Gutte-Check!

    Oh happy day! 

    As many of you may already know, today is the day we celebrate the gifted thespian Steve Guttenberg.  It's humanity's way of thanking him for his many generous contributions to the world of film and television.

    I know you're wondering how to show your love and gratitude for the man who brought us such wonderful delights as Don't Tell Her It's Me (1990), The Man Who Wasn't There (1983), and P.S. Your Cat Is Dead! (2002).  But, fear not, dear friends!  All the information you need so as to properly pay homage to this curly-haired god of stage and screen can be found here.  All I ask is that you do it up right.  The Gutte deserves the best, after all.

    Now, on the odd chance that you've been dwelling in a cave that lacks any cable-TV access for the last thirty years and have no idea who Steve Guttenberg is, here's a website featuring random facts about the immortal Steve (who knew he likes Maury?).

     Enjoy this wonderful day! 

-DP

Tags: Steve Guttenberg Day

How To Win At Chess...

Toilet time stalemates chess match - Sports - International Herald Tribune

    Heh...  It's not so much about learning the game, kids.  It's about having a bladder the size of an aquarium.  You certainly don't see this sort of thing on the Pro-Bowling Circuit. 

-DP

Jesus Wants Your PIN.

At Church, an 'ATM for Jesus' - Los Angeles Times

    Oy!  Sometimes a church will do something that will just leave me laughing silly, and this whole notion of tithing via ATM cracks me up in ways I just can't explain.  Even better, the pastor mentioned in this article that if this ATM thing catches on, he would like to put credit card machines on the backs of pews so people can just keep giving and giving and giving. 

    Now, I'm not a Bible scholar by any stretch, but I do remember something about Jesus and money-changers and temples and such, and if I'm right, he really wasn't too fond of it. 

-DP

Cool picture...

    I was backing up files and stuff a little while ago, and I stumbled upon a picture of Gus' handiwork I took when we were last off camping with friends.

    Who's Gus, you ask? 

    Well, Gus is the spider who lives in my Jeep.  Every night, he (or she) builds a new web in my car someplace.  Sometimes they're quite elaborate and pretty, and I think Gus does some of his best work on my steering wheel. 

    Unfortunately, I sometimes am forced to wipe them away in order to drive, and Gus scampers off to wherever it is in my Jeep that Gus calls home.  But, during the night, while I am snoozing and (hopefully) not driving, Gus comes out and builds all sorts of new webs for me to deal with in the morning.  It's kind of cool in a weird sort of way.

-DP

Please Help Fix R8

Please Help Us Fix R8 :

    I'm actually using the "Blog about this entry" link on Jeff's Magic Smoke to create this entry.  I've never used that link, so I'm curious to see how it all works out.  If you have a journal, it seems pretty easy.

    Anyway, it seems the incorporation of Release #8 of the latest version of AOL Journals has not gone off as smoothly as hoped.  So, Journals' Editor Jeff and Product Manager Stephanie are asking people to post in the "beta" version of their journals and report any problems they encounter. 

    Getting to the beta version of your journals is very easy, actually.  Just type "beta." before the word "journals" in the URL so it looks like "//beta.journals.aol.com/your screen name/your journal name/" 

    Why am I doing this?  Well...  I was just looking for an excuse to use the "Blog about this entry" feature and potentially break more stuff. 

    Carry on, Citizens!

-DP

Ask Stupid Questions!

    According the calendar of Bizarre American Holidays, today is "Ask a Stupid Question Day." 

    So, in the comments, please ask a stupid question.  You never know; I may even try to answer them somewhere down the line.  Just remember that when you ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer.

    Now, I know this universal truism flies in the face of the belief that there is no such thing as a stupid question; however, we all know that is simply a tactic used by various educators, clueless bosses, and Supreme Court Justices so as to weed out and identify the stupid people among us in order to more easily exploit their stupidity in the future.  After all, do you know how hard it is to get someone who's smart to do something utterly stupid without the assisstance of a LOT of alcohol?  It's easier to find a fart in a bag of nails, I think.   

    Anyway, leave a stupid question in the comments.  And, if you need help with that, leave a comment and I'll send you the instructions, okay? 

-DP 

**UPDATE**  To answer Nancy's stupid question:

Hey...aren't ya gonna show the questions (and some answers) in another entry??

    Yes.  I will answer any and all stupid questions.  I'm hoping to have them compiled and posted by Sunday.

Tags: Stupid Question Day

Side Effects...

    Oy!  I'm an achy little munchkin.  I figure I was either playing in traffic last night, or I was assaulted by a collection of hammer-toting gnomes who beat me into a mushy mess while I lay sleeping and dreaming about many wonderful volleyball games with a group of Swedish swimsuit models. 

    The way I see it --and I don't know if Dawn can back me up on this or not-- I am suffering some really wicked bone aches as a result of the Remicade I've been taking so as to treat my really wicked bone aches.   So, to me, it's kind of like taking aspirin to treat a headache and winding up with, well, another headache. 

    Not to worry though.  This also happened last time I had my little infusion a few weeks ago, and it went away after a couple of days, but zounds!  It's freakin' annoying. 

    However, on the plus side, I got free pudding when I was at the hospital getting my infusion.  And, in my world, pudding is like beer.  It's so much tastier when it's free.  And, as I was sitting there in the Comfy Chair with an IV in my arm, one of the myriad of thoughts tripping through my head was that it would probably be incredibly delicious to eat my tasty Snack Pack of chocolate pudding with a strip of yummy, crispy bacon, rather than the pathetic plastic spoon they gave me.  After all, do any of you remember those cheese and cracker units we used to eat as kids? 

    Yeah.   How many of you just scooped up the cheese and ate it directly off the little red putty-knife only to save the crackers as a nice, after-cheese snack? 

    That's what I was aiming at with my bacon and chocolate pudding.  Unfortunately, the nurse balked at my idea and sternly refused to run up to the cafeteria to fetch me some strips of bacon.  Apparently, they have rules about those sorts of things.  Damn the man! 

    In other news, I did manage to lug myself to the barber to get a much needed shearing today.  A delightful woman named Tina had at this chaotic mess of wispy hair atop my noggin as I sat there listening to her tell me all about her twin teenage daughters, her biker boyfriend, and whether or not it hurt when one of her ten, heavy gold and silver rings banged against my skull as her scissors snipped above me.  And, for a moment, I wondered whether or not Delightful Tina had stepped away to be replaced by an oily lounge singer named Vic.  But, at $10, you get what you pay for. 

    Oh well... That's my day so far --pain, hair-loss and blunt force trauma to the head.  I think I need pudding... 

-DP

Eeeeyaaugh!

    Now, I'm wonked.  It's been a busy day.  So, here's the answer:

Bea Arthur

Runny French Cheese

Toast

    Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to come up with the question.  Think Jeopardy, only there's no right or wrong answer..  err..  question, or whatever. 

    Have fun!

-DP

A Little Driving...

    Earlier today, I was out driving my way through the mess of Milwaukee afternoon traffic when I encountered a somewhat usual, garden-variety traffic jam.  I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that Dick Cheney was released from his cave and allowed to come to Milwaukee for a one-thousand dollar a plate luncheon, and this, in turn, dragged just about every Cheney-ac with a grand to burn out of the woodwork and onto the expressway. 

