed upon Captain Crunch's chest cavity, crushing him to crumbs. While Captain Crunch had collapsed into a crude clutter, Christopher Columbus cursorily came upon the copper cages containing the captive curlews and cormorants (currently cawing and clawing). He cut the cords of the cages and the captive curlews and cormorants came out!

But Christopher was consequentially crestfallen. A concealed and covert, carnivorous crocodile cropped up and chomped the credulous chicks.

Chef Boyardee

2009-05-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

...may of all for day a one

Meat in a can. This is no different from Spam. And yet I'm repulsed by Spam. Won't eat it. Won't touch it. And yet, back in the day I would throw down some Chef Boyardee. Rip open that aluminum top, dump that can-shaped-congealed-mess of noodles and meat into a bowl, heat it up in the microwave (only to have the pseudo-tomato-based paste splatter everywhere), and 2 minutes later you have an amazing meal. Meat from a can.

Meat that has been sitting unrefrigerated in the grocery store for 3 months. Meat that has since been sitting in your pantry for 5 weeks. Meat that is now being chewed by your back molars and soon to be entering your colon (only to wreak havoc there). Meat in a can.

I should have known that any "chef" who has the name "boy" in it isn't going to be experienced enough to know not to make that mistake. You've got a "boy chef" throwing meat in a can and selling it to children. Of course they will buy it. They don't know better. Neither did the boy chef. He is just a boy.

Simple mistake, boy chef. But please learn.

Cell Phones

2009-05-27T04:34:00.000-07:00

one a day for all of may

I have a call dropped at least once a day when talking on cellular telephonic devices. (I don't like the terminology of "dropped" calls by the way. What? Is my conversation a hot potato? Alas, I digress.) You are talking with someone and...suddenly....they are a bit less responsive. You aren't receiving those intermittent, affirming "uh-huh"s like you were receiving during the first half of your conversation. You know something is odd. So you ask, "You there?" And you are met with silence.

And then you are met with frustration.

And then you call them back. But of course....they are simultaneously attempting to call you back. So when you are calling them, your phone call goes straight to their voicemail since they are currently busy (calling you). How this is possible, I'm not really sure. You hang up. You try again. And of course, your second attempt at calling them back receives the familiar voicemail salutational message. So you hang up for a second time. Frustrated.

And now your strategy changes. You think, "Ok. I'll just wait for them to call me now." So you sit there in silence. Waiting. And after a few moments you begin to wonder, "Maybe they are doing the exact same thing....waiting for me to call them." And you don't know this, but they are in fact doing that very thing. Waiting on you. So you take up the phone again for a 3rd attempt. You even begin to think cliches to yourself like, "Well, 3rd time's a charm!" You even begin to speak it aloud. After all, you have been in silence for well over 2 minutes now and something must break the awkwardness.

But of course, the moment you decided to pick up the phone was the exact moment that it crossed your friend's mind that maybe you are waiting on them. And now you are locked up again in a battle of call backs. Like two ram's horns gripped together. Neither is budging. Neither is getting through.

All because of our stupid cell phones and their inability to manage an interruption-free phone call.

Cool Cheetahs and Camels

2009-05-26T05:24:00.000-07:00

One a May for all of day

Chester Cheetah and Joe Camel - the two smoothest and coolest animated animals with addiction problems.

Chester Cheetah is the official mascot for Cheetos - a crunchy snack of puffed corn, dusted with powdered cheese (the very fact that it contains "powdered cheese" makes one hesitant to continue purchasing these). He wears sunglasses. He has cool looking tennis shoes. He listens to jazz music. He probably drinks vermouth straight up. And he has a troubling addiction. He needs to eat Cheetos. You will find him getting tricked by children in TV commercials as he continues to fail in his quest for Cheetos. But he is still cool and smooth. And the ladies love him. But if they only knew about his harrowing problems.

Joe Camel is the official mascot for Camel Cigarettes - a cigarette made from actual Camel tongues. He wears sunglasses. He wears tight T-shirts to showcase his camely physique. He drives nice cars and plays pool. And he smokes those cool-enhancing cigarettes. He probably listens to jazz music too. And you will find him living out his addictive personality as well - he can be seen in advertisements (or at least, he used to be seen) constantly puffing away on those cool cigarettes, luring adults and children alike to be apart of his cool revolution.

Cheetah. Camel. These are not the animals one would expect to be the icon of coolness. Especially the camel. I can't think of a more awkward animal on the face of the planet. Their bodies are oddly shaped, they chew their food really weirdly, their tongues are enormous, they have built-in water vats on their backs, and the joints on the legs bend the wrong way. Not cool at all. But slap some shades on their faces and throw a lit cigarette in their mouth and now you've got something you can work with.

Commercial Break

2009-05-25T04:05:00.000-07:00

~one a day for all of may~

Does anyone use the "wingdings" font? I don't understand why this is even an option.

You know, because it is so obviously stupid.

Cartoons of Chest Cavities

2009-05-24T04:41:00.000-07:00

¡¡¡una dia para todos los mayo!!

When you go to the doctor and you are waiting in the waiting room (that is what you do there), have you ever looked at the "artwork" on the walls? Decorating the walls are cartoon pictures of nasty, internal human organs. Do I really want to look at that? No, I don't. So I force my eyes away from the pink and green jumbo-shaped spleen in front of me and the multiple layers of epidermis with enormous, pencil-like hair follicles protruding out.

I was already sick before I got here. That is why I am here. I am sick. I don't need that nausea reinforced and encouraged by disturbing and disgusting cartoons of the inner-workings of my heart ventricles. Or my folded up bag of intestines. Or my nervous system.

Spare yourselves the vomit-cleaning that is impending and take those pictures down. How about replacing them with calming photographs of bunny rabbits and dandelions?

Collecting Canine Crap

2009-05-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May...

