Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

Killing time today I saw a few blogs with those questions designed to "reveal" something about yourself, you know "boxers or briefs", "silver or gold", "Ginger or Mary Ann". Nobody wants to hear about my briefs but here's my choice of "Five famous people to eat a meal with". Note it says "famous", so that excludes anyone I have meals with currently (yes even if you stole a pen from Ryan Seacreast that doesn't technically make you famous).

If not for the "famous" requirement, it would be tough to pick just 5 since I would have to choose pretty much everybody I blog with. Man that would be hilarious. And dangerous.

My 5 Person Famous Dinner
1) Leonado DiVinci - yeah he was brilliant and all that but the guy also had a sense of humor. I mean, have you ever seen the statue "David"? He carved a well built naked guy and then gave him a baby unit. Or maybe David just came from a swim and we're seeing "shrinkage". In any case, I would like to hear what he thinks about Jessica Simpson and modern amusement parks.

2) Carl Hiiason - this guy is one of the funniest fiction writer out there. He paints vivid characters and spins yarns that make you laugh out loud. Sure, he may be a social introvert and may not say 3 words the entire time, but I doubt it.

3) John Cusack - I have enjoyed every movie he's ever been in, especially "Say Anything" and "Grosse Point Blank". I have no idea what he is like in real life, but I just think I'd have fun hanging out with him. Plus he could help keep Hiiason in line, if he has a bit to much of the cabernet.

4) Mike Meyers - in case there is a lull in the conversation, we can ask him to do an impression of one of his classic characters. When diner arrives, he'd bellow "Get In My Belly!"

5) Mario Lemieux - Everybody has heard of Wayne Gretzsky, but there is another hockey player who is actually considered better than the "great one", and that's Super Mario. He didn't have the longevity that Wayne had, because he was busy fighting CANCER. That's right, fought it and came BACK and won another scoring title. As well, he is the only hockey player to score the 5 types of goals in the same game: full strength, power play, short handed, penalty shot and an empty net goal. You will never see that again folks.

Who would you eat with???

Mr Mom

My mother-in-law (who is not the sterotype, she's the absolute best) is going to have heart surgery this week, so I will be taking care of the homefront while K and her family go with her to Boston. She's seeing the best doc there is for this kind of procedure, but the recovery will be a few months.

For something funny, check out John's site where he posted some jovial, heart-warming yet oddly disurbing pics from last week's trip.

And here's this, which is kind of McFunny.

Week in Review

Well, on my way out today I made up with Walt’s frozen head, having felt like I was a bit unfair with him the other day. I listed a couple of things that in hindsight were beyond his control. A frozen head can only do so much.

DW is such a strange place because everything is so damn perfect looking, then you see a cracks in veneer, like hearing the workers grumbling or tasting food that no person with an ounce of dignity or pride would give to another human being.

Despite the salutations of “Have a magical day!” they hate they’re jobs like many other people, and it can’t help but show through. Maybe it’s the time of year, perhaps it’s a rough time for the company, but the strain is starting to show down here.

As I wait for my plane to whisk me back to the Great White North, I’m feeling thankful for a few things, here’s the list:

I’m thankful that Italians discovered pasta. Fresh pasta is about the best thing in the world. I had a dish yesterday that exceeded my expectations. Choice.

I’m thankful for cranky old Capt. Jack. I kind of disrupted his boat ride when I made a “shortcut” around the people barrier and commandeered his boat, which was a ferry from Port Orleans to Downtown Disney. He wasn’t happy and gave me a few undisneylike comments, but reluctantly agreed to let my party aboard. I guess I was a little anxious to get to the pasta.

I’m thankful Steven Wright only did a 30-minute set. Don’t get me wrong, the guy is hilarious, but not for longer than 10 minutes. His deadpan delivery starts to wear on you. I had seen him years ago, and when he walked out on stage for the closing session yesterday I inwardly groaned. He was funny, but my ass was numb from sitting. So thanks for being brief, Steven. And hey, thanks for not being Ronan Tynan. That would have killed John.

I’m thankful I passed my f'in cert exam. I hate tests.

I’m thankful I won’t have to ride buses again for a while. It brought back way too many memories of high school where I rode public transit every day 40 kilometers each way (it was in Canada) and the sound and rumbles and smells of a diesel bus unlock some wacky recalls. I’ll have to blog a few good ones, they’ll make you hair curl.

I’m thankful that I love what I do. And by what I do I mean sleeping, hockey, eating. The computer junk isn’t so bad either.

I’m thankful the rustic, natural charm of Florida has been preserved so well, and that the
ravages of commercial development have not harmed this intrinsic beauty in any way. (I was being sarcastic in case you couldn’t tell)

I’m thankful that there are places like the Virgin Mega Music store where the Trash Can Sinatras, Placebo, U2 and The Corrs can all live side by side in harmony. It had a pretty amazing selection, even a copy of the hard to find “90125 Demos” by Yes guitarist Trevor Rabin. Yep, there’s always the internet to find this kind of stuff, but nothing like being able to pick it up, see the cover art, read the liner notes, and listen to some of the cuts at a listening station. Sweet.

I’m thankful I got to spend some time with my old pals from ---. They’re a hilarious bunch and I miss seeing them.

Last but not least I’m thankful that I’m going home. It’s weird being around tons of families and not having yours there. It will be good to get home, hug the gang, pat my dog on the head and warm my hands by a fire while I fill them in on my adventures (edited for little ears, of course). Maybe we’ll even have pasta for dinner.

