I Dream Of A Real Rental Car

After a week of conference excitement, I took a few days to lay in the sun and taste few glasses of wine. Although I had planned on a few days of doing nothing, a car was still needed for the trips to the liquor store and mini-golf. Oh, yes - Orlando has some sweet mini-golf.

On a previous trip to FLA I had been graced by the car rental gods with a free double upgrade to full-size car, which turned out to be a Lincoln Towncar. It was like driving my living room around, while sitting on the couch. Well, minus the afghan. It's a wicked comfortable car, is what I'm getting at.

The gods had their revenge this time around. I had thought I had put in for a Ford Focus, a compact car being more than enough for 2 people and a few cases of Stella Artois. The first mistake was renting from a company called “Payless”. You do pay less, and for less you get abusive customer service, and cars that are pieces of shit. Imported shit. The "car" was Hyundai, which may produce god cars, but this one didn't qualify as "good" or even "road-worthy".

At first, the contraption drove adequately. On the pristine grounds of Disney, and the streets of Orlando, the car functioned as cars should. If you pressed the pedal on the right, the car accelerated. The pedal on the left applied a braking mechanism of some kind. There was even a radio.

On Saturday we broke from the poolside routine and drove out to Cocoa Beach, a hour East. On the open hiway, the Hyundai Accent was a fish out of water. At any speed over 54 MPH the steering wheel shook like an angry old man who has been denied the early-bird special at Black Angus. After and hour behind the vibrating wheel my hands were numb and tingly. I can’t imagine the car on any long trips, unless it’s being towed by something larger, like a Lincoln Towncar.

Cocoa Beach is the fictional home of Jeanie and the Major from “I Dream of Jeanie”, and ever since I saw the show during late nights in college I always wanted to get down there some day. I just liked the idea of living in a place that sounded like "Cocoa Crispies" and being an astronaut who had a genie for a wife who could blink and make cool crap happen. Not exactly "reality tv".

So when I saw on the little tourist map there was even a listing for “I Dream of Jeanie Lane”, with a parking lot and the picture of a big genie bottle, I knew it was a place to check out. After a few hours on the beach we drove over there and sure enough there was a street called that. I couldn't wait to see the tribute to the 60's tv classic. We walked down to the beach only to find that some turd had drawn it on the map to sucker the tourists, no giant bottle or even a sign.

That's ok, I'd still move there giant bottle or not. It's a beautiful place.

Crushing the Competition

While running around the fake riverfront yesterday, I marveled at the "Imaginerring" that must have went into the design of the Disney properties. The place I'm staying at is the "Port Orleans Riverside", modelled after the riverfront villas of the New Orleans area. The trees, shrubs even the grass, are not generic to Florida, but to Louisinanna. It's like they ripped up land in that region and had it flown here. Or so I am told by someone who has been there.

The Imagineers (Disney's cute name for their engineers) also did careful planning for where to put things. The pools are laid out in a certain order, with bridges to allow a kind of "hub and spoke" configuation to the main building. The only problem is they only have one hot tub for the whole place, and it's off to one side of the property, so you have to hike there. Again, all part of the plan I'm sure, to prevent that from getting overcrowded. Most people will say "Fuck it" if they have to go more than a few hundred yards to get somewhere, especially after walking all day.

But not me. I went barefoot, running on the tough, course grass the 3/4 mile route to the pool/hot tub area. On the way, I noticed little lizards zipping out of my path. No larger than a finger, the little green gecko's were like lightning. I found this a bit funny, as the gecko is the mascot of a rival insurance company, GEIKO. I felt much like I imagine Bill Gates feels when he wades through a room of software company CEO's. "I could have you killed, if I wanted too."

By the way, the slow lizards, they feel squishy.

Conference Etiquette tip #1

First off, I need to retract my ramblings from my last post. It turns but several people from my ex company are here and so my info that they were all being kept home by evil managers wasn't entirely accurate, and my semi-vicious remarks about managers only wanting to come down here to play golf and get mermaid tattoos was a bit off base.

Second, I'm going to break my promise not to recount events here at the geek-fest. The material is just too good, as Brian pointed out in his comments. I guess you've been there, huh Brian?