I have the given responsibility of going into our backyard and removing our dog's poo. Yes, that is my job. I am the Poo Man. Dog Poo Man. I slowly walk around in the backyard, meticulously combing through the grass looking for canine excrement. And when I find it, I reach down and grab it through the back of a plastic bag. I feel the texture (sometimes the warmth, depending on how fresh), though there is no direct contact with skin and poo. All that to say, it is a pretty terrible job to do. But so they say - someone has to do it.

Today as I was walking around in the backyard Poo-Pooin (as I call it), I couldn't help but notice our dog watching me do this. She just sits there at a comfortable, poo-safe distance watching me clean up her waste. And I had to wonder what in the world was going through her mind. Was she embarrassed? You know, "Matt, I'm really sorry that you have to do this. I feel really awful, seriously. I hate that I can't take advantage of the indoor plumbing." Or was it rather more sinister - a subtle snickering under her breath as she surveys me collecting her crap?

And I had to wonder - what would go through my mind if I had to sit there and watch someone pick up my #2 through a plastic bag? And an idea struck me. I can do this. I can accomplish this and see how I might react. I think I am going to 'take my business to the backyard' and make Kathryn clean it up and see what happens.

Cliché Confusion: Complementary or Condemnatory

2009-05-22T03:58:00.000-07:00

one c a day for all c of may

"You're a sight for sore eyes."

This particular expression/cliche has caused quite a bit of confusion/frustration in our marriage lately. To remain anonymous, one of us (Person A) believes that this expression is complementary. To translate - You are a beautiful and welcomed sight for my somewhat exhausted eyes.

The other of us (Person B) believes that this expression is condemnatory. To translate - You are a terrible sight, so much so that you are making my eyes sore.

Which is it? We have been doing a poll amongst our friends and even the poll remains divided. Some say - "Oh this is extremely complementary. You would say this if you were away at war and when you came back and saw your beautiful bride waiting for you - you would say - You're a sight for sore eyes." Others have disagreed. They've said - "Only when someone emerges from a deep sleep with unkempt hair, bed wrinkles pressed into their face, and crusty drool on their shirt would you say - Ew, gross - you're a sight for sore eyes."

Which is it? Your thoughts?

Check Please

2009-05-21T05:52:00.000-07:00

oNe a DaY FoR aLL oF MaY.

I have never been very secure as a tipper. What I mean by that is - I always feel a bit awkward when it comes to filling out the "Gratuity" line on the bill at a restaurant. It makes me uncomfortable. What is going to be insulting? What is going to be gratuitously generous? I have been told that 15% is the average. But that always feels too minimal. Why am I so insecure?

My insecurity flares into hyper-insecurity (that is borderline dangerous) when it comes to take-out or pick-up orders. You go the restaurant, wait at the designated "pick up" line, pay for your meal which has been nicely wrapped up for you in a bag, and then it is time to fill out the check. And there is that haunting line. Gratuity. Now, who in the world is supposed to receive this tip? The guy at the register? Should he really get 15% for handing me a bag of food? I think not. So I don't tip. I'm not eating there. Nobody is serving me. This makes sense. What doesn't make sense to me is the feeling of guilt that I have when I hand the check back to the register guy. That makes no sense to me. Should I really let this 16 year old summer intern make me feel guilty for not tipping him for something he didn't do?

Oh, the guilt. If only I believed the gospel.

Coffee, Camomile, and Crustaceans

2009-05-20T04:40:00.000-07:00

one a day For all oF may

Coffee. Does coffee not work after a while? I had 3 cups of coffee yesterday and by 5 pm I was exhausted. Is something wrong with me or has my caffeine tolerance gotten so high that multiple cups of liquid-adrenaline can't touch me anymore? Or perhaps my tiredness is so strong that the coffee can't handle it? Or perhaps the coffee that I'm consuming isn't as strong as I think it is? I am glad to inform you of this though - despite coffee's recent caffeine deficiency, it's digestive effects are thoroughly consistent.

Camomile. I enjoy tea, one could say. One could also say that I don't enjoy tea. But they would be lying. The first person would be telling the truth. I enjoy tea. I go in and out of enjoyment phases though. So perhaps if the second person were to strategically say that I don't enjoy tea at the certain moment that I didn't like tea - then that would be true. If I am in a don't-like-tea-right-now phase and the second person said that I didn't like tea - he or she would be telling the truth. And the first person would be lying. But I was in a I-like-tea phase, which I am currently in, then it would be just the opposite. I'm glad we're all clear on that.

Crustaceans. I feel sorry for this type of aquatic animal. They have the word "crust" in their name. That just sounds gross. They are crusty. But I think a better adjective to describe them would be "crunchy." I think we should change their name to Crunchtaceans. That it more fitting and a bit more appetizing. I don't want crusty shrimp for dinner. But oh! Crunchy shrimp?!? Now we're talking.

Cleaning Out My Inbox

2009-05-19T05:39:00.000-07:00

one A day for All of mAy

As of this morning, I have 473 messages in my inbox. Why am I saving so many emails? Will I ever go back and re-read these things? Probably not. But the fact that I am going to have to carve out an afternoon and work through all of these emails makes me think....

With the rise of technology, I now have digital chores. Before, the only cleaning that I needed to do involved real, tangible, concrete things - clean my room, clean my teeth, dust the counter, wipe down the table, spray the cat, etc. And now, my cleaning responsibilities have spilled over into maintaining a cyber account. It needs a bit of tidying up. And so I will sit down, read through my inbox and determine which emails need to be deleted. This will take at least an hour of my life. And there will be those emails, I know, that I will think - ooooh, I have got to keep that one.

And so maybe after this cleaning, I will end up with an inbox of...say....85. That's a thorough overhauling. 473 to 85. That is a serious slim and trim. But I am still keeping 85 emails that I will never read again until 3 years from now when I will need to clean out the inbox again. And then, probably only then, will I erase them. Why don't I spare myself the trouble and just delete them all? If they are going to be erased in 3 years without having been read any in the mean time (who goes back to previous emails and re-reads them? I don't even do that with good literature.), it makes sense to clean house. Ship shape.