Letter to Coughing Guy

Yeah, I'm talking to you, flem boy. Since Monday morning I've woken up to your hacking coughing fits. I didn't know it was humanly possible to put a chest cavity through such a workout until I witnessed it over and over, day after day. You're a friggen wonder of science, congratulations. And ya know what? You need medical help.

No, I'm no doctor, but I don't need a 4 year residency at Mercy Hospital to know you've got some serious lung fluid issues. Either that or you need a hairball extracted, which I'm sure you can get at any Petsmart.

Dude, people don't cough for 5 minutes, let along 30. Sure, you can have a cold, but that's a hack once every few minutes. You can get water down the wrong pipe and that makes you kak for 10 minutes. In the time it took me to get up, get showered and dressed you were sitting there convulsing like a tasered trailer park boy.

For all I know, you go on longer than 30 minutes, I don't stick around to find out. And while I appreciate the fact I haven't needed to be woken by my alarm clock this week, you're freaking me out.

So go out and see a friggin doctor. If you show up again next year with this same hack I'm not going to be so supportive.

Advanced Debugging Structures

Ha! I knew if I wrote about geek stuff nobody would read this and I was right! You don't care about the first 11 hours of the day here, you just want the good stuff. Yeah, me too.

So last night we got to go to Universal Islands of Adventure, which is the other half of the Universal park and, IMHO, the better half. HULK ruled, especially in the very front car. I think John has some pictures of us craping our pants as it takes off.

There are a few other rides there, but HULK was the best. As far as I saw, nobody puked, but that didn't detract from the experience.

I'm sure the others will point this out but it's like the saying goes, "You can take a geek out, but they'll still be geeks." Let's just say we weren't the most fashionable crowd. At least most of us left our laptops/backpacks back at the hotel.

Final day, and it's my favorite part. Lots of meetings with the guys who wrote the software we use. OK, so fun is a all contextual. Sue me.

Ahead Puke Factor 2

The next few entries will be about rides. I love rides and I don't usually puke on rides. Last night we were taken to Mission: Space at Epcot for a vendor party and all I heard about this ride was it was going to make me barf like a frat boy during Homecoming Weekend.

All the signs on the way in warn you. Several verbal announcements warn you as you stand in line. And actor Gary Sinese, the Mission Commander on the video, tells you not to feel bad if you want to bow out because the ride could make you toss your turnovers.

Bring it on, Mr. Appollo 13! I went to the beer cart upon arriving and promptly downed a Heineken. I not only thought they were full of crap but I was going to "load the gun" so to speak so they couldn't say I had an empty stomach.

We lost Mark outside, and Brian bailed on the ramp inside. That left Me, Wayne and John. Even the constant reminders that we most likely would retch repeatedly didn't cause us to waiver. We got our first wiff of vomit just outside the doors of the ride, and my hopes were being raised. "We're gonna see some space heaves, boys!" I claimed gleefully.

More warnings, right up until we were strapping ourselves in. The ride started by launching us into space and it was a good kick in the pants. Then we shotgunned around the moon headed for Mars. We entered the atmosphere at full burn (months later) and came in hot to the landing zone. Then, it was over.

"That was it???" I asked. It was a good ride, but I would have a better chance of barfing on the teacups than on that ride. I grabbed another beer and went again. Even mark went this time and he didn't lose anything he shouldn't have.

I was hoping to meet these guys:



But, as far as I know, there were no pukers. Maybe it's just a hoax to keep the lines down on the ride.

I hold out more hope for tonight when they take us to Universal Islands of Adventure, where the HULK and Spiderman rides await, along with those wonderful, beautiful and oh so delicious free beer carts. To Universal I say, bring on the bile!

Letter to Walt's Frozen head

Dear Mr. Disney,

I'm not a big complainer, but I have a few issues with your resorts. I've been here a few times and noticed some alarming trends.

Your food rots. Particularly your pizza, which incidentally reminded me of a ketchup-soaked nakpin I once ate by accident. That napkin was more appatizing and better imitated the taste of a pizza than yours did. I won't even talk about your meatball sub, which i only had one bite before tossing it out the window to the gang of tough-looking rabbits which were beating a squirrel to death.

You make people walk to much. Didn't friggin invent the monorail? So big whoop, you have one that goes to the magic Kingdon, meanwhile I'm hoofing it 2 miles to my room. Anywhere I need to go, it's at least a mile, and then I get on a deisel fume-belching bus. Put in some more of those damn trains Walt! And how about golf carts for the guests! We didn't get to be the most obese poeple on earth by walking everywhere.

TV. You got no HBO, or anything mildly entertaining except for the racy movies on Lifetime. How about something for the lonley business traveller on the road there Walt? c'mon, we aren't all mormons.

Your walls are thin. The guy next door coughs me out of bed every day and it's a bit of an annoyance. This guy never heard of an inhaler, or has to stop licking his cat, because he coughs for 30 minutes nearly non-stop. Something's just not right about that. But why do I have to hear it?

One of your bus drivers got lost the other day and I had a 40 minute reinactment of "Speed" with a driver who slewed the bus side to side in a confused panic trying to find the hotel while we pleaded with her to call her home base for directions. I know that's not really your problem, but I thought I'd throw it in.

Overall, the place is clean and park-like and I'm sure you do pretty well with this gig. But how about going a little above and beyond here, Walt. You can't keep resting on your laurels forever.

Love,
Shamus

La Dee Frickin Da

It was that saying by renouned motivational speaker Matt Foley that seemed appropriate here, where there's more glitz and glitter than Trumps guest bathroom. They wine and dine you until you lower your defenses and then WHAM, they take advantage of you. By trying to sell you something, I mean. You weren't thinking... nah, not you.