The opening celebrity speaker this morning was Jason Alexander of Seinfeld fame, and he was a huge hit. Last night, they had the Welcome Party, for which the theme was the movie, "Brokeback Mountain". Well, not really, it was a wild west theme, but there were guys dressed as gay cowboys. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

What was wrong was the guy who sat next to me at the big opening session this morning. I got to the opening session earlier than I have before, so I had a seat about halfway up in the middle isle so I could stretch my legs. I had several open seats next to me, but not for long.

First a gentleman of an ethnic origin (not going to say, don't want no sterorypes here. Aw hell, he was East Indian. Are you happy now?) sat two seats to my left. Then a few seconds later, a large gentleman sat on my right. I was suddenly aware of a BO aroma. Strong. I assumed it was the new arrival and moved to the empty seat on my left. The aroma was there too. There was no way I could sit for 2 hours. I got up and left. It was 8:15 in the morning, and already the guy was RANK. How nasty is THAT?

My new location was aroma free, so I know it wasn't me. I then watched a lady take my former seat. After a few moments, she glanced left and right, then picked up her bags and graciously but quickly moved off. Two more people came, and left, and I was relieved to see it wasn't just my nose that was picking up the offensive whiff of body odor. Finally another guy showed up and sat and stayed. Obviously, he had no sense of smell, which was a good thing.

Conference etiquette tip #1 - EXTRA DEODERANT PEOPLE. It's a friggen long day, and we're in tight quarters.

Mr Bright Side

This weekend I leave on a business trip to a product conference in Florida.

It will be a week of soft sell, techno-speak and tired feet, punctuated by events featuring Heineken and Disney food. Last year was one of the best ever, mostly due to the crew of wackjobs that were there. Yes, I'm referring to John, JV and company. From what I heard, none of them are going this year because their greedy management have taken the conference seats for themselves, which is crappy move because aside from being shmoozed by vendors the nontechnical people get very little out of the event. It's like sending a person who wants to buy a car to the assembly plant for a briefing on how the car is made. Most people (and managers) don't care, just want it to work.

One guy I know will be there is Kurt from Germany who will be coming to the U.S. again this year. He says he knows that the Wednesday night outing will be at SeaWorld, home of the Krakken roller coaster. Kühl !!

I've already told myself I'm not going to blog about the usual "geekfest" observations which I already beat that to death last year. It's going to be the same array of bizarre characters and late nights in the Port Orleans hot tub with Finnish programmers discussing the merits recursive variants while tossing back shots of Goldslager. If you need to refresh yourself on the
details, check the archives for this time last year.

Also, I will be making no inane comments about how much air travel sucks. Nothing could top my hellacious trip last year, short of an actual crash, in which case I won't be around to blog about it. By the way, if that happens, your last mental image of me should be this - I'm sitting in my cramped Southwest seat with hysterical idiots on either side of me screaming things like "The wing is missing!!!!" and "The tail people are gone!". I'll sit there calmly, laptop open and watching my "Kids In The Hall" dvd, laughing and taking swigs from a flask of Jameson's I brought aboard just for this purpose.

Always look on the bright side of life, that's my motto.

Gone Hollywood

My attorney, Irving Solnik, has had a makeover!

I knew he'd go all Hollywood after handling the Pitt/Anniston divorce. It
looks good, but he lost some of the rough edge, and he's going to wish he
had that next time he's scrapping it out in court. But he'll still win and
case, you can bet the house on that.

He quotes me on his website. I hope that means I get a break on my next
case with him. I don't just endorse anyone, you know.

Cell Phones Could Kill You

I've always been suspicious of cell phones. Part of me shunned them like I did pagers, hating to be on a tether to anyone or anything. Then again, it's convenient and certainly useful to have when your car is buried in a snowbank after sliding off a lonely, back-country road.

This article is careful to say that "It's important to note that in publishing this list are we in no way implying that cell phone use is or isn't harmful to your health.". However, they also mention that "some tests have shown that cell phone radiofrequency (RF) could accelerate cancer in laboratory animals". The fact that they are publishing the radiation levels of cell phones should tell you something.

Call me a skeptic, but cell phones are a multi-billion dollar industry and has a keen interest that the business not be linked to things like "cancer". Just look what that did to the cigarette industry. And remember how long it took to bring those companies to acknowledge that cigarettes MAY be harmful to you.

The biggest response I get to my objections on cell phones is "If they're so dangerous, why aren't more people effected?"