Tip top.

Hip hop.

Trip hop.

Clogging Arteries with Meat

2009-05-18T05:54:00.000-07:00

One day a for the month May of...

Meat Lover's Pizza. Come on, people. Do we really need that much animal? I was recently at a pizza joint and considered the "Meat Lover's." I felt that this was an appropriate decision because I love meat. I haven't ever thought to label myself as a "Meat Lover," but once I thought about it, sure, I would label myself that. Meat Lover Matt. Maybe that could be my new nickname.

So, after reflecting about my new identity in relation to loving meat, I perused the toppings on this pie. Bacon, sausage, hamburger, italian sausage, pepperoni, ham, canadian bacon. I've seen this thing ordered before. It is simply a heaping mound of assorted meats resting atop some dough. Seriously, people? Granted, I love meat (see my new nickname), but even I cannot see a reason to ingest entire mouthfuls of animal for a whole meal. Does one really need that much?

And then it hit me. This is what really separates the "Meat Lovers" from the "Meat Likers." Because if someone truly loves meat - loves it so much that they are willing to eat nothing but various meat combinations for a meal - then this pizza is for them. I shouldn't flatter myself and call myself a "Meat Lover" and then scoff at an all-animal pizza. This is truly for the Meat Lovers. I, after some reflection, am nothing but a "Meat Liker."

Meat Liker Matt - my new(er) nickname.

C this Movie: Or Don't!!

2009-05-17T05:19:00.000-07:00

one a day for all of may.

Castaway: The worst movie ever. Tom Hanks stuck on an island for 90% of it, talking to a coconut. He gets off and his wife leaves him. Absolutely terrible.

Capote: Haven't seen it in a while. Remember liking it. Remember thinking - This guy had a weird voice.

Caddyshack: I didn't grow up on this movie but watched it about a year ago. First viewing. Absolutely terrible. I realize that some of you think this is probably sinful. But humor seems to be culturally stamped and dated. It comes with an expiration date on it. Just try going back and watching Saved by the Bell. Sure, it was enjoyable then. Now....just terrible.

Child's Play: I can still vividly recall one of those final scenes where little Chuckie slices through that guys ankle with an exact-o-knife. It went down so smoothly like butter. I remember the slicing motion being somewhat slow and dramatic. Now that I think about it, why didn't the guy move his ankle after the initial piercing? Why did he sit there still to let the knife sink in about 3 more inches before yelping out for help?

City Slickers: I used to watch this A LOT on VHS growing up. I remember when Billy Crystal helped deliver that calf (later to be named Norman) from the pregnant cow. Even then I wondered why human assistance was necessary in the birth of cows. How do cattle manage without us?

Click: I never saw it. But the previews convinced me that Adam Sandler had made another poor career move.

Crocodile Dundee: This capitalized on a popular movie premise: Place a person of one culture inside a different culture. (Other movies to play on this cross-cultural comedic experiment - Encino Man, Rush Hour, Coming to America, and Curious George)

Confusion over Chicken Empanadas

2009-05-16T05:11:00.000-07:00

¡¡One a day for all of May!!

I was at Trader Joes "shopping" aka "doin my thang," and I came upon a frozen bag of "Chicken Empanadas." The picture on the front was enticing enough to make me inquire more. So I did. I picked up the package. I looked at the picture a bit closer. Sure enough, that does look appetizing.

And so I went to phase 2 of my investigation: price. After a little searching, I discovered that this pouch of empanadas was $3.95, a bit pricey for what appeared to be a meager portion of empanadas. So of course, phase 3 was to determine exactly how many empanadas were contained in said pouch.

Nothing on the front revealed the quantity, so I flipped it over and checked out the nutritional value. At the top, it tells you how big the servings are: 1 empanada. Ok. Keep going, Matt. Don't stop here. The following line tells you how many servings this particular pouch contains. Ok, this makes sense. Simple logic leads me to conclude that if 1 serving = 1 empanada, then the number of servings it contains tells me how many empanadas are in there. But this is when I got a bit confused.

It read "Contains about 5 empanadas."

"About"? That is not really informative, is it? How can something contain "about" 5 of something? Are there 4 fully-intact empanadas and a few crumbly bits to round it out to about 5?

Furthermore - the number is so low, that is quite a big difference between 4 and 6 in a package. If there were like 50 in there - ok. I understand. Round it out to "about" 50. But if I'm buying a package of empanadas for $4.00 thinking there is a chance that I may strike gold and get 6 empanadas, only to really get 4 - that makes for a bad day. A bad day indeed.

Furthermore, does Trader Joes not count or regulate the number of empanadas in there? If it isn't exact, what is to prevent someone from stuffing 15 empanadas up in that pouch? One could argue that there are "about" 5 in there if you have a large enough scale. Between 0 and 1,000 empanadas - 15 is roughly "about" 5, you could say.

Joe, if I am going to keep trading with you, you're going to have to be upfront with me.

Carbon Copy

2009-05-15T06:17:00.000-07:00

One a DAY for all of MAY

I've come to realize that people don't seem to know that the "CC" feature of sending emails harkens back and stands for "Carbon copy." Are we really utilizing this outdated technology and terminology to refer to our current system of duplication? Just think about it:

Carbon. Copy.

This is the technology that was available in the early 1990s to procure a reliable imprint on someone's credit card. You certainly didn't swipe this piece of plastic through a little machine at the register. No, you handed your card to the person checking you out, they whipped out a clunky rectangular shaped device that was underneath the register, inserted your card into its designated spot, and with a quick and simple, back and forth "cha-chunk," the necessary information was imprinted into a strip of carbon paper. Is this primitive technology really what we are going to compare with our modern version of CC'ing someone when we send non-physical data across the universe via cyber space?