So I was at a vendor party at Epcot last night and it was nice and all but it made me think what I would do if I ever threw a vendor event. It would rock, and here it is:

1) All guests would be picked up from their hotels in authentic replica's of the 1967 Batman batmobile. The drivers would all be dressed as Batman.

2) They would be taken to a secret location. The drivers would knock out the passenger using the bat spray on his utility belt.

3) They would awaken in a party room and be greeted by strippers. OK so that's not very politically correct, I meant to say Scantily Clad Americans.

4) Then there would be an oxygen bar, and a helium bar, and a regular-type bar. I would hire Jack Klugman look alikes to roam the crowd and make witty remarks.

5) The BIG sell would come after getting a few incriminating photos of the guest caught in some activity with one of the scantily clad americans and Mr. Klugman. Done.

6) Guests will be returned to their hotels by reversing step 2, although the VIP's of the group would be taken directly to their rooms where more incriminating photos would be taken, this time with Batman.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Yes, I made it. 8 and a half hours in the airport was not enough to make me give up. I made it on a standby flight and ended up flying down with the other crew from ALB. Too much has gone on in the past few days, but you can cull everything by reading the posts of me, John and Mark over the next few days.

Here's a quick top 11 issues of interest:

1) This really fucking happened - at 6:30am, there was a page at the airport, "Would Mohammed Osalma please return to the security area..." I went over because I HAD to see this. The guards were snickering so I went up and asked, "was that joke?" No, there was a guy named that, and he left his glasses at the screening. Nice name, Adolph.

2) Waiting most of the day sucked, but I ended up on a flight with my pals so it worked out. I appreciate the karma.

3) John Cleese - he was the opening speaker and he kicked the living crap out of opening speeches. Patrick Stewart was great last year, Cleese eclipsed him. I plan to reprint the damn thing in it's entirety at a future time. I promise.

4) Hanging with the old crew - still a hilarious bunch of people, and they are good enough to include me. Awwwww.

5) Vendors - they actually have some cool stuff this year. AND a few good parties. I'll regret this later when I'm hounded by sales calls in February, but for now, I'm teets up.

6) Unopened beer cans - they aren't supposed to give them to you, but at the opening party Kenny got them to give him 6 under the guise that he had to carry them and didn't want to spill them. In quick succession, John, Tania, Brian, Wayne and myself pulled the same stunt. We were ready to get mobile with our newfound stash and find a tv to watch the football game.

7) Backpacks - I knew there was a good reason why the give you one here - we used them to carry the beers from #6. Sweet.

8) Danielle and Sara also work at ---. No shit? For some reason, I was suprised by that. Sorry for the calls from the house of blues guys - we tried to stop him, but Wayne was out of friggin control.

9) The Orleans pool and hot tub. It has served us well the last 2 nights, even though it's been in the 40's. You have to wash the geek off you somehow at the end of the day.

10) Whatever happens at Lotusphere... can be shared with anyone because it's just lame geek stuff. Except for that incident in the hot tub with those scandinavian guys. Let's never speak of that again.

Fear of Flying

I love to fly. I estimate I have flown cross-country over 25 times, to Europe once, to the Home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 8 times, Vegas and to other domestic locations maybe 6 times. I'm kind of like the Leonardo DiCaprio character in that movie "Catch Me If You Can". Yeah right. Well, I'm flying this weekend and it never used to give me pause, but now it does.

As near as I can tell, it all goes back to a flight on a blustery October a bunch of years back. I was on a small 9-person twin prop plane coming back from the new corporate headquarters in Cleveland. They had flown the entire Help Desk staff out for a "fun-filled weekend" where we were wined and dined in hopes that many of us would be swayed to move out there. It had been a weekend of meals in our honor, plush accommodations, a cruise from the Flats up the river, and a big bash where the CEO sang a touching rendition of Sinatra's "New York, New York". Ok, so that part never happened, but it was a fun weekend and it swayed several people to make the move.

Flying out, I was on the 22 seat turbo prop plane, a nice smooth ride although you have to hit the head prior to leaving because there are no facilities on board. I'd been on that flight before, and knew that on the return trip a cooler makes it's way down the isle filled with libations.
Newbies begin drinking on the tarmac, and don't realize until the call of nature that there are no facilities on board. So you have to wait until you're a half hour or so into the 110 minute trip before hoisting a brew.

On the way back this time, I drew a seat on the second plane, which looked like someone had stuck wings on an old Peugeot. There were 2 pilots and 7 passengers, with number 7 being seated dead in the center of the 3rd row, with a very clear view out the front. That was my seat. I got to watch the pilots go through their preflight, takeoff and in-flight operations (no curtain for them to pull on that small a plane) and I though it was cool. Until the landing.

First off, the front of the plane was not lined up with runway, which didn't seem to bother the pilots, but concerned me greatly. The nose was aimed about 10 -15 degrees RIGHT as we were coming in. I was back-seat driving, waving my hands left, left as if that would help. Second, there were several lights flickering on the dashboard (if that's what you call it). The pilots calmly flicked this and pressed that, but the buzzers and lights were going off with alarming regularity. Plus, it was turbulent as all get out, and that tiny plane bucked and dropped like a cowboy at the
Calgary Stampede.

For an instant I had the thought, "We're not going to make it." It was the first time my trust in the whole commercial flight process was breached. The pilots pulled it off and we got off with slightly shaky legs. That was my last time in that plane, though there were a few bumpy trips later onthe bigger 22 seater, but at least there was something to drink and they had a curtain, so you didn't see the chaos up front. One time my then-manager was gripping the hand-rest so hard I though the was going to tear it off. It was the first time I had seen that calm and unflappable person... well, flapped.

