No

Wa wa waaaaa

2009-02-16T12:08:00.000-08:00

My 2-year-old son is being potty trained.

Today his mom noticed he'd let loose in his pull ups and asked him what happened. He got a real sad face and said "Wa, waaa, waaaaa."

You know, that trombone sound that you hear when a joke doesn't fly? Yes, that "waa, waa, waaaaa." Where does he get this stuff?

I personally think you shouldn't be that cool until after you've learned not to pee yourself.

The Mike S. shuffle

2009-02-14T11:38:00.001-08:00

My chair at work does not face the door. Yes, I'm saying that when someone enters the room, I must swivel around to see who it is.

I realize not only is this poor feng shui, but it also makes me very nervous ever since reading The Autobiography of Malcom X: As Told To Alex Haley in high school (wouldn't Mr. Root's authorship of the book technically make it a biography? Shrug.)

I have worked at my current place of employment long enough, however, that I now recognize who is approaching my desk by the sound of his or her shuffle. It's true. Each person's legs, arms and clothing rub against each other in such a distinct rhythmic pattern that long before someone darkens my door, I know if it's Jared or Josh, James or Jim.

Now if I could just determine a way to keep the whole damn lot of them from ever coming into my office, I'd be set.

No, I don't remember my home phone number

2009-02-14T11:31:00.000-08:00

Is that so strange? I don't ever have to dial it (that's what speed dial's for, fool).

And I'm only slightly embarrassed when someone asks me for it and I tell them I'm going to have to look it up. So it looks like the situation isn't going to change anytime soon.

On a side note, I do have my street address memorized.

More ketchup please

2008-11-18T18:27:00.000-08:00

My car has made its way through many a fast drive-thru over the years. My expanding double chin is a fleshy testament to this fact.

Despite this, it was only a year ago I recognized a pattern I had encountered many times before. What can I say? Something clicked in my head. I still to this day don't know why this happens, it simply does. Try it for yourself and see.

You'll note that the phenomenon transcends any one eatery. You, like me, have probably had it happen to you, perhaps without thinking about it. It goes a little something like this:

1. Order and pay for food.
2. Pick up food.
3. Ask for ketchup.
4. Window technician (let's call him Jimmy) forks over a measly 2-3 packets.
5. Ask for more ketchup.

It is at this point that some conservation switch flips to the off position in Jimmy's mind. No longer will he follow the directive of his manager to dole out the ketchup packs like they were World War II ration stamps. No, it is time to get down to business ... the business of giving you what he should have given you all along and then some.

Jimmy now offers you more ketchup packets than his hands can accommodate; inevitably a packet or two falls on the ground.

All you wanted was maybe a couple packs more. Just enough to get to the bottom of that bucket of french fries you ordered. But now you have enough ketchup for your fries and any other sick, perverted thing you've always wanted to do with ketchup but couldn't because of a lack thereof.

Like I said Hot Rod, this is something that has happened at Wendy's, McDonalds, Burger King, Carl's Jr., etc.

Why do you do this to me Jimmy? Why? I just don't need that much ketchup. What am I supposed to do with the excess? Save it? Throw it away? And most of all, why won't you just give me a couple more packets to begin with?

Beatles v. Wings

2008-01-25T09:29:00.000-08:00

So I got some iTunes gift certificates for Christmas and promptly used every last one of them on my latest aural endeavor - to listen to every Paul McCartney/Wings album ever recorded.

This is a somewhat monumental task. There are 30-plus albums.

Previously, all I've known of McCartney's post-Beatles output was a Wings greatest hits tape my Dad would play in the car during family vacations and PM's latest releases, from Flaming Pie onward.

My logic for doing this is as follows: I love the Beatles, they are the prototype for good rock music. McCartney was one of the four Beatles. In fact, he is one of the two Beatles whose songs I tend like (sorry Ringo and George, you just didn't bring it like Paul and John). It stands to reason that I will enjoy at least some of McCartney's solo/second band output.

As of this moment, I have listened to the first 6 PM/Wings albums. My general impression is that I liked the first two (which still feel Beatleseque to me) the others have been hit or miss. Mostly miss. Man, Paul could sure write some crappy/sappy/schlappy songs. Every once in a while he'll amaze with a "Live and Let Die," but more often than not he delivers a different kind of flaming pie.

My conclusion falls in line with one of my general life maxims - everybody needs an editor. People who think they don't are in sore need of a reality check. These are the same people who must like smelling their own farts in the shower. Sure, passing gassssss thusly gets everything out there, but, like the gentle correction of the editor's pen, there's a lot to be said for proper blue-jean filtration.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

2008-01-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

With more than 5 billion scurrying around on Earth, I have always suspected that somewhere out there is another me. He either 1.) sounds just like me or 2.) looks just like me (lucky bastard).

Now I know it's true. And I rest my argument entirely upon the following two pieces of evidence:

1. A certain hawk-nosed ex-Journey front man can forget about ever doing a reunion tour (that is, if he wants to, which he probably doesn't; but that's neither here nor there.) Nevertheless, Steve Perry's voice somehow jumped across the Pacific Ocean and got stuck in Arnel Pineda's throat. Arnel's a 40-year old Philipino (football anyone?) Pineda has been hired to be the band's new vocalist.

2. This is a picture of me kicking it with my brother:

Except, that's NOT my brother! Holy crap! It's some random dude who walked into the Stockton-to-Malone car dealership where I was purchasing a new auto a few months back. And if you know my brother, you know that this dude looks exactly like him, right down to the goatee. It's freaking uncanny!