It's kin to referring to the power of our automobiles as "horse power." Why don't we just throw it all back and refer to our cell phones as "sea shells", our web sites as "papyrus" or "vellum", and our grocery stores as "Trader Joes"?

Craigslist: And Our Love/Hate Relationship

2009-05-14T04:59:00.000-07:00

One a day for the entire month of May

Dear Craigslist,

I was attracted to you the first time I heard about you. I was informed about the ways that you work, the ways that you bring people together and enable us to get money from crap we don't want anymore. I thought this was an amazing idea. So I looked into you. I found your website. Sure, at first it seemed rather simple and quite outdated as far as layout and design, but I never like to judge books (or websites) by their covers (or designs). So I keep looking. And what I found, I loved.

I found myself rounding up crap around the house, taking pictures of it in flattering poses, and uploading the pics onto your website. I was overjoyed. I thought - someone is actually going to give me money for this stuff. That old TV = cash money. That old raggedy doll = vintage collector's item. That old electric razor = someone else's prized possession. I saw dollar signs on everything I owned. Surely, somebody would want to buy those dried out flowers. Surely, somebody wants to purchase my old Method Man CDs. I was excited.

But the excitement faded in time. I waited. And I waited. And so it seemed, nobody really wanted to buy my stuff after all. I guess people aren't interested in televisions, cds, and dog igloos. I guess people don't really want old muppet dolls.

And so I found myself hating you. You offered the world to me and let me down. Your promises were too large. Your eyes were bigger than your stomach.

Love/Hate,
Irascible Customer #524

Chicken Wing Stew

2009-05-13T06:10:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May...

It would be criminal (subliminal) to dedicate May to the letter "C" without any regard for Chicken Wing Stew. Thus, not wanting to be criminal (the subliminal kind), I shall here make regard to aforementioned stew.

Chicken wing, chicken wing, chicken wing stew. First, note that this is not a soup. Soups are thin and...well....soupy. You can eat soups with a straw. But this is a stew. Thick, robust, hearty. One might prefer a fork and knife while enjoying this entree. Second, note the fact that it is Chicken WING stew. Not simply chicken stew. That is too bland, too cliche, too kosher. But I'm talking chicken wing. Hot. Spicy. Wingy.

I've been asked this many times, "What is your deal with chicken wing stew?" My response is what it has always been: "I don't know." This concept mysteriously imprinted itself on my mind years ago and I haven't been able to shake it. I write about it. I sing about it (often). It comes up in social situations when it shouldn't.

I believe St. Paul was experiencing something similar when he spoke of a "thorn in his flesh." This nameless, faceless "thorn" has troubled scholars for years....what is he actually talking about there? But while they are confused, I know. I know the kind of issues he was facing. It is that reoccurring phrase or concept or entree item that renders you helpless before its freight. It doesn't stop to ask questions or permission. It just comes out. Chicken wing stew. You like me. I like you.

Can't Touch This

2009-05-12T06:45:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of MAY...

MC Hammer once announced to the world that he was "Too legit to quit." There is a glaring problem with this assertion.

Hammer has quit. He is not making music anymore to my knowledge. Maybe he is recording tracks in his home studio or something, but he has officially fallen out of the public conscious. He has quit. Therefore - he is a liar. He is not too legit to quit. His legitimacy is compromised. He has quit.

And what is the relationship between legitimacy and longevity. He is saying - I am legit. I am authorized. I am authentic. Does this therefore obligate Hammer to work for the rest of his life incessantly? Can he not rest or take a break? Apparently not. Legitimacy equals workaholism. His very authenticity is what drives him to never quit.

Honestly, I don't see the logical connection. I think you can be legit and still, after some time, quit. Quitting does not necessarily compromise legitimacy. But it does in the mind of Hammer.

And we must remember that at the end of the day, he has quit.

Check it Out Yourself

2009-05-11T07:06:00.000-07:00

OnE A dAy fOr All Of mAy

One of the most frustrating things about grocery shopping is the "Check it Out Yourself" aisles. I am usually in a hurry (which should inform you that something is probably very wrong with me). You rush in to the parking lot to find the best spot. You hustle into the store. You quickly and efficiently navigate the aisles for your only-on-my-list items. You are making great timing. One last step. You file into the line waiting to use the self-checkout machines. And the speed of your experience just got wrenched into a sudden and aggravating stop.

People don't know how to grocery shop and self-checkout in a society, I've come to realize. And they don't really understand the concept of courtesy to your fellow shoppers behind you, waiting to use that very machine. They treat it like it is an arcade game or something - "When I've had my fun, then you can take a turn." There is really no awareness of other people relying on their speed to get out and along with their day.

And when they do slumberly and sluggishly decide to start scanning their products, they can't figure it out. They're flipping their item every which way to find the barcode, when it is visibly ON THE BOTTOM. I can see it from way back her, Mister. Why can't you? And when they do figure it out, they slowly slide it over the scanner thing, only to have it not work time and time again. So after a while they get confused or frustrated and give up. Then they turn their attention to the attendant for help...only the attendant is busy trying to help someone else "check it out themselves" because that person, too, is an idiot.

Am I mad about this? Yes. Am I crossing the line here? Probably. Do I think that America is ready to "Check it Out Yourself"? No. No, we are not ready. Obviously, not. At the very least there should be some sort of standards for who can operate these "confusing" machines. There should be a hierarchy (like Sam's Club does it) and only the Golden Elite Members can operate the self-checkout machinery. They are efficient and they know what they are doing.

But as for the rest of you, please wait in line to have the humans help you.

Creative Constipation

2009-05-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May...

Captain Hook

2009-05-09T05:07:00.000-07:00

on ea da yfo th emon tho fma y

One of the most famous (infamous) villains in all of American folklore is Captain Hook. He is the Captain of a boat which, mind you, is a very lucrative position. He is at the upper echelon of the nautical hierarchy. He is prominent, prestigious, and popular. And yet for all of his pedigree, he is...well....unfortunately maimed.