The other weird thing about traveling now is I always wonder if I should update my will, or prepare letters or something. I don't want T & P fighting over my Teenage Mutant Nija Turtle comic book collection. I have been trying to live my life of late with the attitude that I should tell
those I care about how I feel about them, as if every meeting will be our last.


But you can't always do that, as people start to think you're looking to off yourself and all of a sudden you find yourself in the middle of an intervention. "Shamus, we're concerned about you..." And, it's kind of depressive was to live besides. You're not exactly living the "pint is half
full" mantra.

Yet what a bummer if you end up on the wrong note with someone. OK, so let me say it here - not that anything is going to happen but just in case - thanks to everybody who is in my life!

I was suprised to see John had similar thoughts today, proving he ain't as evil as he wishes. See you at Walt's World, dude.

On a side note, they better serve Guinness at my service. I'm serious. No "Aspen Edge" allowed. That will have to be a whole different blog, what I want as my service, because I have some great ideas. No downer stuff, I'm going to plan a rippin party. People are going to leave saying, "That's the most fun I ever had. Now I gotta puke." which I think is the way it should be.

Now, Dr. Evil has our weather....

Rrrrright. Throw me a bone here.

Shamus Copperfield

I have been learning the black art of magic for a few months now. It's one thing to study and practice and be able to do it in front of a mirror, quite another to pull them off in front of a live (and very suspicious) audience. So I've been testing it out on my kids and nephews/nieces, who are actually a tough crowd. I know if I can pull it off with them, then it's not bad.

Last weekend I tried a couple of tricks on my bro T and K during a lull in our Texas Holdem game. The first 2 were flawless, although they started to comment that maybe I was pulling shenanigans with the poker game we were playing. I wish. Anyhow, I got a bit overconfident and blew it on the 3rd trick. The generous B-52 shots apparently didn't distract them from noticing me fumble a hand movement. I'm guessing maybe that's why you don't see many drunk magicians.

So I'm not ready for primetime yet. Baby steps, Shamus. Baby steps.

Here's a picture of the incredible flying dog trick:
http://www.thefilebin.com/userfiles/jwmf/FBTrick.jpg


-------------------GOLDIE UPDATE-----------------------
So I took your advice and decided to test Goldie a bit. I went into Price Chopper this a.m. and when he came over, I didn't say anything. After 15 seconds or so he nodded again. I said, "Guess what I'll have."
"A bagel!" he exclaimed. Ok, lucky guess. All he has behind his counter IS bagels. The doughnuts are at the other end of the store. He's the bagel guy.
"What kind?" I prompted.
"Whatever kind you want!" he said, sweeping his arm at the vast choices.
At that point, I gave in and made my order. I went and got my coffee, came back, and he handed me the bagel wrapped up. It wasn't warm.
"Toasted?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Want me to heat that up?" as if I hadn't asked for it thatway.
"Nah, this is fine." Microwaving a bagel after it's got the cream chese on it just isn't the same as toasting, but I'm a fucking prima donna.
I'm not giving up on the guy. I'll give him another try when I get back.

Fools in the Rain

It's the spring of 1984. I'm walking along a beach on a sleepy Canadian border town with my friend Paul on our way to meet some girls. We're wearing what is referred to crudely today as a "Canadian Tuxedo"; jean jacket and blue jeans with black T-shirts denoting a metal rock band. Mine is a Rush shirt from the Signals tour, he's wearing a Who shirt from the album "Who's Next", with a picture of the band whizzing on a building. OK, so we're not exactly the slickest guys in White Rock. No argument there.

It's a typical spring day in BC, grey clouds dot the blue sky giving the ever-present threat of rain. Neither of us are prepared for that if it happens, but we're locals so we repel water much like the Mallard duck. An umbrella just wouldn't be appropriate. The girls will traverse the path called 1,000 steps (there was really only 150 or so, we counted once) which winds down the wooded hillside to the beach from Ocean Park above. We walked up to this point from Crescent Beach, where Paul lives. On Paul's shoulder is a boombox and it's tuned to CFOX, (The Fox Rocks!") in nearby Vancouver. That's when Zeppelin's "Fool in the Rain" comes on.

If you've never heard the song, it's a piano/guitar infused rock song with a refreshing Latin feel to it. Robert Plant tells the tale of a guy sitting in the rain waiting for his girl, and in his mind he's conjuring up all the reasons why she hasn't shown up. It starts with one of my favorite opening lines in rock music:

Well there's a light in your eye that keeps shining
Like a star that can't wait for a night
I hate to think I've been blinded baby
Why can't I see you tonight

It builds and builds as he digs more and more into his fears until breaks into a crescendo of whistles, drums and a cool xylophone refrain. Jimmy Page then rips into a signature guitar solo, Bohnam pounding out the hard driving beat behind him. Finally ending with:

And I run in the rain till I'm breathless
When I'm breathless I'll run till I drop, hey
Thoughts of a fools' kind of careless
I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block

Paul and I are the first to arrive at the meeting place, and we perch on a large rook next to the train tracks that divide the beach from the hillside. It isn't long before we hear the linting sounds of the girl's laughter and footfalls on the stairs, and moments later they emerge from the woods. They are beautiful. We are but young men who are confined within the walls of an all-male high school during the week, they are public school girls, learned in the ways of the world. We are putty in their hands.

A mickey of something that looks like gasoline and tastes worse get's passed around and soon our bellies are warm despite the chill. Talk is drifting from one topic to another, do you know so and so, have you heard this song before, have been to a party at that house. We have unconsciously paired up, I'm with a blond girl named Lori, Paul is with her friend Jill whom he met at a party last week and thus got us this meet and greet. This was my first shot at being a wingman, and I was liking it so far.