    Anyway, as I drove, I found myself slowing and stopping as I became but one single car in a crawling mass of many.  Behind me, a bus grunted, and in front of me a sky-blue Buick with two gray heads inside lit up its brake-lights with a chaotic series of arrhythmic flashes independent of the cacaphony of the huddled mass of metal around us.

    Sometimes, when I am stuck in these situations, I tend to let my mind wander over no end of odd little things.  Sometimes I think about where it is I am going (In this case, I was heading to the hospital to get a 3-hour infusion of Remicade); sometimes I think about where I've been (a handful of feet from the hotel where The Dick was speaking); sometimes I write haiku, and sometimes I just try to imagine the conversations happening all around me. 

     Today, I chose the latter and I thought about the two gray heads in the Buick ahead of me.  I imagined the possible conversation this delightful, brake-happy couple was having, and I figure, it went something like this:

    "Damn it!"  The old man says sternly.  "Damn it, damn it, damn IT!"

    "What is it honey?" The old woman asks. 

    "I knew we shouldn't have gone to that Arab gas station," the old man barks. 

    "Why?" the old woman asks flatly. 

    "The damn car's ticking," he responds.  "It's ticking, and for all I know, that damn Al Qaeda planted a bomb in the engine while you were in there using the bathroom, and I was buying Slim Jims."

    "It's not Al Qaeda, dear," the old woman says.  

    "Fine," the old man snaps.  "It's that damn Hezbolla again." 

    "No," the woman says.  "It's not them.  And, it's not a bomb."

    "What do you know?" the old man says.  "Seriously.  You don't know anything."

    "Well, dear," the woman says calmly. "I may not know a whole lot about terrorists and bombs, but I do know that you've just spent the last twenty miles driving with your turn signal on." 

 

-DP

Go Badgers!

    Yes!  I am going to enjoy the next several hours devouring a huge plate of bacon while watching my beloved Badgers thrash the hopelessy overrated Michigan Wolverines. 

    If you're a Michigan fan, well...  I hate to tell you this, but your afternoon is going to be a long, sad, dreary one.  Neener neener... 

   In other words: Watch!  And behold the power of cheese! 

-DP

*UPDATE*  Well, wouldn't you know it?  I mean, there I was watching the Badgers whoop the Wolverines, and, all of a sudden, my cable went out, and, umm, err...  well...  then the locusts came, it started raining frogs, and things just went downhill from there.  That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.  Yup.  Locusts... 

It's the Most Beautiful Thing in the World...

    This morning, when I managed to get online, I opened my email and found a link to perhaps the most beautiful thing ever created by Man's hungry and hurried hands. 

    So, I'd like to thank Cinzano (whose journal is a private one, but I think if you're not completely Mormon, she'll let you in if you ask nicely).  She gave me the link, and ever since, my tummy's been growling like that of a starving orphan in a Dickens' novel. 

     Anyway, don't they look pretty?  Sure, at first glance, you're probably thinking "But Dan?  Those are just corn dogs.  What's wrong with you?  Did you sleep with your head clamped in a vise or something?" 

     Ahh...  Here's the thing: these are NOT simple corn dogs.  In fact, the only thing they have in common with corn dogs is the philosophy that "battered-meat-on-a-stick" is a good and righteous thing.  What these things are is a tasty hunk of breakfast sausage wrapped in pancake batter and cooked to a delicious golden brown.  All I need to enjoy these is a bucket of melted butter to dip them in, some syrup, a few napkins, and it probably wouldn't hurt to alert the nearest Cardiac Trauma unit.   

    Now, to make my life of gluttony complete, there are several other things I am going to need aside from breakfast-on-a-stick. 

    First, I am going to need bacon, obviously.  It's not my fault.  As a result of genetics, my body is powered by bacon.  When I bleed, not only does my blood quickly coagulate at room temperature, but it also fills my surroundings with the pleasing and heavenly aroma of hickory smoked pork products.  Therefore, to begin my life of gluttony and seclusion, I need to sign up for the Bacon of the Month Club. 

    Yes!  Every month a new bacon arrives at my doorstep.  How I ever managed to get by without this is beyond me.  Sure, it's a little expensive ($215), but can you really set a price on such joy? 

    So, with breakfast and lunch taken care of, I think we need to think about dinner.  After all, as yummy as it is, I probably shouldn't eat bacon ALL day.  I need to mix it up with healthy alternatives.  And, what's healthier than a subscription in the Pie of the Month club? 

     Yes, I know.  You're grinding your teeth thinking that pie isn't really all that healthy.  But, some pies have fruit in them.  Fruit is healthy.  Therefore, Fruit in a pie is healthy.  It's really quite a simple syllogism when you think about it. 

     Now, since the only exercise I plan to get will come in the form of the muscle-straining effort of dragging my bacon-fed, pie-eating carcass off the couch once a month to retrieve my goodies, I'm going to need something to drink.  Bacon's salty, and fluids are important.  Ergo, I am going to need the Beer of the Month Club. 

     My God!  I am going to love delivery day.  We'll have breakfast on a stick, bacon, pie and beer.  I love you Internet.  I love you dearly. 

     Yes.  I know you will worry about me turning into a grumpy, anti-social freak of a human being, but really now, your fears are unfounded.  After all, I will probably belong to more clubs than you.  And, the clubs I belong to are good clubs with people who love me and do not judge me. 

    In other news, I swiped this picture from new-visitor and blogger Karen's profile, and I wanted to take a moment to express my desire to see a herd of self-tenderizing cattle.   

 

    I'm sure as horrible as it is that a suicidal cow would tumble from the heavens to smash upon the roof of your car, and though it's not exactly the ritualistic massaging the beer-fed Kobe beef cattle receive on a daily basis (and you wonder why it costs more than $100 a pound), I think cattle that are willing do this sort of thing would save me an awful lot of work in the kitchen. 

 

    What do you mean I'm lazy?  Life is all about convenience, and doesn't food always taste better when other people do all the hard work?  I need the pie, bacon, beer and breakfast delivered to my door.  And, on those odd occasions where I actually do leave the house (probably to pick up my Lipitor refill), I'd like to know that, as I'm driving, there's a chance --albeit small-- that I will cross paths with a perfectly tenderized pile of steak.  Is that really so wrong?

 

-DP

   

Tags: Breakfast on a stick, Bacon of the Month, Pie of the Month, Beer of the Month, Self-Tenderizing Cattle, DPoem has lost his mind

Wiggy Code...

     Now, I don't know if it shows up on your end or not, but in my rather cluttered "About Me" section, there's a little phrase saying "Code corrupted.  Insert fresh copy." 

     Yesterday, I was having a bit of an issue with my StatCounter, and it stopped keeping track of hits to this journal.  And, considering I was muddling around in the HTML of the section when it went goofy, I figured, Hey!  I screwed something up.  Neato.