Apparently it was the work of some crocodile (or alligator) that chewed off his hand. And his chosen substitute of this gnarled appendage was....a hook. Poor choice.

You don't have to see Arrested Development to discover that this is not the most efficient prosthetic. How is one supposed to peel a banana? Or pop the top on a coke can? Or pick your nose? Or check your email? Or perform open heart surgery?

But, on the other hand (pun), there is at least one benefit to possessing a hook appendage: You can't get tricked in one of those Chinese finger traps.

Courtesy Laughs

2009-05-08T07:45:00.000-07:00

One a day....

You know you've done it. Someone is telling a joke or a story that is obviously not going anywhere, and you are trying to be polite. You don't want them to look stupid. You are looking out for them. So you laugh. You didn't really think it was funny, but you somehow contorted a smile and mustered out a chuckle. You didn't want them to just be hanging out there in that awkward post-story-silence. You threw them a bone. And an acorn.

Have you ever had this person that you just protected throw you under the bus (after you just threw them a bone, mind you) and call you out on your courtesy laugh? I have. I'm like - Wait a second! I was just trying to spare you the embarrassment and you are going to directly embarrass me over it? I don't understand this.

It's like somebody is holding your friend up at gunpoint. You jump in and knock out the gunman, only to have your friend pick up the weapon from off the pavement and then take the opportunity to point it at you demanding your wallet.

I always want to say - "Hey, I'm doing you a favor by courtesy laughing. Your story really sucked. I was trying to help you."

And then I'd giggle and say - "Just kidding."

Canker Sores

2009-05-07T06:39:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of C-May...

Can there be any more mundane, boring and yet utterly annoying ailment as a canker sore? What in the world are these things anyway? They are white, super-sensitive, lumps that magically appear on the inside of your lips, cheek and mouth and torment you for the 2+ weeks they choose to stick around. Tomatoes are off limits. Orange juice is a no-go. Don't even think about brushing your teeth either. And then suddenly, as randomly as they arrived, they disappear.

Just like that.

It is the in-between-canker-sores that really mess with your mind. You get to thinking - will one pop up tomorrow, making that pizza lunch I had scheduled a disaster? They play mind games with you. They trick you into believing that they are just around the corner, so you brace yourself. And then nothing. And just when you least expect it...the inside of your lower lip gets blitzkrieged with one the size of a quarter. And you might as well just rule out Italian food for the month now.

Conversation: A Relapse

2009-05-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May

Gene: So I was enjoying chewing on a strip of leather the other day, and out of nowhere I spot this cat stuck up in a tree.

Oliver: Really? A cat up in a tree?

Gene: Yeah. A real cat stuck up in a tree.

Oliver: So what did you do?

Gene: Well, I did what anyone should do. I called the fire department.

Oliver: You really called the fire department? You tied up the fire department for a freakin' cat? People's homes could be burning and they might be 20 minutes late because you have them climbing up in trees trying to help cats??

Gene: Hey - who else is going to do it?

Oliver: I don't know....you climb up and do it.

Gene: That is crazy. I need one of those big ladders that they have.

Oliver: So, go buy a ladder from the hardware store.

Gene: Ok, so I go buy a ladder. And I climb up. What if the cat is rabid or something and bites me? I need that fire-proof protective gear they wear.

Oliver: So, ok, go buy some protective fire-proof outfit.

Gene: Now let me get this straight: You want me to essentially dress up like a fireman instead of actually calling a fireman and once I am dressed up like a fireman - then I climb up a tree and let this cat down myself.

Oliver: That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying buy a ladder and a fire-proof outfit.

Gene: Would I need to buy one of their fireman hats?

Oliver: Yes.

Gene: Exactly.

Can You Give Me Your iPhone?

2009-05-05T05:22:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of iMay

I want your iPhone. I know you have one. Everyone does. I see you using it. Heck...I've even been trying to actually converse with you in person...and yet you cannot divert your eyes away from your toy. You are like a 3 year old. You cannot look away. It has you hypnotized. What are you even doing with it that it requires such focus? I see you scrolling through things. Is that your email that you are checking? People who write you words are a bigger priority than a person standing right in front of you speaking? Ok, you are sick. I can help you though. Just give me your iPhone. I can free you of this obsession. I can break its curse. Just slowly give it to me. Wait. Not too quick. Nice and easy. Just slowly lift your eyes from its flashy screen and look into mine. See. There. No that's better. Now we are actually making eye contact. Good. That is step one. Now fight the urge to look back down. Fight hard. I know you want to look down and scroll around a bit more. I know you want to update your Twitter or your Facebook status real quick about how you made eye contact with an actual human. Fight the urge. Now. Just slowly hand the iPhone over to me. Yes. That's it. Real slow like. That's good. Oh. It's not as heavy as I thought it would be. Oh, wow. The screen is very pleasant to look at it. It is soft on my eyes. Oh, the pretty colors. I have to update my Facebook status.

Cantaloupes Can't Elope

2009-05-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May

Every so often my mind drifts to fruit. And how utterly ridiculous this stuff is. And how utterly ridiculous our obsession of it is. And how utterly amazing it is to pierce the skin of a plump pear, only to let its fructose-laden juices drip down our chins, slide down our necks, and into our chest hair. And how utterly easy it is to gorge yourself on handfuls of blueberries if they are 1) present and 2) free. And how utterly useless the bulk of a pomegranate is.

That gets me thinking. Some fruits make you work for their...fruit. Grapefruits, oranges, kiwi, melons, heck, even bananas require some amount of work to peal, break, rip and tear just to get to what we want on the inside. They are making us savages. Here we were - civilized aristocrats - wanting to merely enjoy a bit of the earth's pleasures. Is that so wrong? And we must roll up our sleeves, sink our fingernails in, twist and scrape off layers of pulp and marrow just to enjoy but a taste of its sweetened core. Why do we do this? We are so committed to it? Why will we trade our dignity for savagery - only for the benefit of a morsel of fruitness? Why are we content to shred an orange into pieces, leaving its fragments strewn about our lunch tables? Why are we ok with gnawing helplessly at a stubborn banana peel?