The conversation begins to skid a bit as a drizzle comes down . The dark-haired girl that is holding Paul's hand invites us back to her folks place to hot tub with them. We say we don't have suits. They giggle and say neither do they. Me and Paul look at each other with the "should we do this? Can we not do this?" .

"Sure." we say, turning towards the hillside and the stairway to heaven.

"Pa----ul!" We look down the tracks and there is Stevie, Paul's little brother. He runs up , out of breath. "Mom... says...you ...need...to...come...home..." Stevie finally gets it out that they need to go into the city to see a sick relative, and His mom called my mom to say she would drop me off on the way up.

I can't recall what we say, or how it ends, except the vision of them walking up the stairs, looking back and waving.

That damn song reminds me of that moment to this day.

Cookie Cut-throats

For years we've been hearing that the Keebler Elves are locked in a fierce corporate battle with the Girl Scouts. Blood had been shed on both sides as each make claims of stolen recipes, elfin kidnappings, and various other acts of subterfuge. A cookie cold war, as it were.

Or so it would SEEM.

Recent investigations (by me) have found that the two may be working in cahoots to drive up the price of delicious cookies while creating a market frenzy for the product. Yes, that's right. Cahoots. Several subsidiaries of Keebler (Sunshine Foods being one) make the Girl Scout cookies using the same machinery that make the Elfin knock-off’s, like Grasshoppers.

This is apparently common knowledge throughout the GS Organization.The Elves are helping the GS make their cookies, which means they have the recipes to the Samoas and all the other Girl Scout brands. It was long rumored that the recipes were protected by an oath of l’morta, and venerable GS staff had vowed to take the secrets of the Pom-Pom’s with them to the next world.

So, it appears the veil of danger and conflict is simply a marketing strategy cooked up by, you guessed it, the Masons. What a rip-off.

I made another cartoon. I'm kinda proud of this one.

Goldie

So I've been stopping in at the Price Chopper near my work most mornings for 18 months now, grab a starbucks and a bagel, nothing fancy. For a year there has been a bagel guy I call Goldie, because he has the memory of a Goldfish.

Every day I come in and I know he recognizes me, but he has no idea what I'm going to order. I've only ordered the same THING every time - an everything bagel, toasted, and cream cheese. But every day, he gives a nice friendly smile and asks "What can I get you?" As if he has no idea what I could order - and he means it. I could order Chicken Parmesian and he'd nod his head and walk off to get it.

I have to order it in segments. "I'll have an everything bagel..." (watch for head nod) "...toasted..." (watch for head nod) "..with plain cream cheese..." (pause and final head nod). Then I have to watch him get it into the toaster, because half the time, he forgets and just starts putting on the cream cheese.

I just kind of find it weird, is all.

WTF????

There are a lot of people in this world, and so the odds of strange and bizarre things happening are pretty good. Every one in a while you read something that really makes you scratch your head and say "WTF?????" This story, from CNN, is one of those stories.

Headline: Nail embedded in man's skull for 6 days


Six fucking days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LITTLETON, Colorado (AP) -- A dentist found the source of the toothache
Patrick Lawler was complaining about on the roof of his mouth -- a
four-inch (10-centimeter) nail the construction worker had unknowingly
embedded in his skull six days earlier.

Holy crap. This makes gingivitis look like a trip to Disneyland.

Following the accident, Lawler had what he thought was a minor toothache
and blurry vision. On Wednesday, after painkillers and ice didn't ease the
pain, he went to a dental office where his wife, Katerina, works.

Only held off going to seek medical attention for 6 days? What a wuss.

"We all are friends, so I thought the (dentists) were joking ... then the
doctor came out and said 'There's really a nail,"' Katerina Lawler said.
"Patrick just broke down. I mean, he had been eating ice cream to help the swelling."

Well, yeah, I guess even the Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey has it's healing
limitations.

"This is the second one we've seen in this hospital where the person was
injured by the nail gun and didn't actually realize the nail had been
imbedded in their skull," neurosurgeon Sean Markey told KUSA-TV in Denver. "But it's a pretty rare injury."

I think I would know if I drove a 1 1/2 inch steel object into any part of
my body, let alone my melon. Don't those nail guns have a warning label on
them? "Not for use in picking your teeth" or something like that?

Despite his lack of medical insurance and hospital bills between $80,000
and $100,000, Katerina Lawler said her husband is in good spirits.
"The doctors said, 'If you're going to have a nail in the brain, that's the way you want it to be,"' she said. "He's the luckiest guy, ever."

Nothing like turning lemons into lemonade. Instead of calling the guy a
fuckwit who barely survived being "naturally selected" (as Darwin so
graciously put it) they give it a decorous spin. Oh, you're SO lucky! No.
Winning the lottery, now that's lucky. Right Erik?

Fixing the Kids

Raising kids is like working on your own car. You have to buy a bunch or special tool or borrow them from friends, if you screw it up it often leads to a breakdown. There are handbooks for how to do it, but nobody bothers to read the manual, and screw the manufacturers suggested specifications. You can ask your neighbor for advice, but more than likely he's screwed up an oil change or two himself. In the end if you can't handle it, you can always bring it to a mechanic.

Reality t.v. caught the wiff of this subject and immediately pumped out a few shows based on the topic. FOX had the in-your-face Nanny 911, where obnoxious, sugar-crazed half-pints are rendered into perfect children faster than Mary Poppins could open her umbrella. You can't watch the show and not suspect that the Nanny isn't slipping some kind of medication into their porridge.