It is because of these two examples that I now, more firmly than ever, believe that a man is innocent until proven guilty.

Officer, it was my body double that jacked that 7-11, I swear!

Gaaaarfield!

2007-11-20T14:37:00.000-08:00

That crazy Garfield has gone and done it again! Now Google is selling ads for him on my blog. Stupid Garfield.

The Mystery That Is Garfield

2007-10-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

When I was but a wee lad, I adored Jim Davis' comic strip Garfield. Something about a lazy, overweight cat who loves lasagna just killed me - go figure! I vividly remember one day visiting the WVC library and feeling like I'd hit the mother lode upon discovering a multitude of Garfield strips compiled into a single volume.

Fast forward 20 or so years. DUDE! Somebody needs to tell Jim Davis it's time to put his pencil down. I mean, how many lasagna jokes are there? We get it. Garfield loves the stuff and he'll do just about anything for it. Jon is a loser. Odie is stupid. Ha ha. Enough already.

My question is who is reading this stuff anymore? I mean, besides this chick. Despite my boyhood love of the strip, I freaking grew up. Kids today certainly can't find it entertaining, what with all the video games, cartoons and Internet sites out there.

Again, hang it up Davis. Take a cue from Gary Larson and Bill Watterson and stop already.

Has it really been that long?

2007-09-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

The Cheeth has astutely pointed out that it's been a while since my last post. And who am I to argue with the Cheeth?

Although I doubt anyone (well, with the exception of the aforementioned Cheeth) will ever read this post having long ceased all visitation to this site, it's certainly worth my time to posty posty in an attempt to please the Cheeth.

Has anyone noticed that I've used the word Cheeth five times already? Probably just the Cheeth (not to be confused with the Cheat, pictured), my lone visitor.

Stupidgate

2006-11-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

Yeah, it's probably been said before, but why do people insist on calling every scandal and attempted "coverup" that's out there "every scandal and attempted 'coverup' that's out there-gate?"

You've got CBS memogate, the Clintons' travelgate, and, of course, Janet Jackson's nipplegate. More recently, we've been subjected to Foleygate, Katrinagate and Macacagate. Enough with the "gates" already. Sheesh.

82

2006-11-15T14:56:00.000-08:00

How long are YOU gonna live?

According to a site called Living To 100 I'm gonna croak at 82 if I don't get my crap together.

Now, if do a better job of flossing my teeth every night, cutting back red meat consumption to 1-2 days a week, and groping myself more regularly to check for testicular lumps, WHAMMO, I can tack on three more years.

And that's nothing! If I cut out the fast food, lower the dairy consumption (blasted cheese addiction!) and start taking an asprin each day (preferrably in the evening), the site says I can expect an extra 8 years of wonderful livin'.

I'd do the rest of the stuff they suggested, but who wants to live much past 90 anyway? Eternity awaits, and I hear it's way cooler than mortality.

Anniversary

2006-11-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

Just to be clear: contrary to what that redneck lady said in church, it's NOT possible to have a 6 month anniversary. Look it up in a dictionary already.

However, it IS possible to have a 2nd anniversary, like I did yesterday. Way to go: my wife and me.

Flat-front pants

2006-11-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

A nice pair of dress pants (or seven) is an important part of any young professional's wardrobe.

Last week, I purchased some new slacks for work. I like them. They are snazzy. But there's one problem with them (at least if you ask my wife): they all have pleats.

I have been informed that flat-front pants, contrary to what I have always believed, are "slimming." Pleats "add unnecessary bulk to the waistline."

Maybe my eyes are broken. I've always observed the exact opposite. I think flat-front pants make my belly look like it could shelter a child from a rainstorm. Or a dwarf. Apparently, I am wrong. (This happens frequently now that I am married.)

I think this whole slimming thing is complete crap. Look at the guy in the picture to the right. Dude's already slim. No matter what pants he's got on, the guy's going to look slim. If you want to back up the whole slimming thing you should squeeze someone beefy into a pair and then judge.

My wife also informs me that flat-front pants are "in." I don't even know what to say about that.

She did bring up the magnificent point that jeans are a type of flat-front pants and that I wear them all the time. This is true, but I don't tuck in my shirt when wearing jeans -- my shirt covers the front of them. With all due respect, her point, for me, is therefore moot.

"Biddy biddy biddy"

2006-11-02T14:45:00.000-08:00

Ever wish you could look into the future and see how your life turned out? I do. Usually, it's right around the time I have to make some sort of life-altering decision, like: what should I do with the rest of my life? Yeah, seeing into the future would pretty much be great at a time like that.

Remember that one TV show, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century?

Basic plot: In 1987 NASA launches a deep space probe piloted by Buck Rogers. Something goes wrong, Buck goes into cryogenic suspension, and wakes up in 2491. Hilarity ensues.

I bet ol' Buck would have never stepped foot in that fancy spaceship if he'd had the slightest inkling what lay in store for him. I mean, sure, he got to kick it with lil' robot buddy Twiki and make out with the foxy Colonel Wilma Deering. But all things said and done, I bet he would have prefered old Chicago to New Chicago. If for nothing else, the Bears (who as of this moment are 7-0.) That, and beautiful, deep-dish pizza.

Six was the magic number

2006-10-31T13:32:00.000-08:00

And so, with Cheeth's barbed chide "You gay fag" now logged, I address you once more.