    So, I went and got some new code to replace the screwy old stale code I had in there, and now, for some dumb reason, though it's still keeping track of visitors, it keeps telling me to install a fresh copy of the code --which I've done probably a dozen times to no avail.  In other words, it's working fine.  However, it doesn't think it's working fine.  In other, other words, it's got self-confidence issues, and I've got to figure out a way of explaining to this unhappy little slice of HTML gibberish that everything's fine, everyone likes it, and it's doing a fine job.  There, there, little gibberish.  You're doing a fine job, and --gosh darn it!-- everybody likes you.

     Yep.  Leave it to me to insert a piece of code with a nearly dysfunctional and crippling sense of self-worth.  

     Oh well...  It's Friday, and I'm not all that ambitious to remedy the issue.  So, if you'd like, take a moment to consider the phrase "Code corrupted.  Insert fresh copy," and create whatever joke you please from there.  Just make sure to leave your funny stuff (or links to your funny stuff) in the comments. 

-DP

A Television Meme...

    Hi folks!  Here's the TV-Show Meme I swiped from Paul.  I wrote about doing it earlier, but then that whole life thing got in the way. 

    Anyway, give it a whirl on your own journal or blog and have fun. 

   The instructions are simple: change the color and/or boldface the shows you've watched at least three complete episodes of, and Bold and Italicize a show if you're certain you've seen every episode of it.
   You can add up to three shows to the list, but keep them in alphabetical order.

24
3rd Rock from the Sun
7th Heaven
Adam-12
Aeon Flux
A.L.F
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
Alias
Alice
Alien Nation
Allo Allo
American Idol/Pop Idol/Canadian Idol/Australian Idol
America's Next Top Model/Germany's Next Top Model
Angel
Arrested Development
Babylon 5
Babylon 5: CrusadeBattlestar
Battlestar Galactica (the old one)
Battlestar Galactica (the new one)
Baywatch
Batman
Beauty & the Beast
Beavis & Butthead
The Ben Stiller Show
Beverly Hills 90210
Bewitched
Bonanza
Bones
Bosom Buddies
Boston Legal
Boy Meets World
Brady Bunch
Buck Rogers in the 25th Century
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Bug Juice
Chappelle's Show
Charlie's Angels
Charmed
Cheers
China Beach
Columbo
Commander in Chief
Coupling
Cowboy Bebop
Crossing Jordan
CSI
CSI: Miami
CSI: NY
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Dallas
Dancing with the Stars
Danny Phantom
Dark Angel
Dark Skies
Davinci's Inquest
Dawson's Creek
Dead Like Me
Deadliest Catch
Deadwood
Degrassi: The Next Generation
Designing Women
Desperate Housewives
Dharma & Greg
Diff'rent Strokes
Doctor Who (new Who)
Doctor Who (series 1-26)
Dragnet
Due South
Dungeons and Dragons
Dynasty
Earth 2
Earth - Final Conflict
Emergency!
Enterprise
Entourage
ER
Escape From Planet Earth
Everwood
Everybody Loves Raymond
Facts of Life
Falcon Crest
Family Guy
Family Ties
Fantasy Island
Farscape
Fawlty Towers
Felicity
Firefly
Flamingo Road
Frasier
Friends
Full House
Futurama
Get Smart
Gilligan's Island
Gilmore Girls
Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.
Green Wing
Grey's Anatomy
Growing Pains
Gunsmoke
Happy Days
Head of the Class
Hercules
Highlander
Hill Street Blues
Hogan's Heroes
Home Improvement
Homicide: Life on the Street
House
I Dream of Jeannie
I Love Lucy
Invader Zim
Invasion
Iron Chef (Japan)
Iron Chef (USA)
Ironside
JAG
Jackass
Jeopardy
Joey
John Doe
Kath and Kim
Knight Rider
Knots Landing
La Femme Nikita
LA Law
Laugh-In
Laverne and Shirley
Law & Order
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Law & Order: SVU
Little House on the Prairie
Lizzie McGuire
Logan's Run
Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
Lost
Lost in Space
Love, American Style
M*A*S*H
MacGyver
Magnum P.I.
Malcolm in the Middle
Married...With Children
Melrose Place
Miami Vice
Millenium
Mission Impossible
Monk
Moonlighting
Mork & Mindy
Murphy Brown
My Family
My Favorite Martian
My Life as a Dog
My Mother the Car
My So-Called Life
My Three Sons
My Two Dads
Mysterious Cities of Gold
NCIS
Night Court
Nip/Tuck
Northern Exposure
Numbers
One Tree Hill
Oz
Parker Lewis Can't Lose
Perfect Strangers
Perry Mason
Picket Fences
Pirates of Darkwater
Pokemon
Power Rangers
Prison Break
Profiler
Project Blue Book ("Project UFO" in UK)
Project Runway
Psyche
Quantum Leap
Queer As Folk (US)
Queer asFolk (British)
Queer Eye For The Straight Guy
ReGenesis
Remington Steele
Rescue Me
Road Rules
ROME
Roseanne
Roswell
Samurai Jack
Sanford & Son
Saved by the Bell
Scarecrow and Mrs. King
Scooby-Doo Where Are You?
Scrubs

Second City Television (SCTV)
Seinfeld
Sex and the City
Six Feet Under
Sliders
Slings and Arrows
Smallville
Small Wonder
So Weird
South Park
Space 1999
Spaced
Spongebob Squarepants
Sports Night
Square Pegs
St. Elsewhere
Star Trek
Star Trek: The Next Generation
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Star Trek: Voyager
Star Trek: Enterprise
Stargate Atlantis  (Sorry Paul.  It's kinda good.)
Stargate SG-1  (It's been freaking cancelled.)
Superman
Supernatural
Surface
Survivor
Taxi
Teen Titans
Teletubbies
That Girl
That 70's Show
That's So Raven
The 4400
The Addams Family
The Andy Griffith Show
The A-Team
The Avengers
The Beverly Hillbillies
The Bionic Woman
The Book of Daniel
The Colbert Report
The Cosby Show
The Daily Show
The Dead Zone
The Dick Van Dyke Show
The Dukes of Hazard
The Flintstones
The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air
The Golden Girls
The Greatest American Hero
The Jetsons
The L Word
The Love Boat
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
The Mighty Boosh
The Monkees
The Munsters
The Mythbusters
The O.C.
The Office (UK)
The Office (US)
The Outer Limits
The Pretender
The Prisoner

The Ray Bradburry Theater
The Real World
The Shield
The Simpsons
The Six Million Dollar Man
The Sopranos
The Suite Life of Zack and Cody
The Twilight Zone
The Waltons
The West Wing
The Wild Wild West
The Wonder Years
The X-Files
Third Watch
Thirtysomething
Three's Company

Thundercats  (HO!)
Top Gear
Twin Peaks
Twitch City
Upstairs, Downstairs
"V"
Veronica Mars
Wings
What Not To Wear (US)
What Not To Wear (UK)
Whose Line is it Anyway? (US)
Whose Line is it Anyway? (UK)
Witchblade
Will & Grace
Wonderfalls
Wonder Woman
Xena: Warrior Princess
Young Hercules

   If you wish to play along -- and if you're reading this, consider yourself so challenged. The easiest way to do so is to copy the list above to TypePad or NotePad so that the boldface or italicized formatting will not copy with it, then you can adjust as necessary on your own blog.