ABC has a version now as well. Although I haven't seen it, I can prognosticate that they convert screaming, house-destroying troglodytes into spit-and-shine youngsters. I call these show’s "feel good tv", because you look at your own life and say, "At least we don’t have to deal with THAT!"

A friend pointed out something that is also annoying about t.v. and parenting – it’s those fucking "The more you know…." ads on NBC. Nothing like seeing an actor who got a community service punishment for getting caught doing 90mph in a school zone while high on crank telling you to be sure and read to your kids every day. Hey, fuck you Noel Wiley of ER. And wipe your nose, there’s still some white stuff by your left nostril.

My bro T and me came up with an awesome reality tv idea Saturday night after a few B-52 shots. I’ve almost remembered it, I’ll let you know later this week if I get it all down.

I'm Getting Ink

I don't have a tatoo. I've got no tats. I've never offered my pasty flesh before a needle-weilding artist to be graced by a fire-breathing dragon or a Japanese symbol that supposedly means "Hung like a horse" but really means "thimble dick".

And to tell the truth, I've never been close. Yet.

Of course, if I had been a mate aboard a ship that crossed an invisible line on the globe I would have been obliged. Or if I had ever joined a band of Ninja's, or a Havard Fraternity that required branding. Or, I never had a memo I needed to have on my arm, just in case I needed to refer to it. How about a tattoo to demonstrate that you're into piercings? Somehow, I missed all these opportunities and now I'm going through life with no color upon me.

I'm thinking of getting one for my next birthday, a 4 leaf clover on my ass with the wording "Kiss Me, I'm Irish". That might not over too well in the locker room (and dangerous in some company) but I'm betting the ladies will love it.

Sleep

I need some goddamn sleep!
OK, so it's mostly my fault for being out really really late celebrating awesome Red Wings victory (Eddie had an awesome night) last night, then up early with a house full of very loud rugrats (cousins are in town) then a birthday party for little Dan. I have gigantic bags under my eyes, and now I can't sleep. Overtired? Mulling thoughts and questions that trouble my mind? One of the two, maybe both. Hockey is the release valve in my ife, and it seems the more fucked up I feel , the better I play. I had a great game the other night, and not because of a calm aura.

So now I lay me down to sleep. If only my leg would stop twitching ::twitch:: ::twitch::

Don't Post By Email

Yes, I tried the post by email and it blew chunks. Why?
1) It took a week to post
2) It posted twice
3) It posted the privacy notice (so you have little control, is my point)
4) You get well-deserved abuse from friends

I was on TV

I was on TV yesterday! Ok, so it was Wendy's tv, but it's a break dammit, and isn't that what everyone needs? Actually, I was on tv once years back (book interview) which was cool since I wasn't in handcuffs or being grilled by any of the 60's Minutes staff. (I hear that Morley Safer is a real mr-know-it-all!)

So I'm standing in line trying to decide between the chili and the chicken sandwich when I noticed the tv monitor set up on the ceiling on the side displaying the people in line. Not some tiny, grainy black and white deal, but 32 inches of living color. That sounded dirtier that it was. Wendy's has really hit on a sweet idea here, kind of like their own version of reality TV. (speaking of that, if you missed the Surreal Life last week, tune it - it's absolutely nuts)

Without thinking I broke into a little jig, a kind of Lord of the Dance

deal where you keep you hands and shoulders stiff and only moving the feet. I segued into a little ballroom move as the line moved ahead and I was almost out of frame. Nobody noticed my show so I got bolder and got my arms (below the elbows ) moving a bit and had the hands doing the hand-jive a-la Grease. People in line were so intense on the menu or their own disturbing thoughts that I had the stage to myself.

But not for long. I got bold and tried to pull a Robot move as the old guy in front of me got to put in his order. Sensing the end of my show, I did a nice shuffle complete with robot arm movements (you gotta do the robot) and heard somebody laugh. I turned and saw somebody's grandma pointing a crooked finger at me and chortling. I'm just glad it wasn't the two construction workers next to her. They wouldn't have appreciated my art.

I got the chili. Next time I'm bringing puppets.

Pictures To Prove It

Prince Harry is catching some heat for his poor contume choice, but who recalls the other royals who let a little too loose with their dressup parties?

Props to Erik for bringing this gem to light.

My sister K dated a mexican violinist who looked exactly like this guy. Damn the mask- I can't be sure! Gabrielle, is that you?? Sorry man, those international relationships never work.

Stairway to Heaven

I saw the headline "Preacher Dies During Sermon About Heaven" and had to read more. Damn good thing he wasn't talking about H - E - double hockey sticks!

Rachael Ray Rocks

What can I say, I'm a sucker for this woman. They say the stomach is the way to a man's heart, so that may explain why Rach is considered a Food Channel hottie. K makes comments when she catches me watching her, and I get guilty like I'm watching porn or a show on Lifetime, quickly clicking away over to SportsCenter.

I got K one of Rachael's cookbooks and on the last page she talks about her fiance and how she "knew he was the one" when he expressed a love for Pasta Carbonara. I showed K the passage in the book, where Rach goes on and on about how she loved to make it for her man, and that night, guess what I had for dinner? You guessed it, meatloaf. No, actually K made Carbonara for me, which was really cool. I lived on the stuff after college, it was my favorite thing to cook and to eat. Unfortunately, as Rach admits in her book, that dish is really really bad for you, so much so that it's nickname is "heart attack on a plate", so K does it because she knows I love it but it has to be a special occasion, like David Hasselhoff's birthday. I got a funny story about him, but it'll save it for dessert.