I think it has to do with genetics. Some people are more predisposed to cancer than others, and when those people are introduced to a facilitator (RF energy, in this case), then the tumor can form.

I knew a wonderful person who died mysteriously of a brain tumor. The family had no history of such things in their past generations. She was a heavy cell phone user for many years, from the early years of the business. I believed then, as I do today, that it is no coincidence.

Miss you, MAC.

Life Comes At You Fast

Here's a site with some funny video clips.

I love the kid on the skateboard who effs up the water pipe.

I'm Getting Superstitious

I play hockey, and hockey players are notoriously superstitious. I'm not someone that believes that I have to get dressed a certain way, or wear a special shirt to have a good game, but others do. I once played with a guy who wore the same t-shirt every game.

There's an old cliché in hockey that there's no normal goaltenders. It takes a special – no, insane – person to step in front of vulcanized rubber travelling at 90 miles an hour. Goalies are also the most superstitious in the hockey fraternity. One example is Pelle Lindbergh, who used to be with the Philadelphia Flyers.

Lindbergh would wear the same old orange t-shirt from a Swedish sporting goods company under his equipment. Each time the shirt started to fall apart, he had someone sew it up.

Patrick Roy, another goaltender, would skate out to the blue-line during pre-game and stare at the net, envisioning it shrinking. He would also consciously never step on the blue-line or red-line.

Many players have rituals for getting dressed in their equipment in a certain order, following a certain warm-up routine, or even driving to the arena in a particular route.

None of the guys I play with right now are like this, the only time they get superstitious is if someone forget to bring beer. Lately I've been thinking about trying some new things to break the cold streak I've had recently.

We recently got new jerseys, "home" versions of our "away" jerseys.

Our Away Jerseys look like this


And the new home ones are like this


I have never been one to demand a certain number when joining a team. When I started with the Ale House Wings I was handed #20, and it's been a great number for me. When these new home jerseys came in, it turned out that they hadn't ordered a #20, which meant the red #20 was an orphan, and I would have to change numbers.

Pickings were slim, and I had to switch to #17. It felt weird, and it threw my line mates off who were used to seeing the other number out on the ice with them. It's like when a linemate gets a new helmet - you get thrown off for a bit. My scoring productivity has fallen off, to the point where I started wondering if it was the new number, jinxing me.

Then my line mate Deron suggested an idea, he would go from #10 to #15, and give me #10. So now I'm #10. Last night I played my first game under my new number, except I kept shooting the goalie in the gut, which is not a very productive place to shoot a puck if you're trying to score. So the no-points streak continues.

I'm snake-bitten for 2 games now, which is the longest I've gone without a point in a years. Time to shave the beard, change my driving route the arena, try lacing my skates differently. Something. Anything.

Tuesdays with Shamus - "My Favorite Martian"

So starts a new blog series called "Tuesdays with Shamus", a glimpse into my writing past.

For a while, a friend and I had a running contest of where we would mail a topic to one another challenging them to write a very short story about it. Well, it turned out to be the source for some strange material. Every Tuesday for the next few weeks, I'm going to put up one of those pieces for your amusement.

This week's piece came from a line he sent me which was: "I picked up my bike and stuck the glow stick in my pocket." From that, I wrote this little ditty, called "My Favorite Marian". Enjoy.

_____________________________________

After I beat the living crap out of the alien I felt a whole lot better.

It stopped twitching and began oozing a violet fluid, which really didn't freak me out as much as the thought of all those Jackie Chan movies I'd watched had actually paid off.

The way I razzle-dazzled the flailing, multi-appendaged ray-gun-toting space creature would have even impressed my old band teacher, Mr. Olsen, who also taught phys ed. He was fond of saying I’d never make anything of myself, that I was too busy making phoney phone calls to apply myself to anything. How do you like me now, Mr. Olsen?

The victory rang slightly hollow since I had no witnesses to the incident. The damn thing jumped me while I was riding my bike on the side of the road in my development at midnight coming home from a beer-ball party. The bash had been lame, due largely to the poor quality of the beer, swill so watery that we got full before we got drunk. Damn cheap-ass pisswater.