   Now, like Paul, I added three, and they are: SCTV, The Ray Bradburry Theater, and Thundercats (because I'm a dork). 

tags: Memes, Televison

Who Are You?

    Earlier this morning, I was coming out of the hospital and wandering across the parking lot after my twice-weekly blast of ultra-violet B radiation, when a man coming toward me said "Hi Dan."

 

    Now, since I had no idea who this person was, I responded with a surprised yet friendly "hey!"  But, neither of us slowed down, and I was left to puzzle over who this strange person actually could have been as we went our separate ways.  Eventually, as is always the case, I found myself growing more and more frustrated by my pathetic memory.  And, by the time I reached my car and fumbled with my keys, I was ready to dash back into the hospital, track this person down, grab him by the lapels and demand he tell me who he is and how the hell he knows me. 

 

    Unfortunately, I am absolutely dreadful with names.  It's got to be some sort of record with how quickly I continually forget them.  Case in point:  It took me almost two years to be able to remember my friend José's wife's name.  It was absolutely embarrassing.  I'd see her, she'd say, "Hi, Dan," and I'd feebly return the greeting with, "Hi, murblewurbleink."  Or, when that became old and transparent, I'd simply respond with, "Hey! *cough-cough-hack-wheeze*  Sorry, it's tuberculosis.  Nice to see you.  How's things?"   However, the latter approach lead to way more Get-Well cards than I really felt comfortable receiving.  Eventually, she and I came to an understanding.  We would say hello to one another, and she wouldn't laugh at me for being stupid. 

 

    Anyway, this mysterious person in the parking lot baffled me.  Not only did I not remember his name, but his face was wholly unremarkable.  He could have been one of my former doctors, but I think I might have remembered that.  He didn't rattle when he walked, so it was unlikely that he belonged to the army of perky, bouncing pharmaceutical salespeople over whom patients and doctors are always tripping.  He didn't stab me, or pull out a gun and cut me down in a spray of lead justice, so there's a pretty good chance I didn't date his sister.  In other words, I had no flippin' clue who this man was and how he knew me.  And, had he not been such a rude bastard, he would have stopped to tell me his name. 

 

    Then again, for all I know, he's probably told me his name a dozen times already, and I suppose I really can't blame him for just running off the way he did. 

 

-DP

Hey You! Yes, You!

    Hey!  I see you there on the AOL Journals' Main Page.  Yes.  I am talking to you.  Stop oogling the picture of Tupac and the green-headed guy with the light coming out of his head and click on me.  Go ahead!  I dare ya.

    No...  I double dare you. 

    Anyway, it seems that I've been slapped up on the Featured Feed module of the Journals' main page, and to those of you who pop in from there, I'd just like to say welcome.  Stay as long as you please, feel free to look around and leave a comment if you wish.  If you've got a blog or journal of your own, leave a link, and I will check it out.  This is a rather silly place where you will find some rather silly people who, although small in number, are quite vicious when it comes to all things funny (think: a pack of rabbits with huge, sharp, pointy teeth and a mean streak a mile wide).

    Now, to those of you who do drop in regularly, I think this would be a wonderful time to say thank you all for making this such a fun thing to do.  Your comments keep me giggling long after the writing's done, and I like that.  Yes. This place is a little rough around the edges, but I wouldn't have it any other way. 

    Well, I think that's about it.  It's a pretty busy day on this end, but I wanted to pop in to welcome the new people and thank the regulars.  Think of it as a sort of customer appreciation day with a two for one happy hour with yummy bacon treats on the side. 

    Have a wild and wonderful day everybody. 

Thanks again,

Dan

Tags: AOL Journals

Gotta Go... Gotta Go...

    One man's "going problem" is another man's dumb waiter. 

 

    A while back, I wrote an entry about women and their eternal struggles with deodorant.  Now, I think it's time to turn the tables and discuss one of the myriad of problems plaguing men.  And, apparently, that problem is constantly having the urge to tinkle. 

 

    Now, when a man has to go, a man has to go, and, trust me on this ladies, when that urge strikes, the last thought to enter a man's mind is: "Gee...  I have to pee again.  Is there a nice, clean bathroom around here anywhere?"  Nope.  He's thinking: "Gee...  Those petunias she made me plant over by the garage look awfully pretty.  I think I'll see how feels to use a bathroom that actually has real flowers in it for once."

 

   Anyway, the Flomax commercials put together by the tinkle-police show a group of four men cruising along in a convertable happily drinking bottled water.  Now, I'm willing to bet that the guy on Flomax --let's call him Bob-- is driving along thinking, "Thank God I don't have to pee."  However, the other three men are thinking, "I wish that idiot Bob wasn't taking Flomax.  I want to stop.  We've passed five bars on this road trip, this bottled water is piss-warm, and I sure could use a cold beer.  Whose dumb idea was it to bring Bob and his Flomax?" 

   

   Now, if you think I am being too harsh, consider what happened to me last Sunday while watching football with my friend John:

 

    Shortly before kick-off, John dropped in with a case of beer, and we grabbed our seats, opened our beers and watched the kick off.  We cheered, we cursed, and we drank our beers.  It was going perfectly fine until my bottle was painfully, mysteriously empty, and the following conversation  ensued:

 

    "You gettin' up?"  I asked setting my empty bottle down with a thud.

    "Nope," John said.  "But, if you're getting up, grab me a beer too."

    "I'm not getting up you lazy bastard."  I said sharply.  "Besides, I was finished first."

    "I bought the beer," he said as he set his empty bottle down.

    "So," I responded.  "It's my TV."

    

    From there, he and I descended into childish bickering until a commercial allowed us a brief window of time to mash out a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors" to decide who would get up (I lost, dammit).

 

    Now, just imagine how different that whole situation would have played out had my friend John had an uncontrolled "going" problem:

 

    "You gettin' up?"  I ask setting my empty bottle down with a thud.

    "Yeah," John says.  "You need another one?"

    "Yep." 

   

    See?  Rather than drive our friendship to the brink of violence, the absence of Flomax has only strengthened things to the point where I am now able to develop a symbiotic relationship with my friend John and his troubled prostate out of sheer selfish laziness.  Indeed, what we have now is something which transcends simple friendship.  Because of his "going" problem, John is now my slave, and my life is made much easier because of it.   It's as if Nature intended it, and who am I to argue with Nature?

 

-DP

Arrr...

 

    Yarr!  Avast ye scurvy dogs!  I be thanking ye kindly for dragging yer briny carcass to this here log on this, the most auspicious of days for fellow freebooters.

    Today is Talk Like a Pirate Day.  And, be ye out on the briny or holed up in a land of lubbers, today we be releasin' our inner buccaneer upon those worthless buckets of rogue-hatin' chum.  And, if ye be findin' yerselves needin' a bit o' help, here's a list t' help ye bilge-rats on yer way:  How t' talk like a pirate.  And, if ye be needin' a more piratey name, go here, and if yer vessel be needin' t' be christened to fly the Jolly Roger, go here. 

    Today, I be Cap'n Pete Ropeburn, and me colors be wavin' from the masts of The Greedy Whore.  Arr-arr-arr... 