Why Meetings Rot, Part Deux

Well, I cursed myself by bringing this damn topic up. I ended up with a day chock-full of meaty meeting goodness. MmmmmM!

Forgetting all my preachings I neglected the "properly prepare prior to attending" tip (hey, I was BUSY), and then all of the meetings ran over 40 minutes. One ALMOST ran into lunch time, it was a hell of a close call.

I raised the topic to coworkers during a particularly spontaneous coffee break yesterday and the consensus was that meetings as a whole blow chunks, and only serve to light fires under peoples' butts



or fill up listless hours hearing about how vendors can better our professional lives. Maybe so, Mr. Bigglesworth, maybe so. In the end I've come to the conclusion that meetings probably are a necessary evil. And also, they rot.

Some final thoughts on this topic:

1) Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt will NOT reconcile
2) Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachez-whatever are NEXT
3) Always end your meetings on a fun note, like "Thanks for coming and
participating. Also, be sure and have those TPS reports on my desk by end
of day, or don't bother coming in tomorrow."
4) Here's another meeting picture.

Why Meetings Rot

Meetings rot. BFD - who doesn't think that? Well folks, there are people out there who LOVE meetings, and they are more twisted than spaghetti.

Maybe you're one of these people and don't realize it. Well it's your lucky day because I'm here to help. Meetings don't have to be like chewing razor blades. Here are some E-Z tips for making your meetings more considerate and fun!

Meetings should not be scheduled before the work day begins. I don't give a flying handshake if you like to come in early, the rest of us probably don't. Or if we do, it's to have a coffee and read about what color terror alert we're at. "Yea! We're yellow!"

Meetings should not be scheduled through lunchtime. A "working lunch" is still "working" and therefore not "lunch". Kind of like a "working vacation". No way Hosay.

Spice it up! If it's a tele-conference pretend to be an upper manager and make sounds denoting "concern". Watch that meeting end real quick.

Picture of a typical meeting.

Meetings should not be longer than 40 minutes. If you can't get it all in under 40 mins, then you didn't prepare well enough. If Donald Trump can weed out a potential drone in that delineation, you should have no trouble conducting your little discussion in the same timeframe. And next time try not to draw pictures of the Batmobile during the meeting, it takes away from your slick aura.

When I form my Company one day, and by one day I mean never, we will have no meetings. All communication will be done by email and announcements over an intercom, like in school. Also, you will be limited to 5 email's a day, so baby you'd better make them count. No more annoying "wassssuppp?" missives from that guy who you used to work with who left because he couldn't handle all the meetings and is now clogging your inbox with annoying anecdotes about his trivial existence. The phone system will be hooked to a time meter, calls will terminate after 7 minutes, which is enough time to hear what the person wants, and then for you to say, "You want fries with that?"

Splitsville

2005 took a dramatic turn for the worst when the news broke this weekend that Hollywood super-couple Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston went on a marriage hiatus.

The news spread quickly in my little town, the phone lines burned with a question that was on everyone's mind, "If Brad and Jenn can't make it work, what hope does my un-famous marriage have??"

In the Red Wings locker room last night, it was all my teammates could talk about. The usual discussion of babes, beers and botany was replaced with sharing about out favorite Friends episodes, or classic lines from "A River Runs Through It".

The pall of sadness hung as thick as the fetid aroma from the hockey gear. The loss we each felt was impossible to leave in the locker room, and we took the ice with distracted minds. We made poor passes in the neutral zone, we didn't backcheck, we retaliated to minor infractions, and in the end, we lost the game. But it was only a game, Brad and Jenn have lost much, much more. Will Jenn still adopt the little Guatemalan triplets? Will Brad finish his thesis on mopeds that run on thermal energy? The questions linger like blood on a hockey jersey.

Man, I really have to wash my equipment this week. When you are offended by the reek of your own gear, you know it's time. I leave you with something Jon from Sy'cuse sent along, this very inspiring story of love. Thank you, my friend.

Robots vs Ninjas - Game On

The discussion has raged for decades, who would win a mano-a-mano, bare-knuckled, knock down dragout brawl? It would be better than anything you'd ever seen, but I have to tell you, you'll never see it, and here's why:

1) Robots don't care about money, or shiny belts, and they would never trust Don King.
2) Ninjas prefer to fight in the dark, and that's poor conditions for watching a fight.
3) Ninjas respect Robots, and vice versa, since they both serve their masters.
4) Robots aren't distracted by sunsets, a little-known weakness of the Ninja.
5) Sometimes Robots don't protect their "off" switch so good, and then the fight's over pretty quick.
6) Ninjas have trouble with lazers that can shoot out of the Robot's eyes.
7) Robots can't dodge the acid that Ninja can throw at them.
8) The whole issue my get more confused when a scientist figures out how to combine them into a single fighting machine! This guy is awesome.

So, as you can see, it's a pretty complicated issue. I don't know if it will be resolved in my lifetime, much like String theory, but I sure hope they are.

BTW, there are gay Robots.

Famous People I Know

I don't know any really famous people, unless you count a guy who was after my sister who made it onto "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" 2 years ago only to never make it past the fast finger round. Tough luck, Mikey. But he got to meet Regis.

I'm not a fan of many celebrities, I don't collect autographs and have never written a fan letter, but there have been a few famous people I got to meet:

Stewart Copeland - former drummer for the Police came to Albany when I was in College playing in a trio called Animal Logic. Saw him Page Hall at SUNY with 200 other lucky lucky people. The show was amazing. He plays wicked hard - he busted his snare drum head on the very first song. After the show he hung around the stage and I got to shake hands and hang with the second best drummer in the world, Neil Peart of Rush being the best.