You see, I told myself two months ago that I would not post another word until "Chubby Tom's Cleo Snak" had accumulated six posts. You heard me, all right. Not five. Six.

So in reality, it's not me who is the gay fag, but vice versa. You should all be throughly ashamed of yourselves.

Chubby Tom's Cleo Snak

2006-08-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

You know what I was thinking would be totally awesome (almost as flippin' rad as pirates)?

If Chubby Checkers, Shaggy, Miss Cleo and Tom Brokaw got together to form either 1.) a band or 2.) a secret team of superheroes (would it really matter which)?

Yeah, just go ahead and try to tell me that wouldn't be totally awesome.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!

2006-08-02T15:33:00.000-07:00

Are you?

Dude, vacation is over. Work is calling. School is looming.

The heat is on, it's melting your face!!! (Well, yours and that of your heinous new girlfriend, senior White House correspondent Helen Thomas.)

Arrrrrr! I'm punchy for pirates!

2006-07-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

Ahoy maties! I don't know about you, but like the rest of the nation -- nix that -- the WORLD, I have been swept up in a full-scale pirate mania! Shiver me timbers and make me walk the plank!!!

If it's not about the swashbuckling adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow, I don't want to hear about it! At this very moment, I'm listening to the movie soundtrack, wearing my pirate costume and dreaming about what's next!!!

I think Pirates are so awesome, I've even decided to jump ship from my favorite baseball team, the Mets, and head over to Piratesville. Hey you! Hand me that controller, I wanna play the new pirates video game, too!!!

Man, pirates sure are rad!

One ring to rule them all

2006-07-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

So my little dude is teething. At least I think he is. Evidence:

1. He is drooling at an impressive rate. The stuff is everywhere.
2. He's very fussy. He yells a lot more than he used to.
3. He has a little nubbin of a white spot on his upper gum. Unless he can grow whiteheads inside his mouth (which might be possible, seeing as how I've only known him a few months), I'm sayin' this is a tooth.

He also has a new fascination with what has to be the ugliest, strangest teething ring I've ever seen. He likes to grab it with both fists and cram it into his mouth. Concidentally, I like to do the same thing with cheeseburgers or pizza.

What twisted mind devised such a horrid looking "toy?"

No more teachers, no more books

2006-07-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

Last week I started a magical time known as "off." You see, for the entire month of July I don't have any MBA classes. Hence the magic.

Here's what I've done so far to take advantage of my unfettered situation:

1. Short family trip to Phoenix to celebrate the Fourth of July weekend with my zany father-in-law (that's him up there, giving me his "zany eye"). There were some real good eats in Arizona.
2. Watched a couple of movies I wanted to see, Superman Returns being one of them. Not great, but not bad. Looking forward to the sequel.
3. Started two-a-day work outs. Need to lose about 20 lbs. -- 15 of which is lingering sympathy weight from CL's pregnancy.
4. Passed gas at will.

Okay, #4 is really just your everyday run-of-the-mill stuff, but enjoyable nonetheless.

And here's what I have planned for the rest of the month:

1. Play the guitar. Maybe even try to record some new music that I haven't written yet. Maybe.
2. Play some video games that I've been neglecting. Gun, Guitar Hero, who knows what else?
3. Take a two-week vacation from work. The family is planning some day trips to see some of Utarh's natural wonders, camp, hike, etc.
4. Not do any homework.

Man, I love not being in school. I don't even miss it one bit.

Feliz Cumpleanos

2006-06-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

Twenty-four years ago today my wife and mother to the handsome devil to the right made her first appearance on the scene. To her Max and I say with mucho gusto: Happy birthday! (Doesn't it feel like that "b" should be capitalized? But I digress...)

Yes indeedy, we love you very much and hope you have a special day! May it be filled with chocolate chips, lots of hugs and kisses, and little or no fussing.

T-minus 1:50 and counting

2006-06-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

Ever have something looming in the distance that is so menacing that you can't do anything but wait for impending doom to arrive? Enter my Operations and Supply Chain Management final.

Still there? Good. I know even a remote mention of supply chain management has the potential to derail the most faithful reader, so I just wanted to be sure you were still with me.

So my teacher, bless his heart, is getting ready to retire. And you know what that means -- he officially stopped giving a crap about 10 years ago. Boy does it show. His "hint" for the final was to tell us that "70 percent would be computations and 30 percent short answer." What kind of lame hint is that? Is that somehow supposed to help me prepare in some way? All that tells me is that the test is going to be 70 percent of stuff I'm 100 percent sure I'm not going to know the answers to.

Dude, you know it's gonna be ugly when the guy declares at the start of class last week: "Now, a lot of you will probably ask yourself in the middle of the test, 'What planet is this guy from?' So, be ready for that."

It's encouraging words like this that have me TOTALLY FREAKED OUT. I'll let you know how I fare.

Ladies man #1

2006-06-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at my desk trying to study for an important exam. But can I concentrate? No. You see, there is a dance going on about a block from my office. The music is loud. The DJ is obnoxious. I am annoyed. However, I feel inspired to share the inspirational lyrics of the very special song that's playing right now. They mean the world to me:

"If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe, I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from Cotton-Eye Joe?

He came to town like a midwinter storm. He rode through the fields so hansome and strong. His eyes was his tools and his smile was his gun. But all he had come for was having some fun.

He brought disaster wherever he went. The hearts of the girls was to hell broken sent. They all ran away so nobody would know. And left only men cause of Cotton-Eye Joe."