     Now, you worthless bilge-rats, grab yer grog n' hornpipes and be the best buccaneer ye can be! 

-Cap'n Pete     

   

Tags: Talk Like a Pirate Day

Oh You Whacky Kids...

    I swear, I have no idea why kids run around putting me on their Buddy Lists.  It's a little weird, and sometimes I just get the strangest instant messages.  Take the following, for instance.  My IM-blocker thingy went "whoop" to let me know a stranger was trying to IM me.  Then, after a bit of time had passed, it began to go "whoop-whoop-whoop-whoopwhoopwhoopwhoop..." until I hit "ignore."  Then, when I decided to confront this pest after they changed their screen name, the real fun begins...

Sender:  Hey, what's ur problem?  I think I can report u

DPoem:  For what? Ignoring you?  You're a special kind of moron, aren't you? 

Sender:  Yes, I am.  lol  I'm special.  But I advise u to keep ur language, as in moron to a minimum because there r little kids right here

DPoem:  Why?  You ARE a moron.  Deal with it. 

Sender:  That was my friend.  U were on my buddy list and she was trying to find out who u were.  And I think YOU are the moron here.  I already told u to NOT say those words.  My daughter is right here.

DPoem:  I don't care.  If your friend wants to send me 100 IMs in a span of less than thirty seconds, I'm going to block the moron.  

Sender:  How old r u anyway?

DPoem:  Teach her some manners. 

Sender:  Ur a big asshole and I don;t think ur very nice.  Seriously, how old r u?

DPoem:  Not hard to learn manners.  And I do not enjoy being harrassed.   

Sender:  U live in the Adirondacks?

Sender:  SHE WASN'T TRYING TO HARASS YOU.  IF YO)U WOULDN'T TAKE EVERYTHING SO PERSONAL IT WOULD BE OKAY.

DPoem:  I didn't invite her nonsense you idiot.   

Sender:  Well, she didn;t know who u were

DPoem:  So if she doesn't know me, why is she IM-ing me?  And, perhaps you should keep better control of your children.

Sender:  You could have just said, "Please stop IMing me."

Sender:  She isn't my child

Sender:  I have one

Sender:  just makiing me kind of mad the way u would handle a situation like thius

DPoem:  Am I supposed to care? 

Sender:  Yes

Sender:  Very much

DPoem:  Why?   

Sender:  because

DPoem:  Tell your friends to leave me alone.   

Sender:  She is just a child and YOU need to leanr manners

DPoem:  Am I supposed to respond to every single person who tries to IM me more than 100 times in thirty seconds? 

Sender:  Well, they will.  it's not like u ever talk anyway

DPoem:  Some people might consider that a clue.

Sender:  No, but u could at least just say please stop IMingm me

Sender:  That could be nicer, says the one who wants other people to get manners

DPoem:  I don't really have time for this pointless conversation. 

Sender:  Yea, okay, that's great.  Don;t call me an idiot

DPoem:  Go smack your friend and stop being such a damn pest. 

Sender: I prolly have more wisdom then u

DPoem:  I doubt that very very much. 

Sender:  Sorry, but I'm not a bitch

DPoem:  Yes you are. 

Sender:  I don;t smack people

Sender:  No

Sender:  I'm not

Sender:  If u would take the chance and getto KNOW someone, mayb they wouldn;t seem as bad as u think they r

DPoem:  Maybe if they wouldn't IM me 100 times in thirty seconds, I wouldn't ignore them. 

Sender:  Oookay, well, if you had told them to STOP they would have

DPoem:  Why should I have to tell them to stop? 

Sender:  You know what, I coudl be mean and think of u as a bad person, but I am nice and know somewhere inside u r prolly a good person.  That I have top pester u?  R we 3 years old again?

Sender:  Well, if it';s such a problem to YOU, then you should tell them to stop?

DPoem:  Why can't I just block the idiots? 

Sender:  Because, you shouldn't assume

Sender:  You r ASSUMING I am an idiot

DPoem:  You're actually broadcasting the fact that you're an idiot.  I'm just agreeing with the display. 

Sender:  haha.;  Ur oh so funny.  But not amusing. 

DPoem:  How long am I required to talk to you? 

Sender:  And I am not an idiot.  You just think I am because u refuse to to get to know me and therefore you think I am an idiot because you don't really know me

DPoem:  I don't want to get to know you.  

Sender:  I don't know.  Technically you r not REQUIRED to talk to me. I was just wondering why you blocked me.  Well, I can see YOU have a social life.  MAKING FRIENDS helps your self esteem level.  You should learn that.  I'll ttyl and we can continue this conversation, mayb get u some manners

DPoem:  There isn't a snowball's chance in hell I'll talk to you again. 

    I know...  I'm mean.  What can I say?  I was grumpy that day. 

-DP

This is Wrong...

 

Dear Mother Nature,

 

    Hello!  My name is Dan, and I am a huge fan of your work.  In fact, what you did this spring was absolutely wonderful.  And sure, I'm certain you'll probably hear people complain that this summer may have been somewhat warm.  But, all-in-all, I think it was a good one. 

 

    Anyway, the reason I'm writing you, Miss Nature, is to voice my utter displeasure at the fact that when I opened my weather radar this morning, I could see a painful looking patch of white and purple snow in the area around Montana.   Can you, Miss Nature, imagine my shock to see this disgusting smudge of winter weather when the calendar still says that it's summer?  What happened to fall?  What have I done to you that lead you to torture me in such a way as this?  I recycle!  I swerve (usually) to avoid your critters as they scamper into the road, and it's been ages since I took a magnifying glass to any ants.  

 

    Personally, I would like to continue being a fan while enjoying the results of all your hard work; however, should this malicious taunting continue on your part, I will have no choice but to purchase one-hundred acres of Brazilian rain forest to slash and burn.  Then, upon which, I will build an unregulated, high-emission, coal-fired power plant to supply electricity to a lone, freon-leaking refrigerator filled with non-biodegradable styrofoam containers of Chinese food and six-packs of beer bound by plastic rings whose sole purpose is to strangle ducks. 

 

    Is it too much to ask that we have a nice transition into winter via the pleasant season that is autumn?  Please do not be in such a hurry, Miss Nature. 

 

Sincerely,

DP

Hello Sunday!

    I just hopped online to send an email through teh intertubes, and I thought I'd drop in here to see how everyone's Sunday is going along so far.  Good?  Not so good?   Are the Huns knocking on your door asking to borrow a cup of sugar and your first born child?

    Things here are pretty nifty, I suppose.  I'm just getting all settled in to watch my underdog Green Bay Packers upset the Powerhouse New Orleans Saints (Yes.  The 'aints are favored at Lambeau!  Eeeegads!  This is indeed a bizarre world, and everything just seems upside-down.  So, to quote Lloyd Bridges in Airplane: "It looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking").   

    Anyway, Paul did a meme that led me to realize that either he watches too much TV, or I don't watch nearly enough.  However, I think everyone should take advantage of NAFTA and head over there to swipe it from him before Canada closes its border and we're all forced to drink domestic beer. 