Why?

Couch Cushion

2009-05-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May

There is a common domestic strategy for cleaning up those unwanted spills on your couch cushion - you flip the cushion over to the other side. What once was the blemished fabric of a rorschach-esque wine splot, is now the purified, back-to-normal fabric - courtesy of the cushion's clean underbelly.

Gross on one side, clean on the other. Flip it. And now you retain the respect of your neighbors.

What an American solution, now that I think about it. Let's not actually fix the problem. Let's not remove the stain. Let's just hide it. Let's preserve the image over preserving the couch. Let's make sure that what other people see is clean, even though beneath it all is utter filth. Let's smile and pretend. Let's start more sentences with "Let's."

If only all other problems could be solved by a simple flip. Imagine how the world would benefit: You eat that rueben too hastily and get mustard on your new neck-tie. Flip it. Problem solved. You get that white, cakey, dried toothpaste residue on your lips that you can't seem to get rid of no matter how many times you lick your lips. Flip it. Problem solved. You step in a mound of dog excrement. Flip it. Problem solved.

Flip it.

Corn Syrup

2009-05-02T05:14:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May

I was in the shower this morning thinking about corn syrup. Now, I must admit a certain level of ignorance in regard to this stuff. Is it actually made from corn? Is it actually syrup? These are the questions I would want to explore if I had more time (or lime) in life.

So, let's just suppose it is made from corn. Someone ('they') extracts sugar from corn and boils it or do whatever 'they' do to it - and it makes this sticky, sweet syrup. This is brilliant. If 'they' can make glue from horse parts and 'they' can make syrup from corn stalks, what can't 'they' do? The possibilities are endless:

- Making coca-cola from rubber tires
- Making sea salt from tree bark
- Making leather couches from leather fabric
- Making polyurethane from urinals

The creation of corn syrup signals to me to optimistic future of humanity. Perhaps I am buying into the Enlightenment project too deeply. Perhaps I truly am Modern. Perhaps I have not given up on the dream. But if we can make syrup from corn, we can do anything.

There is that one little snafoo (sp?)....in that corn syrup sucks, it's really hard to clean up, and it doesn't really taste like syrup. Aside from that....humanity is on course to utopia.

C is for Sea

2009-05-01T05:12:00.000-07:00

One a day for all of May

If 3 is the magic number, C is the magic letter. After all, C is the 3rd letter. And it rhymes with 3. And it looks like a C (only flipped around with a little thingy sticking out the middle). And therefore C is magical.

In light of the magical nature of the letter C, I shall Commit myself to this letter for the month of May. I shall make it my theme. My Constant, Continuing Current underlying this entire enterprise. Am I really up to this Crusty, Crunchy Challenge?

Could I do it?
Can I really do it?
Copper is better than gold?
Crunch Bars are Crunchier than Chunkys?

This is my task. This is my Crazy Commitment to make this May madder than it has ever been. May is mad, mind you.

[Was Francis Assisi a sissy?]

It is Nigh

2009-04-17T05:09:00.001-07:00

For my one post for the month of April, I shall merely notify. Consider this a notification blog. A nlog.

May Madness approaches.

While you are turning in your taxes (late), turning in your final projects and papers, turning your AC back on, turning your butter (or rather churning), I will be turning my attention to the daily production of blogs for an entire month. One a day for the month of May.

The 3rd Annual May Madness is nigh.

And this year....there is a surprise. A twist. A shock. An awe. A tire.

It is guaranteed to confuse, to inspire, and to console. It is madness, I tell you. Pure Madness.

The Moon is Undone

2009-03-17T16:32:00.000-07:00

I think blogging has already gone out of style (fashion). I remember back in the day (2007) when blogging was all the rage. Everyone wanted one. Everyone had one. Everyone wrote constantly. Everyone read constantly. I think we overdid it. Because now everyone is simply exhausted and no one cares about blogs anymore.

Blogs are dropping off the cyberspace universe. People have quit writing. People have quit reading. It is already an outdated form of media/self-expression. You wait. Within one year, blogs will have been replaced by something else. What it is, I couldn't tell you. But blogs are on the way out. They are going out as quickly as they came in.

[Excursus: I'm surprised CDs have hung on as long as they have. I expected iPods and what not to completely make this primitive form of digital entertainment obsolete. But no. They are still around. They aren't the powerhouse they were. But they are still some sort of house. Maybe a duplex of sorts.]

I wonder if there will be some type of blog Renaissance. I can see it now - a mass flooding of people back to the Net-O-Inter, just to document their thoughts for the world to see. And there will be an equally ambitious movement of people rising from the darkness who are eager to read about these irrelevant thoughts people are publicly documenting. It will be great. People will spend hours on end reading and writing. Literacy rates will increase. Some blogs may make it big (stuff white people like). Others will collapse into oblivion (Corbin).

Others will putter along (mine).

Lark Voorhies/Lisa Turtle

2009-03-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

Neither of these names makes sense to me.

Initials, Initially

2009-03-07T15:03:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things out there that I don't know. And a lot of things that I should.

I don't know what the initials of the following list stands for, but I will venture a guess:

1) JC Penny - Julius Caesar Penny
2) AT&T - Atlanta, Tallahassee, and Tulsa
3) CNN - Celebrity News Network
4) PF Changs - Peanut Funk Changs
5) TNT - Teenage Ninja Turtles
6) A1 Steak Sauce - Albert 1 Steak Sauce
7) MGM Studio - Milk Guv Magnesium Studio
8) TJ Max - Tyrone Jamal Max
9) REI - Reggie's Energy Institute
10) LL Bean - Larry Loves Bean

Thanks (I think)

2009-02-24T13:59:00.000-08:00

Gratitude can take many faces. And shapes. And cans.