Bloated and tired, I had split the party only to then get jumped by this blob of waving limbs and I thought it was some of the guys playing a joke. It knocked me off my bike and moved toward me, and that’s when I saw the beak. Purple, it was, and moved side to side, not up and down. It clicked anxiously from within a spotted, mushy face, and that’s when I realized this wasn’t the buds playing a trick. This was some serious shit.

The thing was pulling a glowing yellow wand from within the folds of it’s blobness, and I kicked at it without thinking. The want fell to the side of the road with a clinking sound. The Blob didn’t seem to appreciate that, it’s beak clicking faster and moving toward me. This time I called upon my hockey training and picked up a stick laying by the side of the road. I started beating the thing like a cheap rug until it stop clicking.

What a mess. Oozing slime was all over the place, as the thing seemed to have melted onto the pavement. I tossed the stick and picked up the little glow stick, looking it over. Nothing fancy, just a thin tube with no markings on it. I raised it the way the creature had started to and pointed it at a bush when WHOOSH! Damn if the bush didn’t evaporate! Cool!

A curious smell got me to turn and see that the blob was evaporating, wisps of smoke rising from the gel.

I picked up my bike and stuck the glow stick carefully in my pocket. I was going to be a pretty good summer.

Kicked in the Nutbag

That's what it felt like, watching Will Ferrel in "Kicking and Screaming" on dvd. Holy crap did it blow! It was like watching a run-away SNL skit. A realllly long one. With no real plot. Or humor.

I love Will. He cracks me up. But he just didn't have anything to work with here. He played a dad that was like his character in Elf. Easy going, naiive, and maybe a bit dim. But that's where the similarity ends.

I wanted to like it. I wanted to laugh. Just wasn't there. I won't bother filling you in on the details of this train wreck. If you're adventurous, rent it and check it out for yourself. How does it end? I have no idea. I didn't make it that far.

I give it one cowbell. One sad, sad, cowbell.

Nights Of Fire, and Robot Dancing

The greatest thing about the internet are the copius amounts of hilarious videos out there. Here's two great ones for you.

From our wacky Japanese friends, this video appears to be about a guy with really, really bad breath.

In this one, The first 2 dancers are horrible, but the last guy will make it all worth it. He takes "the robot" to a new, freakier level.

How I Made 2005 Great

Let's review Shamus' New Years Resolutions for 2005, shall we?

1. Get filthy, stinkin rich
2. Invent a robot that can beat me at Playstation (I get to pick the game)
3. Donate 1 million to my college under the condition they place a plaque in the main lobby stating I was the greatest student to ever go there
4. Become the greatest Magician in my town.
5. Finish one of the 10 projects currently unfinished in my house.
6. Gotta have more cowbell
7. Prevent the metric system from taking hold in the US
8. Get message to Martha Stewart to dump that stock before it's too late.
9. Get Ziggy removed from circulation.
10. Spread a false rumor about a "Asian Bird Flu" that will have people panicking.

How did I do? Let's see!

1. Didn't get rich.
2. Well, this one depended on #1 coming true, which it didn't.
3. Again, needed #1 to occur.
4. As far as I know, I may be, so I'm counting it as a win.
5. There are 4 new unfinished projects. I barely go the lawn mowed.
6. Had some cowbell, but not enough.
7. Success! Inches rule!
8. I had nothing to do with THAT.
9. I failed, but Ziggy still sucks.
10. I tried to make this one work, but people just don't care.
    

Two out of ten. Sweet, sweet success.

Dick Clark Isn't Looking So Good (but then again, neither am I)

I was going to go on about how sad it was to watch Dick Clark on New Years Eve, but that seems to be old news at this point. People have been beating that poor guy into the ground, like he was the only thing that sucked about that broadcast. Cha right!

After some reflection, I realize I would much rather watch a stroked out Dick than a coherant Ryan Seacreast or resiliant Hillary Duff. If I could have wished a drunken reveler to stumble up and vomit on them during the show, I would have. And more! How Seacreast has the career he has is ponderous.

So 2006 came in while I was losing at poker, but the night turned around because I kicked ass playing Jenga and then Cindy started eating the bread & dip and started talking some weird language nobody could understad and we laughed so hard my sides hurt most of the day yesterday.

None of it makes much sense now, but it was funny then.

Now we're having our first power outage of 2006. The juice cut out right in the middle of "Arrested Development" too. Crap on a cracker.

Do you crack up at that show AFV? Then you'll love this.