    Aside from that, Jackie of Hope Floats has created a flotilla of categories over at Vivi Award Central where you can nominate your favorite journals for this much-coveted award.  So far, it seems like it will be a lot of fun, and if nothing else, there are already a great many well-written journals to read. 

     So, I hope you all have yourselves a wonderful Sunday, and good luck with those pesky Huns. 

-DP

Tags: Memes, AOL Journals, Vivi Awards

What Would Popeye Do?

F.D.A. Warns Against Eating Bag Spinach - New York Times  

    Now, those of you who've been following this journal know two things:

    First, I eat a lot of fried meat, and:

     I contract food poisoning with an almost habitual frequency.  Trust me.  If there's a tainted something out there, it will inevitably find its way into my tummy, and I will suffer and whine and spend several days creating abstract mathematical formulae to determine the number of tiles on my bathroom floor. 

    Now, with that in mind, yesterday I decided to "go healthy."  I figured a salad would be nice, and since I consider lettuce to be the boring, institutional beige of leafy green stuff, and since bags of baby spinach were currently being hawked at two for two-dollars and some change, I excitedly grabbed a couple of those and proceeded to buy croutons, tomatoes, and sundry bits and pieces to make this salad yummy.

    By the time I got around to picking up a little puck of something that will make my toilet water blue, I was actually coming to the realization that tonight's dinner would probably be the healthiest thing I've eaten since an ex-girlfriend and I stayed at a hotel three and a half years ago whose restaurant only served vegetarian dishes, and I was forced to choke down a "Nutburger" --pretty much mashed, pre-masticated granola on a bun with lettuce, tomato and some sort of vegan organic mayo whose taste reminded me of my torturous stretch in pre-school. 

    Anyway, on my way home from the store, I passed by McDonald's: The Home of the Meatless Big Mac, and I gave them a quick, intellectual finger with the notion that I am going to eat a super-healthy spinach salad for dinner. 

     I walked in the door, set my bag of salad fixin's on the stove and proceeded to grab the biggest freaking bowl I could find (and yes.  For a briefmoment, I DID actually think about just tossing the whole thing into bucket and simply having at the delicious pile of greenery like a farm animal, but even alone, I still have a few manners). 

     Once the salad was all assembled to my liking, I plopped down, turned on the TV, jabbed my fork into the pile of greens and heard someone from the Milwaukee County Health Department say, "If you've bought bagged spinach in the last week or two, we strongly urge you to throw it away."

      Well...  It looked like a nice salad at least, and for a moment, the adrenaline-junkie in me considered taking a chance.  But, common-sense got the better of me, and I tossed my salad in the trash and dragged my red-faced self to McDonald's where Quarter Pounders with Cheese are buy-one-get-one free. 

-DP

And You Thought My Cat Was Crazy?

    Now here's a cat who seems to have some pretty lofty ambitions. 

Better Living Through Chemistry.

 

 

   I found these old ads on EatLiver.com's section for Vintage Ads.

    I just love it.  Without Thorazine, this old boy's scant inches away from rapping the socks off some unruly whipper-snapper with his trusty cane. 

    Do not agitate the unmedicated senile! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Damn right!  I'm tired of toaster waffles and instant coffee.  Thank you Mornidine®.  You've turned my wife into a mad-cooking zombie whose repressed rage is percolating like the yummy pot of delicious coffee on the stovetop. 

    The thing is, can you imagine some loving hubby taking his over-worked, underpaid, depressed wife to the doctor saying "Gee-willickers Doc.  The missus is so sad all the time.  Could you give her a pill so she can get out of bed bright and early and make me breakfast?  That would be keen!"

     Then again, look at that mountain of bacon she's cooking and that smile on her face.  Someone is going to die soon...  very soon...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Watch out Canada!  Our pilots are hopped-up, tweaked-out, pill-popping, mallard-hunting maniacs.

     I think that pilot's hand is suffering from the low-level rigormortis that tends to set in after a six-martini lunch. 

   "Look!  I have a free hand!  If only I had a bottle of pills in this hand.  Dammit!  I could be popping amphetamines and attacking Canada!  Yeeeehaaaa!"

    Seriously.  What the hell did Canada ever do to us?  Did I miss a History class or something?  Was there a war?  Who won?

    Oh wait...  I forgot socialised medicine.  And, where there's socialised medicine, there's fistfulls of FREE amphetamines! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-DP

Here's the Rules...

    Well, today is Partisan Primary Day here in Milwaukee, and, it seems, a lot of people are complaining about the rules of voting.  Apparently, they're quite confusing, so I'll post them here to see if they make any sense to you all:

If you select a "Party Preference" at the top of your ballot:

• You must still vote for the candidates of that party in order to complete your ballot.
  
• Only votes cast for candidates from the selected party preference will be counted from your ballot.  If you vote for a candidate from another party, your ballot will be accepted into the voting machine, but the votes for candidates selected from outside your preferred party will not be counted.

If you do NOT select a "Party Preference" at the top of your ballot:

• You must still vote for the candidates of only one political party.
  
• If you "cross party vote" (vote for candidates from more than one political party), your ballot will be rejected by the voting machine.

  

    Well, I don't see how they could have made that any more confusing.  I just love the wording of it all.  I mean, it doesn't really seem to me that there's a whole lot of difference between picking a party preference. 

-DP

Cat Fight!

 

    It's raining here.  And, it's an annoying little pissant of a rain.  It's the kind of rain that when it touches you, you tend to cringe at the demoralizing coldness of it all.  In fact, it bothers me that it has the audacity to even touch the roof. 

 

    Die, you pointless, little drizzle.  Die!

 

    Dog-Cat came in this morning after a night spent carousing along the beach.  I have no idea what he does down there, and it's probably best I never know.  But, he strolled in soaking wet and covered in sand and promptly did the dishes much to the panic of Deaf-Cat, who nosed around the sloppy, slurping, purring bundle of wet Dog-Cat before spinning herself into a mess and passing out on the floor in front of the dishwasher. 

 

    I made coffee and wobbled my way into the bathroom to grab a towel so as to begin the rainy-day ritual of attempting to dry Dog-Cat before he soaks the furniture. 

 

    While he was preoccupied by the vast buffet of cat food before him, I threw the towel over the wet beast and he growled a bit as he continued his mission of emptying the bowls before him.  I swear, the house could be engulfed in flames, we could be running for our lives, the refrigerator could be exploding bottles of mustard and cartons of Chinese take-out into the kitchen, and that damn cat would still stop and devour the most meager crumb before fleeing. 

 

    Anyway, I bend down to get my hands on him, and this is followed by the harsh scratching sound of kitty claws trying to find purchase on the linoleum of the kitchen floor.  Several scratches later, he slips from the towel and my hands, and I hear a sort of "burriiiip" sound from beneath the dining room table as if to ask "what the hell are you doing?  I'm trying to freakin' eat and you're throwing all sorts of crap on me."

 

    Somewhere on the third or forth lap of chasing him around the underside of the dining room table, his bi-polar little mind does a bizarre series of mental gymnastics, and he's gone from the thoughts of "I must eat" to "I must play."

 

    Now, at this point, if any of you question the veracity of Newton's Third Law of Motion, the following is a great example of proof:

 

    I should have seen it coming.  I should have carperted the dining room floor rather than go with the appeal of a hardwood floor.  I should have worn a helmet.