But what I am particularly interested in exploring is the pluralization of gratitude. Let me explain:

Person A (let's call him "Jack") says to Person B (now, let's call her "Jill") a casual, "Thank you for the peppermint." Jack told Jill "thank you." Ok. Let's continue.

Now let's suppose Jack (let's now call him "Edgar") says to Jill (let's keep her as "Jill") on a different occasion: "Thanks." Edgar tells Jill "thanks."

One time - thank you
Another - thanks

Why the pluralization? Was the first time only the offering of one, singular piece of gratitude? And then on the second time, was it a collection, a cluster, if you will, of gratitude? What makes the need to switch these?

Why couldn't you legitimately say, "Thanks you"? Or why couldn't you say, "Thank" after someone gives you their peppermint (or spearmint)?

From here on out I am only going to offer the collection/cluster of gratitude. I feel like you get a little bit more for your words when you pluralize them. (For example, I would much rather have 5 dollars then 1 dollar). So hold me to it.

Thanks you.

You Tell Me (Round Two: Exploration)

2009-02-20T14:09:00.000-08:00

Well after your provided period of creative brainstorming, I have made my selection. For this blog, I will be writing about....

Morning Breath (thanks Keely). Help me understand this one, people. You wake up from a nice sleep and for no good reason at all, your mouth smells like the inside of grandpa's shoe. Or a cadaver's opened chest cavity. Or your dog's silent-but-violent after getting into an onion patch.

And this makes no sense. Why does the aroma of your mouth undergo such a radical transformation? Think about this: Before you go to bed, you brush your teeth, leaving your mouth minty fresh (or 'pepperminty,' as some have said). And with this minty mouth, you lay there for 8 hours (on a good night). You don't do anything. You don't get up in the middle of the night and hit the buffet at Golden Corral. You don't gargle tuna juice. You are simply laying there. And after said 8 hours of non-eating, your mouth is now exuding fumes so raunchy that your spouse has to turn aside in horror.

And here's the crazy thing - why does this only happen at night? Why isn't stank-breath summoned in the day time hours? You can go throughout the whole day and not eat anything stanky and your breath is relatively fine by the time bed time rolls around. And you have been eating!! But for some reason, you lay down, don't eat anything, and in a few hours - poof! - stank breath. It's like the cinderella story...backwards. At 10:45 pm, the breath is a beautiful princess. Glistening, clean, pepperminty princess. When the clock strikes 6:30 am the magic leaves and the rot returns. Grandpa's shoes.

Nothing can stop it either. It is a plague. It is a poison. It is a curse. No midnight mints can prevent it. No late night mouth wash can hold its power back. When the alarm clock goes off, the stank will arrive - inexplicably, uncontrollably, irritatingly.

I can only hope that tomorrow things will be different. But I know they won't.

You Tell Me (Round One: Invitation)

2009-02-03T13:54:00.001-08:00

Here at MattyMattSax Dot Blogspot, aka Matthryn, we are going to try something new. We are going to be innovative, edgy, fresh. We are going to be hip and relevant. We are going to be saucy and spicy. We are going to be liquidish and corporeal.

And here is what that entails:

You tell me.

Exactly. You make a comment on this (very) blog about a particular topic or observation in life that you find amusing. You merely state it in the indicative. No further decorative description is needed. What I mean is this: You state a naked observation and/or topic in the world.

For example, you could comment like this: "People getting too close to my buggy in the checkout line at the grocery store." Or another one might be: "Nose hair." Or perhaps another example could be: "Mustard vs. Mayo." That's it. Don't tell me what you think about this particular topic/observation. Don't vent. Don't spill anguish. Just comment. You tell me.

After a week of compiling these observations/topics, I will pick what I find to be the most "blog-worthy" and then fill you in on what I, yes I, think about it in a subsequent blog. (Does this sound selfish? Like I get to make up the rules to a game that only I can play? Yes, this sounds just like that.)

So....what do you think? You tell me.

Mr. Ed - Pinnacle of Bad Television

2009-01-20T15:26:00.000-08:00

My wife made a good point tonight - "How did a TV show like Mr. Ed ever make it? A talking horse? Please."

Certainly worthy of a blog post to explore that question. Here you have a television show that lasted five years. Let me repeat that: FIVE YEARS. The entire premise revolved around a talking horse. Come on, people. How do you squeeze out 5 years of crappy episodes about a talking horse?

Kathryn just asked me - "Didn't the horse give advice?" I don't remember. But I really wanted it to. Like - so-and-so was in a jam, and Mr. Ed was able to talk them out of it. Kathryn is now fairly convinced that this was the point of the show. People would get in jams, consult the horse, and crisis would be averted. The horse was the wise sage. The guru. Mr. Ed.

How is this possible in a post-Enlightenment, educated, Western civilization? Entertainment derived from watching a horse talk? Come on.

It did say "Wilbur" a lot. And the voice was all wobbly. W-w-w-w-i-i-i-l-l-l-b-b-b-urrrrr!! Somehow the horse, though able to speak English, was not able to overcome its "horsey" nature, and thus its "horsey" accent. Ahhh, the sage does have his limitations.

I did just find out via Wikipedia, that Mr. Ed was euthanized due to increasing poor health.

Mr. Ed became Elmer's.

Maxims, Axioms, and Chicken Salad

2009-01-12T11:48:00.000-08:00

I know I have written about onions in the past. On several occasions, actually. But I have no problem writing about them again. Frankly, I cannot get over these things. Every time I find myself chopping them (and subsequently barreled over holding my eyes), I wonder why on earth these things are on earth. Maybe my eyes aren't quite "broken in" yet, but every time I split their bodies in half, peal that stupid brown paper off of them, and begin "finely chopping" them, I soon find myself in pain. And I begin cursing them in my heart. And I start thinking things like, "Onions are stupid. Why do we even eat these things. I hate them." And the curse-fest continues.