A masterwork! My kudos to the songwriter for masterfully weaving tune and verse in such an emotive way. Sounds to me like despite Cotton-Eye Joe's visual impairment, the guy had no trouble bagging chicks. Way to pull yourself up by the old bootstraps, Cotton-Eye Joe!

Wish you were here

2006-06-24T13:33:00.000-07:00

The other night my wife had a dream in which I was Superman and, at the request of the supreme Greek god Zeus, flew her to the country of Exxador. (Actually, I may have been charged by his Zeusship with saving the country -- at this moment I can't remember anything else about her dream except the words "Superman," "Zeus" and "Exxador".) Yes, that's cool I was Superman, but the real point here is that her sleep-self created an entirely new land with an entirely bitchin' name.

Since then, I have asked myself many questions like, "What do the citizens of Exxador look like?" and "What is their principle exxport?" "Do Exxadorians speak English?" and "Do they use the metric system?"

I have to admit that this newly discovered country fascinates me. And don't get me started on the people! Warm, friendly, hospitible. I can't get enough of their cuture, language and history -- I really want to know it all.

Someday Cara and I will go on a magical trip to this special place and see its many sites. When we do, I will be sure to send you a postcard.

Bye-Bye Band

2006-06-23T15:40:00.000-07:00

When I was in college (the first time) I was in a band. We called ourselves Eleanor Blushes and played a hard-to-peg brand of music that was all over the joint -- blues, rock, butt-rock, grunge, disco, jazz. You name it, we played it. (Badly at first, but we got pretty decent by the end.)

Part of the reason we blew so much in the beginning is because we cluttered the sonic landscape with three guitar players, a bass player and three "lead" singers. Dude! At the most we should have had two guitar players and one singer. In a word, we lacked focus. (Okay that's three words, and that's my point.) Compounding matters, at times I fancied myself a "tortured musician" and wanted our lyrics and songs to be dark and artistic. The reality was if we wanted to play gigs in Provo (Utah, not Spain) we had to be a college house party band. That meant uptempo crowd pleasers that "had a good beat and that people could dance to." In retrospect, we probably should have called the band "Eleanor Schizophrenic."

Reason two: our first drummer couldn't keep time. Please note that this is not a good quality in a drummer. When he got married and moved to Texas, we all secretly rejoiced. Wherever he is, I hope he's doing well (in a steady 4/4 kind of way).

Finally, we had some creative differences. As the lead singer and rhythm guitarist, I was the de facto leader and made the song choices (hey, I had to sing them). The lead guitarist never really got what I was aiming for, sonically speaking. I tired of telling him that he wouldn't be playing that "Freebird-esque" solo for eight minutes. And he tired of me bossing him around. Eventually, he started another band in SLC that was heavy duty butt-rock. I heard him play a couple shows. Not bad if you're into Poison, Aerosmith, crap, etc.

So it went. EB eventually evolved into a three piece, then back to a four piece. We changed our name to Kent, then to Vaughn, then to Spartacus (turns out the Swedes have the corner on Kent and Vaughn, damn them)! Spartacus stuck, although I got the feeling the bass player never really dug it.

We started playing less frequently. Then we only played on special occasions. Now we don't play at all. Kind of sad, but that's what should happen to college bands, I think. At least really unfocused ones with drummers who can't keep time. Hey, we can't all be the Rolling Stones, who will probably be coming out on stage soon with the help of walkers, can we?

My offspring looks nothing like me

2006-06-20T12:48:00.000-07:00

I suppose it's not that unusual for a father to hope that his son looks something like him. Alas, I hope in vain.

My three-month old is a handsome devil, don't get me wrong. (And I'm not just saying that. Look at these photos, and tell me he's not a fine specimen.)

I have occasionally commented to his mother that he is the baby of a thousand faces. This is because no two photographs we take of him look quite the same. The problem is that not a single one of his many faces looks like me.

Because of this, I have to take solace in similarity with other body parts. He has two wonderful ears and a pair of fantastic legs, which his mother calls "Romanesque" (read: fat) that are both shrunken versions of mine.

I do, however, take full credit for his "cute" and "rascal" genes.

Didn't quite do it for you?

2006-06-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, so that last post was me being a bit too literal.

Like father, like son, I guess. The other day (Father's Day, no less) I made the gross error of asking my Dad, "What's up?"

I was then regaled with an exhaustive list of things that are indeed "up," including "the sky, the roof, birds, the sun, airplanes ..."

After the master-of-punnery (oh yes, he's good at puns, too) listed about eight more things I said, "Okay Dad, I get it. That's some real funny stuff you got there."

Unabated, he continuted, "Or, if you have issues with the concept of up, how about things that are 'away from' other things?" Of course, he then proceeded to list a few things that are away from other things. "The amosphere from the ground, stars from the Earth, the celing from the floor..."

It was at that point that I decided to "be away" from Captain Literal.

I promise you, dear reader, that I will never be so painfully obvious again.

You asked for it...

2006-06-19T11:49:00.000-07:00

Because you, the fans, have demanded it, I have decided to post "something, anything."

Ready?

Here it is.

Got it?

Good.

Don't say I don't care, because it's just not true.

Sweet Caroline

2006-05-19T12:58:00.000-07:00

Neil Diamond is the Jewish Elvis, but he's also a mean mother of a neighbor. That's right, don't even THINK about adding 13 feet to the height of your edifice if you live next to the Solitary Man. After all, he's Neil Diamond, and he's earned his right to some privacy.