Fred Savage - I actually spent a weekend with Fred, who was a guest at my cousins wedding. He was famous child actor who is easily recognizable and was mobbed by people where ever we were. I got to see the kind of nutso crap a celebrity puts up with. Old ladies coming up and piching his cheeks ("You were so cure in that show!"), asking for dances the whole wedding and taking abuse from people who kept asking "where's Winnie??" (from the Wonder Years). The suprising this was he didn't seem able to parley the fame into landing a hottie, but that might have been on the QT. He is a man who likes his alcoholic beverages, and we saw this first hand. His fame did prevent him from being ejected from the hotel after an incident in the bar. He was very cordial to any and all people who came over to ask for a autograph or get a picture, and for me that pegs him overall as a good guy.

Peter Falk (Colombo) - Starred in the "The Princess Bride" with Fred, which is a funny coincidence that I met 2 actors from on eof my favorite movies. Me, Tim and Stinky were walking drunk through Cloverdale a few years back and ran into him on the set of a movie on main street outside the Clova Theater (Now the set of Smallville). Never found out what movie he was shooting. Stinky was eating popcorn and Peter walked up and stole some. He seemed like a nice old guy. The one eye is a bit disturbing up close.

Fred (Eric) Norris (Stern Show)- He was sitting outside a club in Greenwich Village during a break with his band and we were stumbling by after a long night on the town. Didn't chat much, but got to shake his hand and tell him he makes me laugh on the way to work every damn morning, and for that I am extremely grateful.

Andy Rooney - He actually has a summer place near where I live and frequents the local grocery store. I was picking up a few things and he was mumbling over the tomatoes. I started picking through them and he made a crack about the poor quality of the produce. I can't recall his exact words, but it was something like, "You ever notice how farming communities have the worst produce? I can get better stuff in the city!" I agreed with whatever he said and moved along. We haven't stayed in touch.

My gloves are on the Jumbo-tron

I got a really nice pair of leather gloves for Xmas, and decided to wear them "on the town" last week while out to a River Rats game. Our original seats were low, and there was a very loud, fat, mildly retarded gentleman near us who over the course of the 1st period drove several people to other seats.

He was wearing a bright red River Rats shirt, which barely fit over his robust yet un-buffed torso. Wild hair sprouted from beneath a worn Rats baseball hat. He was a superfan, he was the John 3:16 without the rainbow wig and sign. And also he was annoying.

He stood and waved his arms yelling obscure and totally moronic slogans, like:

"That's OUR puck! THAT's our PUCK! That's our PUCK!"
"Get it out! Get IT out! Get it OUT!"
"Now score! NOW score! Now SCORE!"

Really helpful and crowd-invigorating stuff. I was surprised he didn't try and start a wave. You can see some real nut-jobs at these games but this guy was the wicked-annoying variety. When the Rats did score, the Dude stood, arms raised and turned to the crowd taking all the credit for the score.

Needless to say, that drove us to find other seats, plus we like to be higher up - hockey is not meant to be seen at glass level.

We ended up climbing into the closed second tier, and found awesome seats. I looked over to our old seats and there was Dude, still standing there, yelling. Everyone around him had left so he was easy to spot.

It was then I noticed something different about him. He was wearing his short-sleeved Rats shirt and black gloves. Gloves? It was 80 degrees in the place. My hand shot to my jacket and I quickly realized the dude was wearing my Xmas present.

I turned to the folks I was with and said, "Hey, see our Dude down where we were sitting?"
"Yeah, look at him, he's wearing gloves now! It's hot as hell in here, what's up with that?"
"Uh, I think he's wearing my gloves."

They laughed at me the whole rest of the game, and afterward at the Hill Street. They wanted me to go down and try and get them back, but it wasn't happening. Not after he had his sweaty sausage links in them. But what kind of person finds a pair of gloves and immediately puts them on? I mean, I know possession is 9/10ths the law, but he was FLAUNTING it.

"In your FACE! I got your Isotoners, tough guy! Want them? Come and pry them off my ham hands, Einstein!"

The kicker was late in the 3rd period, when the game was tied and they were showing shots of fans on the jumbo-tron, here comes Dude, jumping and waving with my gloves.

My buddy Deron was at the game yesterday and said that Dude was back, with the gloves. Fucker.

Pimping My Computer

In the wake of the smash hit MTV shows "Pimp My Ride" and Pimp My Mom", advertisers trying to sell to that elusive "generation after gen-x but before the millinium babies" have picked up on this catch phrase.

One on-line radio station now claims they will "Pimp your pc" when you subscribe to their music service. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm guessing a team from West Coast Custom Computers pop in and do the deed. First, they crack on the shoddy shape of your pc.

"Dammmmmn. You're PC's so slow, I had my birthday just bootin it up!"
"Fer shizzle!"

Then they brainstorm and decide to add a 27 inch flat panel display, an x-box and a cupholder shaped like a naked chick. BAM!

Then you come back and they unvail the new pimped pc and you dance around saying, "Tight!" as they reel off the new features. Then your boss comes over and wants to know who spray painted a pink dragon on the wall of the men's room. SNAP!

Yeah Baby!

Let the dementia rein! Or rain, whatever. I don't promise good consistent content here, no freaking way. You want that, go to read the onion .But at least most of the spelling will be creative and I will make fun of lip-syncing pop stars. And also myself.

Thanks to my friend Erik (with a K) who got me into this blog deal. Now I can make money AND work at home! Who knew. And those 20 e-z payment will be like a cool breeze through my wallet.

Peace out, BeYatch.