But tonight something new happened. Aside from my internal torrential hate affair, I thought about our forefathers and how a primitive generation would first experience the pungent face-punching fumes of opened onions. You have to wonder what this would be like. You're walking along the field/garden/vesta and you come upon an onion. So you pull it from the ground (they do come from the ground, right?) and take it back home to enjoy it. Maybe you think to peal the stupid brown paper. Maybe you don't. Either way, you somehow get into this newly discovered vegetable only to newly discover its ability to bring you to your knees. So you huck it from your presence like a baseball (or hot potato), cursing it as a "vile weed." Who would want to return and try it again - knowing it will burn out your retinas with its poisonous fumes? Why did our forefathers give it another shot? Maybe they thought, "Next time, it won't set my eyeballs on fire."

Or maybe they thought, "I really like that stupid brown paper that covers it."

Or perhaps they thought, "If we keep eating them, our children's children's children will eat them, thinking it is normal to sit over a kitchen counter weeping for 15 minutes."

But most likely they thought, "Why does 'Llama' have two L's in it? A silent "L"? Come on."

The Awkward Parts About Being Human

2009-01-01T04:27:00.000-08:00

The following is a list of instances that are most awkward in the human experience:

1. Realizing that there is an insufficient amount of toilet paper on the roll after completing your "business." So, you stretch it out to make every bit count. And it gets down to the wire of you having to pull those last little scraps of paper that are glued down to the little cardboard roll.

2. Having to refer to another human as "you" because you have forgotten their name and they have remembered yours.

3. Junior High.

4. Not being able to get that last ice cube at the bottom of your glass. The drink is finished, the ice is consumed, and that last one seems to be stuck on the bottom rim. What is it hanging onto? No one knows. But it is. So you tap and you shake and you pound. And you look like a fool. All for the reward of one little cube of ice.

5. Purchasing feminine products.

6. Using the restroom at a very large house party. Number two. And that is not the awkward part. It is when you exit the bathroom and run into someone that you know right there out in front of the restroom. And you proceed to have a conversation 3 feet away from the very spot you just completed your "business." You are both thinking about this throughout the duration of your conversation but neither alludes to it. You can't. So you grit your teeth, smile, ask them about what "they've been up to lately" and pray your guts out that someone rescues you.

7. Asking someone about how their grandparents are - only to find out that their grandparents have recently passed away. This happened to me the other day. It was not a fun experience.

8. Getting mad at a car on the road for whatever reason, letting them aware of your frustration with them, and then pulling into the same parking lot with them to discover that you are both going to the same place.

9. Going to a tanning bed place.

10. Walking out of the grocery store to your car. Only there is a woman who has exited the grocery store before you who is walking to her car as well. And it so happens that your car is just beyond where she parked. So you are essentially following her to her car. And she continues to turn her head to look at you - suspiciously - as if she is worried that you are in fact following her. And you are, sort of. You can sense the panic she is feeling and you hate it. But you have to get to your car and don't see the point of taking a long detour around several other parked cars to get to yours. So you keep following her. And she keeps looking back. And she starts picking up her pace. And you cringe - thinking that you probably need to shave or at least wear something that doesn't give off the impression that you could potentially hurt people in grocery store parking lots.

This Page Intentionally Left Blank

2009-01-01T04:08:00.000-08:00

I was combing through an official document the other day (an activity that I love doing. Seriously, I clear out my schedule so that I can comb through official documents. My wife has to literally pull me away from these "official" activities sometimes.) And upon my combing through said official document, I reached a page that caught my attention. Right there in the middle of a somewhat empty page was one sentence typed:

This page intentionally left blank.

Hmmm. Now, let's think about this. Here is a sentence printed on a page declaring that this page is left blank. (Intentionally, by the way.) But it isn't blank....is it? The very fact that there is a sentence printed in the middle of the page contradicts the sentence's claim, right? It's like writing, "This is not a complete sentence." It's like saying, "Never say never." It is self-referentially contradictory. The page isn't blank at all. Don't tell me that it is.

Why waste a page in the first place if you were going to print on it any way...albeit with a disclaimer that you weren't going to print on it? Just go ahead and print whatever you were going to print on the next page. Why waste the paper (and the ink) informing us that you are wasting paper (and ink)?!? What's the point in skipping a page for no good reason?

[This paragraph intentionally left blank.]

And why the added adverb: "intentionally"? Oh, that is helpful. You did this on purpose. That is clarifying. I would have been confused if you simply wrote "This page left blank." I would have been like - "WHAT?!? How did this happen?!? How did this page get left blank and yet simultaneously be informing me that it isn't blank?!? Is the universe folding in on itself?!??!" But with that one little word "intentionally" now I know - oh, thank goodness. This insanity does have a purpose to it.

All in all, this is stupid. Just use the page that you were going to "intentionally" leave blank. Don't skip over it.

Nothing like bringing in the new year with criticism and cynicism. (Put together: Crytnicism)

The Star "Spangled?" Banner

2008-12-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-18T07:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-15T05:47:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-12-11T06:19:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-06T04:12:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-12-02T17:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-15T08:28:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-09T16:10:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-30T05:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-24T12:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-17T17:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-13T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-09T14:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-25T07:38:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-19T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-11T15:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-04T05:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-27T19:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-23T02:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-22T05:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

fries of the french

French Fries: A Short Story

2008-08-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T15:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-15T08:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-11T04:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-07T05:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-03T07:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-31T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-27T03:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-23T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-13T23:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T07:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-20T09:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-17T05:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-03T17:26:00.001-07:00

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))

2008-05-31T04:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-30T04:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-29T04:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T04:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-27T03:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-26T03:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-25T03:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-24T04:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T04:57:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-05-22T03:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-21T03:53:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-05-20T03:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T04:04:00.000-07:00

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.