I'm totally siding with Neil on this one. A demigod has to feel free to expose his hairy chest to the elements on occasion, and you can't expect a superstar of Neil Diamond's calibur to do so in the shadow of a "large-copper clad structure and steel beams." It's unseemly.

Season of loneliness

2006-05-12T13:34:00.000-07:00

I am about to embark on a season of loneliness that may only be rivaled by that experienced by my brother Boyd, lo, some years ago. Bereft of human companionship, he wasted away in my parents sprawling rambler during a cold and bitter winter. No one and nothing, it seemed, could console him in his isolation.

It was a hard thing to watch (or at least hear about after the fact since I was, at the time, completely unaware of his solitary situation).

But as I said, I will soon face the same grim fate. My wife and child will journey to a golden land of mirth and revelry, while I languish in a brackish pool of my own self-pity. True, they will only be gone for 10 days, but what long, trying days they will be without the gentle touch of my woman's hand and the heartening warmth of my baby's smile.

Must...blog...now...

2006-05-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but I was suddenly overtaken by an incredible urge to blog. The weird thing is, I don't really have anything different, interesting or funny to say. Not that that's a reason not to blog. Because what would the blogosphere be without mindless, numbing stupidity?

And speaking of stupidity, isn't the word "blog" innately stupid? I mean, it sounds like something that boiled up from the depths of an upset stomach. Couldn't the inventor of the word "blog" have come up with something less guttural sounding? Prettier?

A blog is a "web log," right? What if instead we called them web letters - "bletters?" Because that's kind of what a blog is, right? An open letter to the world. And "bletter" kind of sounds like "better." And isn't that what blogging should really be all about? Making the world a "bletter" place?

Numbers game

2006-04-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

When my brother Boyd was younger he used to take his baseball cards, some dice, a pad of paper, a calculator and a pencil and play a game he called "statistics." Foreign to me, the game somehow involved the numbers on the back of the baseball cards, rolls of the dice and what seemed like endless sheets of numbers, all written in Boyd's trademark chicken-scratch style. The object of the game? I'm not sure. But I do know the hours spent in his room playing this funny little game has provided me and his other siblings endless fodder for mockery in this, the "post-statistics" era.

Today, we are all grown up and have jobs and responsibilities. And Boyd has a hernia. Or had a hernia, I should say. It was surgically repaired yesterday. Actually, he's had two hernias to date, both in the last few years. What are the stats on that?

In a related topic, I'm reading a book called "Moneyball" by Michael Lewis that looks at how a professional baseball team used statistics to build a winning team out of "misfit" players, those the rest of the league viewed as bit players or worse. No superstars on this team, sir. Just a ragtag bunch of guys who, when combined, created a superhuman baseball force. The concept got me thinking. What other seemingly marginal things could be put together to create unstoppable juggernauts?

For example, what if the boring lady who works in my office merged with the other lady in my office who is so "fake nice" it makes me want to staple all of my orifices shut to keep the fake out? They would be unstoppable in their efforts to bore me to death in a really kind and gentle, but fake, way.

Or what if my brother's two hernias decided to band together? One hernia is bad news, but TWO!?! He would never be able to move his lower abdomen again. And by "lower abdomen" I mean genitals.

Tiny, strong baby

2006-03-30T11:46:00.000-08:00

After a greuling 15 hours of hard labour, my wife finally had our child via C-section (you bet imma capitalize that "C") a couple weeks ago. Hey, that's life I guess. She's doing well, thanks. And the boy? He is tiny, but strong; he also has incredible urinary powers.

When I go to change the little guy's diapers or shirt, I cannot, for the life of me, get him to unbend his arms or legs. When I try to coax them, he just holds them tighter and makes these cool grunting noises. But I've noticed that if I will just wait a second or two after attempting to unbend his appendages, he'll straighten them of his own accord. Stubborn, but not too stubborn. I like that.

As for his urinary powers, the kid can pee through a Huggies diaper, a bodysuit, a pair of pants, a bulletproof shield and a blanket onto my defenseless wife. Okay, she's not all that defenseless, she knows karate. But dang! Who'd have thought that a little wiener like that could have such force! It makes a father proud.

Friday, I'm In Love

2006-03-17T15:48:00.000-08:00

Here we are: Friday afternoon. But this isn't just any Friday, it's St. Patrick's Day. Shamrocks, leprechauns, and HOLY CRAP!!! I just spelled leprechauns right. What's with that "h" up in there, anyway? The luck 'o the Irish must be with me.

Today was the day my unborn child was supposed to make his appearance, but, like his mother, he is late. (And I'm okay with that, by the way. She was worth the wait and he will be, too.)

What I'm NOT okay with is the amount of pizza I ate today for lunch. I don't know what it is, but when I get those triangular slices of cheesy goodness in front of me all self-control takes a back seat to my insatiable appetite for pizza. My stomach feels like a mid-sized backpack that has seven pairs of thick, cotton sweatpants of various colors shoved into it. This may be similar to what my dear wife has felt like for the last few months, what with her being pregnant and all.

Oooh. That's a good excuse when she asks me why I'm not hungry for dinner. "Oh, I was just trying to get a better feel for what you are going through right now, baby. So I ate half a pepperoni pizza." I think she'll buy it.