 

    As I was catching up to Dog-Cat, he perched on the edge of one of the oak chairs beneath the table, and as I made a play to apprehend him, he lept.  He lept far.  And, the result of his leep sent the chair he was perched upon screaming across the floor where it probably would have smashed against the wall had it not been abuptly halted by my face. 

 

    Dazed and crawling across the floor with a towel in my hand, I followed Dog-Cat into the living room to find him washing a muddy paw in the center of the room.  I moved slowly toward him so as not to startle him.  My head was starting to clear from the trauma when he suddenly caught sight of my approach and stopped licking his paw, and glared at me.

 

    I'm going to die, I thought.  I'm going to die in my pajamas on my living room floor clutching a towel while my cat sleeps happily on the soon-to-be-damp recliner.    

 

    I'm not sure what set him off.  Perhaps I blinked.  However, as I lay there peering into the wild eyes of my cat, he flattened himself upon the floor and dug his claws into the pseudo-Persian rug.  I knew he was preparing to leap, and I clutched my towel, his claws dug in, and we stared at one another with a gaze vacant of all emotion as we sized each other up.

 

    From the kitchen, I heard Deaf-Cat snore, and had there been villagers witnessing this showdown, I'm certain they'd have hidden themselves behind the safety of the closed and latched shutters of their homes. 

 

    I considered my move: fake right, dive left, and throw towel up to catch Dog-Cat in mid-air while praying that I'm quick enough to wrap him up before he comes down in a flurry of fangs and claws.  

 

    I executed this play flawlessly, and everything went perfectly until I lost my grasp on the towel, and rolled over to see Dog-Cat standing proudly upon the only weapon I had.

 

    Holy crap!  I thought as I looked at him.  I am so screwed --so hopelessly, utterly screwed!  I must stand up!  I... must... find... the... treats!  

 

    I'm not sure what happened, but my soaking wet opponent looked away ever so briefly, and I took advantage of his easily fractured kitty attention span, and I dove, much to his surprise, at HIM.  HA!  

 

    With my left hand on his back, I pushed him to the floor and rolled him away from me.  Then, with the right hand, I clutched the edge of the towel and wrapped him up into a tangled bundle of kicking, clawing, purring, gnawing cat, and rubbed him reasonably dry. 

 

    I won!  Kinda... 

 

   After a short morning nap of about an hour, Dog-Cat was throwing himself at the door, begging to be released back out into the pouring rain.            

 

-DP

9/11

    Five years on from 2001, I still have a hard time grappling with my feelings surrounding the tragic events of September 11th.  Perhaps the most accurate way to describe them would be to say that I hate how I learned how to hate that day.

 

    The morning started out common enough with the early-morning challenges of making coffee, feeding cats and creating something for breakfast.  Eventually, the asthmatic machine wheezed out enough to fill a cup, and I turned on CNN and began to get to work writing.  

 

    Very shortly after CNN cut to the scene of Tower One belching a perverse black and burning breath above the Gotham skyline, my friend Jon called telling me that there was no possible way that what we were watching could have been an accident.  Jon is a private pilot, his wife's a commercial pilot, and considering the weather that day in New York was beautiful, I was inclined to believe him. 

 

    As he ran down the theory that what we were seeing was possibly the result of a suicidal Air Force pilot, the second plane approached and struck the second tower, and we both fell silent as the realization set in that this was now a coordinated attack, and weapons being used are the same commercial airliners his wife guides into the air any number of times on any given day.  And, when he said he had to go, again, I was inclined to believe him.  I don't even think we said goodbye to each other.  

 

    When I learned the Pentagon had been hit, I remember feeling perhaps more stunned than watching the events in New York unfold.  In August of 2000, I was in Alexandria, Virginia for a couple of months cleaning out my aunt's house after she'd lost her fight with cancer.  And, sitting here writing this today, I'd be lying if I didn't say that I am relieved somewhat to know that she was spared the horror and suffering we all witnessed that day five years ago. 

 

    

    Now, I don't want to be overly political, but tonight our President is going to speak on the anniversary of these tragic events.  I accept that it is his obligation to do so.  However, I will not watch, I will not listen, and I will not care to hear what he has to say.  The only thing I feel to match the hurt I felt that day is the shame and disgust I now feel at how this tragedy was selfishly used to mislead us all. 

 

-DP

The Ultimate...

    A couple of days ago, Editor Joe posted an entry about "The Ultimate Blog Post."  He linked to a rather comical site which showcased posts in blogs which best typified the theme of the blog itself. 

    From there, Paul (of course, I always steal stuff from P-Litty), did an entry asking people to come up with the quintessential Aurora Walking Vacation post. 

    Now, I'd like to take that whole notion one step further and ask you all to come up with an idea for a post that would best typify this journal, and I will write it. 

    In other words, you give me some of the "ingredients" for a post that would best define this journal, and I'll do an entry next weekend (hopefully) including as many of those elements as I can. 

    Unfortunately, the theme of this blog is that there really is no theme.  So, you pretty much have the freedom to suggest pretty much anything, I think. 

     Anyway, I'll let you all get to work and have fun playing editor.  You can leave your suggestions in the comment thread, or you can send them via email to DPoem@aol.com. 

-DP

When Catnip Just Isn't Enough...

    I think I might need to score some of this smack for my cats.  I mean, sure, they like catnip, but mostly they just eat it and go to sleep like the stoned little chemicaly-altered beasties the are.  Giving them a bowl full of Cat Smack might help me get my money's worth out of them on the playful/entertainment front. 

    After all, how cool would it be to hook them up with some smack and turn on Animal Planet?  I think the two of them would just sort of sit there like Beavis and Butthead ("heh... heh... heh...  fish rock."). 

Alerts?

   Hey!  I've been hearing a lot about how the entry alerts are down.  I think Editor Jeff and Editor Joe have been trying to clear it up. 

    The thing is, my alerts are working, but the last time the alerts weren't working for me, what I did to remedy the problem was to go into the AOL Alerts itself and edit them all ONE BY ONE to turn them all on again. 

    Fortunately, I don't have a whole lot of journals on my alerts, so it wasn't a huge hassle.  So, for those of you willing to try, that might be an easy fix.  I can't promise anything, though. 

   Also, another option you could try is to do what Paul (aka P-Litty) does and use a feed aggregator or reader.  I understand it's quite handy --especially for those who like to keep up with a lot of non-AOL blogs.  He could probably explain it a lot better than me; however, unfortunately, he's busy building a doghouse which he could very well be sleeping in by October (we really should get a pool going on that). 

    Anyway, that's just my input on the issue.  Hope it helps.

-DP

I've Got Your Crunch Right Here, Cap'n!

 

    Look what I found!  It's a site devoted to old cereal boxes!  Some of them I remember, some I've never heard of, and some of them are way before my time.  But, I can't tell you how cool it is to see King Vitamin.  I spent a lot of time in his sugar-coated kingdom during my formative years.  In fact, without the guidence of his Highness, I'd probably be eating more of those evil vegetable things today. 