9 Minutes Left

2006-02-27T15:54:00.000-08:00

Somedays I am so busy at work that I can't get anything done. Then there's today. It's like Father Time got himself stuck in a vat of cold tar. Yeah, he's climbing out of it, but it's taking a while because he's got arthritis. Oh, that, and he's stopping every 15 minutes or so for coffee.

Here I am, minutes before the factory whistle blows, so, of course, every moment is passing even more slowly than that other slow time I was just talking about.

It's not like I have some exciting thing to do at home or anything. Mostly homework for this week's classes. But boy, I can't wait to get out of here.

It's all Sam's fault

2006-02-24T15:17:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you knew this, but everything is Wal-Mart's fault.

This point was driven home to me today as I read an article in the Strategist that explained why so many journalists are leaving an exciting life of reporting to become PR flacks. The explanation? Here you go:

"Media analysts blame ... the rise of Wal-Mart, which, unlike the department stores the retail colossus often displaces, spends little on newspaper ads."

So there you have it. Wal-Mart is driving could-have-been-Pulizer-prizewinning newshounds to a life of inglorious spindom.

What else? Sam, et. al., are responsible for babies, one CEO's sore behind and "brilliant new films." I'm pretty sure this is their fault, too.

You're not the boss of me

2006-02-18T13:48:00.000-08:00

I can update (or not update) this blog as often (or inoften) as I want. So there.

Now go chew on your own poopy peas.

The Gramophone Awards

2006-02-09T12:47:00.000-08:00

My reaction to the Grammys: I don't really like U2's latest album. In fact, it was a big letdown for me. The only slightly worthwhile song on the thing was "Vertigo," and it felt like a retread. I loved the previous effort, you know, the one with the really long name? I count it as one of my favorites of the last few years. Also, like you, I adore "Actung Baby." But this "Dismantle" thing? Sub par. Doesn't stack up to "AB" or the other one with the really long name or "Joshua Tree." Crap, it's not even close to "Rattle and Hum." The emperor has no clothes, man.

As for the rest of the winners: Mariah Carey is a no talent a**-clown. No one wanted your copycat comeback. Go away. We got Beyonce now, and we don't want her, either. Green Day -- all your songs sounded like other songs I already heard and liked, so I guess your songs were pretty okay, too. Here's a Grammy. Kelly Clarkson, your song is aural crack. Illegal. I don't want to like it, but no one can't not like it. Stevie Wonder ... uh, okay. Maroon 5 does a better Stevie Wonder than you do nowadays, so let's give them one, too.

People who got an award who deserved it: Kanye West. Yep ... Lando Calrissian, his own self. Yeah, I'm a Kanye West fan. Not as big a one as he is, but I have to admit he's got skillz.

Also, someone needs to explain to the Grammys that Richard Pryor, although funny at times, never sang anything.

Sellout

2006-02-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

Some of you have asked about my ads, which appear at the top of the page above all the posts. Pretty, no?

It's true -- I sold out to the man. Maybe you've heard of him. His name is Google.

So the way it works: I write about something, say tasty all-beef hot dogs or heavy metal icon Zakk Wylde, and WHAMMO, Google serves you up an ad for a real sabrett casing style hot dog (you know, the dog that SNAPS when you bite into it) and a heavy-duty, signed Zakk Wylde wah-wah pedal to accommodate all of your wah-wah needs.

If you click, I get a very small percentage of the ad revenue. How I get it is a bit of a mystery to me. I have yet to get it. In fact, I'm beginning to think I may never get it ...

Perhaps the key to me getting paid is a lot of people clicking on the ads. In that case, Mr. Google, don't bother posting an ad for the ever-appealing Socrates may I recommend an ad for a sure-fire, compulsory click-o-rama? Here you go.

Why not no?

2006-02-03T14:03:00.000-08:00

I've had a few people ask me why the name of my blog is "No." My answer? Why not no?

Yes, I realize that's an answer in question form, but If you don't like it, take it up with my homeboy Socrates.

Honestly ...

2006-02-01T17:37:00.000-08:00

What does a post have to do around this joint to merit a comment?

Did you see that picture down there of mountain man Zakk Wylde? Holy crap already.

Butt rocker the modern mountain man

2006-01-28T18:10:00.000-08:00

I was thumbing through my new guitar magazine today, the one with sharp-dressed Billy Gibson (of ZZ Top fame) on the cover, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Today's butt rocker - Zakk "Attakk" Wylde (right) being perhaps the ultimate prototype - is no less than the modern day mountain man.

Balderdash? Consider the similarities - both are/were unshorn, nomadic, wily and enigmatic. And just as the mountain man of yesteryear wandered the earth in search of securing his place in history, today's butt rocker tours relentlessly, engaged in similar pursuit. Sold-out concerts? Nothing more than a latter-day rendezvous, complete with trades of wampum (your hard earned cash) for beaver pelts (that totally awesome black Ozzy t-shirt with all the tour dates printed on back).

And I don't have to tell you about the ladies ... back in the day all you had to do was mention Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, and John "The Pathfinder" Fremont and females would shortly be fanning themselves. I ask you: which self-respecting woman of the 21st century doesn't want to catch a rock god's sweat-drenched towel thrown between heat-inducing guitar solos?

I could go on, but probably won't because I shouldn't.

Movies with Bill

2006-01-27T11:21:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or is Captain Kirk insane? First the dude sells his kidney stone for charity and now you can join the William Shatner DVD Club.

This is scary. Slightly appealing, but scary.

Other clubs I think I don't want to join include:

The Bon Jovi Fan Club,
Mr. Ring's Math Club,
and the Serbian Juggling Club.

But that's just me.

Costco power lunch

2006-01-25T12:07:00.000-08:00

If you haven't done this, well dude, you should. It's called the Costco Power Lunch®. And here's how it works:

1. Go to Costco any weekday at about noon (avoid weekends -- trust me on this).
2. Head to the back of the store.
3. Go around the "horn of plenty," sampling your way to the food concessions at the front of the store.
4. Buy yourself a $1.50 hot dog (comes with a refillable drink).
5. Eat it.
5. Go back to #2 and repeat until full.

My buddy Matt and I would do this every couple of weeks when he was in law school. It hit the spot every time. And, thanks to the magic power of hot dogs, I would frequently feast on that yummy all-beef flavor the rest of the day.

The key to a good CPL® vs. a bad one: timing. If you can do things just right -- and this requires you a.) walk at a leisurely pace b.) occasionally stop to "smell" the Costco roses and c.) chat it up with the old or socially awkward sample "chefs" -- you can get one (or two -- see etiquette guide #2) of every single sample the store is offering on a given day.

Some CPL® etiquette:

1. Don't hover over the sample chefs if a sample isn't ready to go. This makes them nervous and can lead to stalling. Especially wrinkly old chefs.
2. Don't get greedy. Sometimes you can get more than one sample if there are few people in the store, but don't be taking food out of the mouth of that kid who always tries to butt in front of you in line, even though the little bastard deserves it.
3. Don't ask the sample chefs any questions about their tasty wares -- they really don't want to have to tell you where in the freezer isle you can get those japeleno poppers, and you both know you really don't plan on buying them, anyway.

(Nearly) dead man walking

2006-01-20T08:27:00.000-08:00

This is quickly turning into the place I let everybody in the whole world know I am a frail and sickly person.

Yes, the rumors are true: I have the walking pneumonia. What's the difference between that and normal, everyday sedentary pneumonia you ask? The doctor was short on detail, but I gathered it's just a lesser form of the dreaded disease that doesn't put you in bed. That's all well and good, but to assuage my disease-infested ego, I'd like to think this was a full-blown, put-you-in-a-wheelchair version of pneumonia and that my robust immune system tackled it to the ground and gave it a noogie, thus allowing me to continue perambulating. But that's probably not the case...

The evidence suggests that I have the world's worst immune system. Since getting married in November of 2004 I have had:

Two violent bouts of food poisoning that I thought might finish me off.

No fewer than 8 colds, each wicked and severe. Many of them occurred within days of each other.

A double ear infection that required two different courses of antibiotics to cure.

Several bouts with dizzy spells, headaches and general muscle/body aches.

A rash that inexplicably exploded on my face and took several weeks to fully dissipate.

And, oh yeah, I almost contracted hantavirus (but you knew that).

There's been some other stuff I'm probably forgetting but that's because there's been so much illness in my general vicinity.

The secretary at work feigned concern when I called to explain why I wouldn't be in yesterday and then oh-so-subtly suggested I stay home today as well. I figured that because she's like-102 years old that she's afraid of catching something. What a weakling.

Up all night

2006-01-12T01:40:00.000-08:00

I am up at 2:40 a.m. because:

1.) I can't get enough of my corporate finance accounting. (Spreadsheets are the best!)
2.) I drank what must have been a double-shot diet Pepsi about an hour before bedtime. And
3.) When I did try to go to bed I coughed so much (yes, I am sick again) that I kept waking up my pregnant wife. For those of you about to embark on the wonderful journey of pregnancy, one thing I advise you is to let your wife sleep NO MATTER WHAT. Trust me on this. The person who created the cliche "let sleeping dogs lie" obviously didn't procreate.

So here I am. Typing. Trying to get sleepy.

The worst part: I know that when I do finally go to sleep I will want to keep doing so right past 8 a.m., the drop-dead time I must rise to prepare for a glorious day's work.

I guzzled some Vicks NyQuil about 30 minutes ago. It seems to have stopped the cough, but as of yet, no drowsiness to report. Vick is a way-cool name for somebody thuggish, don't you think? It screams thug. Oh, and Vinny, too.

I just realized something very important: this entry almost completely sucks. But that won't keep me from posting it. No sir. I am perfectly okay with being mediocre every once in a while. It kind of acts like a sorbet between courses, refreshing one's sense of taste and prepping the stomach for more of what is to come.

Body! By the power of Vick I command thee: Sleep!

Cold cocked

2006-01-06T14:11:00.000-08:00

Some of you have been asking me if I was in a knife fight or a bar room brawl. The answer: that would be way cooler than the lame story of how I really got a bloody gash on the upper bridge of my nose.

Yesterday I opened my mailbox to find a gas bill that took no prisoners. Immediately, I began to think of any and all ways to keep this tragedy from happening again. Presto! I scurried, which I do quite well, to the furnace to change its dirty, dirty filter. As I lifted the latch to the furnace's innards, the latch above the latch I was opening (yes, I realize that's a lot of latches) didn't like me messing with its downstairs neighbour. It swung down in violet fashion crashing down on my distinguished proboscis.

Yes, I did see stars. Also: comets, asteroids and various geo-synchronized satellites. After all, this was a heavy and a jealous latch.