 

    On the other hand, I also found General Mills' pseudo-strawberry creation: Frankenberry, and I just have to write about it.  After all, on more than one occasion, I've danced with that evil trinity of Boo-Berry, Count Chocula, and the beast that is Frankenberry.  I've even mixed all three into the same bowl at one time.  I don't recommend this since the end result is a bowl full of something not unlike a sugar-based form berry-chocolate flavored crystal meth which, in your tweaked state, will have you tearing apart clock radios and telephones in search of a bigger spoon.  In fact, just writing about that trifecta is making me itch like a strung out junkie.  Curse you monsters!  Curse you all to the hell from which you came! 

 

    Anyway, one of my favorite Frankenberry moments came in college where, in the throes of a tremendous sugar-jones, I dragged myself away from my studies and sped to the grocery store in search of The Frank.  Yes.  I am ashamed to admit that in those days I was hooked on Frank.  It was college, and I was young.  Fortunately, I didn't use Frankenberry as a gateway cereal, and my addiction never escalated to things like Pixie Stixs or that crap that rotten whore Little Debbie was pushing in every gas station on the freakin' planet.

 

    So, strung out, I wandered the cereal aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly looking for a little Frank; however, all I managed to find was Count Chocula.  And, in those days, only the kids who couldn't afford Cocoa Puffs were using the Count for a quick sugar fix.  And, well, since chocolate wasn't my drug of choice, I needed the Frank and all that yummy pseudo-strawberry flavored milk he could magically make.  I needed some Frank badly, and the damn store hadn't any.  I needed the manager.

 

    "Hi," I said, tying to be friendly.  "Do you have any Frankenberry?"

    "Nope."  She said coldly.  "We don't carry that anymore."

    "Boo-Berry?" I asked knowing that I'd been reduced to a cheap, blue knock-off of the Frank. 

    "I'm sorry.  But, all we have is Count Chocula."  She said.

    "I need Frankenberry, lady!"  I stated.  I began to panic.  I think I could even feel a twitch.  "You don't understand.  Help me."

    "I can order some," She said. 

    "How much?"  I asked.

    "What do you mean?"  She asked.  "We won't charge you for that sort of thing.  Just so long as you buy it, we'll order it." 

    "No.  How much are you going to order?" I asked as gluttony took over, and I found myself planning to bogart every single pink nugget that came off the freakin' truck. 

    "Probably just a case," she said flatly, tired of me and my nonsense.  "Just leave your name and number and someone will call you when we have it available."

 

    I did as she instructed and returned to my apartment to toss and turn all night until I could go to class and be distracted from my Frankenberry jones with things like Calculus and the words of Milton only to return home to find no message on my answering machine.

 

    Eventually, the days turned into weeks, the weeks turned into months, and everytime I strolled the cereal aisle in Piggly Wiggly in search of Frankenberry, none was to be found.  Everytime I asked, I was told to leave my name and number and they'd order some.  Before I knew it, finals' week came and went, and I was on a plane to Belgium. 

 

    When I returned to start the next semester, I still found no messages on my machine, and I spent the next four years waiting and waiting (I liked my senior year so much, I did it twice). 

 

    It was May when I finished my final Senior Year, and I was packing up my apartment and getting ready to hop on a plane to Stuttgart, when the phone rang.

 

    "Is this Dan?" The caller asked.

    "Yes it is," I said.

    "This is the manager at Piggly Wiggly," she said.  "I'm just calling to tell you that your Frankenberry is in." 

 

    Yes folks.  It took them five years.  Five freaking years, and they called on my last day in town at the very last hour. 

 

    However, for a moment, I entertained the notion of swinging by the store and picking up a box, but I managed to kick the Frank over the years I'd spent waiting, and I'd since moved onto better things such as Honey Bunches of Oats and Golden Grahams because they're healthier, and Golden Grahams sound like you're pouring a box of glass shards into your bowl.  That's way cooler than any sugar rush the Frank could give me. 

 

-DP

I Have Needs, People! Needs, I Say!

    Hey all!  Remember that wonderful new indestructible hinge I told you about a while back?  Yeah. The one that should be in the space program? 

    Well, it snapped.  It's a cast alloy hinge, and it just snapped like a Wheat Thin.  And it didn't just snap lightly, mind you.  Nope.  This thing pretty much exploded under some unseen tension, and as a result of such stress, it sent little tiny shards all over the place.  I mean, it even woke Deaf Cat up in a hail of shrapnel.  God knows what kind of panic attack that sent her into.

    Unfortunately, it's now locked in a position where it can't be closed for fear of putting too much stress on the other hinge which is made of typical plastic, and when that thing goes, it's not going to be pretty.  It's pointing right at me, and it's groaning...  angrily.  I fear...

    Anyway, it's clear I need a new laptop before this one kills me.  We're talking about shards of Japanese plastic tearing through my body. 

    The thing is, I don't know what to get, so I was wondering if anyone has any recommendations.  I love this beat-up Sony Vaio I've got.  It's logged lots of miles with me, and hasn't really failed me until recently.  It even fell out of my Jeep in Moab, Utah when I was challenged by a rather confrontational boulder that was begging to be climbed.  I thought it was dead, but when I yanked it from its satchel and hit the power button, it fired up just like new. 

    Unfortunately, it's really heavy, and I'm a weak bastard.  It's like carrying around an anethestetized, really square toddler with pokey corners.  And, like a toddler, the accessories are ALSO a hassle to lug around.  

    Anyway, I was thinking about maybe a Dell, but I've heard good and bad things.  But, mostly, I'm just looking for ideas.  I'll consider anything except for any Apple related projects.  After an event in my college Physics' lab involving an Apple computer that my lawyers suggest I not discuss in public, I've boycotted all things Apple --yes.  Even pie. 

    Plus, there's that whole exploding battery thing.  I mean, I'd like to have kids someday, and the last thing I need is to have my man-parts coated in any sort of lithium-ion slag  --but, nickle-plated would be pretty cool, huh?  Hmmm...  Might have to look into the cheaper batteries, I think.  But, I digress...

    So, those of you who have laptops out there, what would you recommend?  

-DP      

Almost Caught Up...

    Yes.  I am mean.  I've been neglecting this journal while trying to get all caught up with everything that piled to the sky when my computer was being repaired.  Plus, you know, taking a break from everything to get things in order before ripping the bell out of the phone and sitting down to write a hopefully good book has taken a bit more time than I originally thought. 

    Anyway, a lot's been going on since I've been away. 

    I was sad to hear that Steve Irwin, The Crocodile Hunter, was killed while scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef.  I can honestly say that is a huge tragedy.  Steve Irwin lived a life a lot of people could only dream of, and his courage was something I'd always admired.  He was a staunch advocate for the protection of wildlife, and he always encouraged a healthy respect for nature.  And he did so with a very unique and entertaining flair. 

     Well, I'd love to write more, but the last week or so has been kind of rough as far as the painful, arthritic knuckles go, so I am going to go soak them in some nice, hot wax.  It's kind of annoying always aching and stuff, but things should get better soon. 

     So, what have you all been doing over the past week?  I'm pretty sure at least someone did something utterly nuts, and I want to hear about it. 

-DP