After returning to planet Earth, I was impressed with my OWN self that I managed not to swear just then. No, instead I waited a whole three minutes to do that in front of my beautiful wife, who exclaimed/questioned as I came to the top of the stairs, "Oh my gosh! What happened to your face?" Apparently, I was profusely bleeding from a cut, which I had failed to notice earlier. I looked in the bathroom mirror, only to see Stephen King's Carrie staring back at me. Okay, my nose wasn't as bad as being drenched in the unholy blood of beasts, but seeing it marred and mussed did cause me to utter forth an unholy expletive. For which I am ashamed. And I promise it will never happen again.

Sick as a dog in June

2006-01-04T09:27:00.000-08:00

Speaking of being sick, at home and in bed, I am, too!

The flu, which has been particularly bad this year in Utah and California (I guess she decided to skip Nevada), has finally caught up with me ... for a second time. I'm just lucky like that. I chalk it up to the fact I am the firstborn male in my family. This position of privilige entitles me, under the ancient patriarchal order, to a double portion. And when it comes to infectious diseases that lay you flat on your back for at least 24 hours, I say count me in ... twice!

Yes, I've already used ellipses ( ... ) two times in this post. You'll soon find that I really like them. I mean, nothing says "pause pause pause" quite like ellipses do.

But back to the flu. I think I got it from my wife, who got it from me two weeks ago. It's like a never ending cycle of pestilence.

Managerial accounting

2006-01-02T13:05:00.000-08:00

Now if THAT's not a boring title for my latest entry, I don't know what is!

Alas, the bliss that was my near-month-long break from business school comes to an end tomorrow. Officially, that is. As of today I am already doing homework for tomorrow night's class. Or not doing homework, as the case may be. Yes, I am procrastinating and allowing myself to be distracted.

Distraction is much easier than it's ever been, thanks to the internet, don't you think? You can be just about anywhere except where you are supposed to be in just a few clicks. So far I've been off to magic Tivo-land, Ain't it Cool News and the Creeper Lagoon message board. And I'm just gettting started. So screw the managerial accounting homework and the memo I have to turn in at the start of class. I'm going to check out some of Strong Bad's emails. So there.

Star finger

2005-12-22T10:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday night I built two stand for my studio monitors, also known as speakers. Except these speakers are used in recording situations to reproduce sound in an incredibly accurate way for proper mixing. But that's beside the point...

As I was building the stands (with the help of my beautiful wife) the cordless drill I was using to drive the screws into the wood slipped my normally steady grasp. The drill bit, in the shape of a Phillps head screwdriver, make a jagged, star-shape puncture wound in my left index finger. For a quick second I thought, "Who is this Phillip guy anyway, and how did he get the honor of having a screwdriver named after him? "The new fleshy decoration on my finger is a little disconcerting, but instantly captures my attention each time I glance at my hand (which I do way more often than you might expect.)

After pulling the cold, grey metal bit from my finger, blood began to flow forth, as you might expect. My wife, bless her heart, was troubled and began to head upstairs to get something to clean and dress the wound. I, damn my heart, was filled with Rossian rage and told her not to bother. Quite sternly. Despite her entreaties to tend to the cut, I stubbornly proceeded to bleed all over the wood as I finished the stand's construction. I see two positives in this -- one, it was only cheap pressboard onto which I left my sanguine mark and two, now I don't have to paint the stands. Well, one of them.

Free at last!

2005-12-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

Happy to report that the doctor finally got back to me and that, yes indeedy, I am hantavirus free. Unhappy to report that it only took the guy nearly a week to let me know the lab results. I think I'll sue for unnecessary emotional harm caused by his lack of promptness. I mean, it's not like he didn't have the results last Thursday (he did) and I didn't call to specifically ask him to get back to me ASAP (I did).

Oh well, it's status quo with this doctor to get back to me aeons after the fact.

Just last month I was sick in bed (with what turned out to be food poisoning) and called him asking him if the medication he'd just prescribed the day before might be causing my violent sickness. But does he call me back to let me know if I need to get my stomach pumped? Oh no. FIVE DAYS LATER he leaves me a message telling me to stop taking the medication for a while and see if that fixes anything. Modern medicine at its best. Brilliant.

The worst was when I went in for a cholesterol test in 2002, only to have the doctor tell me TWO YEARS LATER in 2004, when I returned for an unrelated physical that, "Oh, by the way, those tests we did in 2002 showed you have really high cholesterol." Would have been a nice to know that before I lived another 730 days on cheeseburgers, french fries and pizza. Thanks doc.

Of Mice and Men

2005-12-13T11:41:00.000-08:00

As to the URL: I was cleaning out this lady's garage for her Saturday (an act of Christian kindess) and got hit in the face with a pasty cloud of dust, which I'm pretty sure was mingled with rodent feces. Two days later, I started feeling "flu-like symptoms." Being the son of a notorious hypochondriac, I wondered if I might have contracted the deadly hantavirus, which leaves 4 in 10 dead.

Related to ebola, hanta (as its friends call it) does its dirty work when humans inhale the aerosolized fecal matter of infected rodents. Pleasant. Now, I didn't do much inhaling, but as sure as Mickey Mouse is enduring an endless puberty, I got me an eyeful of mouse poop. Of course, as any good scientist will tell you, correlation (my flu-like symptoms) is not causation (rat turd in the eye), but, yes, I was spooked.

I went to the doctor for a blood test this morning, and I will find out within the next two days if, in fact, this a hantavirus-free site. Furthermore, I have never wanted a cold so badly. I figure I was just helping somebody out, so God's got to count that for something ...

I don't want to blog

2005-12-06T12:23:00.000-08:00

But I can't help myself.