864

What is 864?

That's the final post count to the RobBlog.

I started this thing almost six years ago because I didn't want to talk about divorce. Over the years, I got over that, I fell in love and got married again. Along the way, I've posted many adventures, from burning blue belly cream to a Billy Blanks whoop-ass. I even served soggy spaghetti.

My intent was to continue this thing for as long as I had something to say, cuz frankly, I've enjoyed saying something. You have been fun.

But now, the time has come, friends. A few in your ranks have advised that the readability isn't here any more and that it's best to go out on--well, before I dredge the bottom. As this comes from multiple sources and people I trust, I trust that it's a thought worth considering.

So I considered.

There were other thoughts worth considering too: I'm writing a book that I hope to sell. If this blog doesn't work for its readers, then I'm best writing something that will pay the bills and keep my wife happy, cuz I really do love my wife happy. I love her always, but happy is a preferable state. She has an amazing smile. So I'll concentrate on the work that works for the benefit of both of us. I'll call it an anniversary gift. She'll love it.

Other considerations: without readers, I'm blogging for vanity. And although I may not have been relevant, I'd like to say I stood against vanity. Not the singer, she was pretty cool. I'm against the furniture. I was attacked by a vanity once. Just once. It's in my blog somewhere...

But now that comes to an end. If anything I ever wrote touched you, made you think or laugh, then praise God; it is his work within me that made it possible. And in that, am grateful to have been a conduit. That consideration alone makes it difficult to leave. That, and I consider you all friends.

Goodbye.

Rob Boyd 3/26/13

Meme of the Last Days

Dreams of Ordinary Men

I love dreams.  Even when they’re bad, they can tell us so much if we listen. Oh, sure you should never read too much into dreams, but if you listen, you can  glean little lights from your psyche: who you are, who you think you are and who you think you should be—All available to those who look.

Take my dream last night.  Last night I lived in my old house and opened the front door when I heard a knock. The door stuck like it always did, and crack-poped when it released the jamb, just like I remembered it. Even the dirty aluminum security screen door was there, protecting me from whoever was outside.

In this dream, the people outside were five Scotsmen, of varying degrees of maturity.  How do I know they were Scots? They work kilts and spoke in brogues.

“You stole what’s ours,” the leader spoke in the aforementioned brogue.
“Uh, what?”  I said in my nondescript American English.
“Our birthright. You stole in. Now you pay.” He said, “you,” but “you” sounded like “yee” on his lips. Then as an expression of displeasure, all five spat on my door. It was dream, so real-life physics carried the phlegm no further than the aluminum mesh. It stopped, and dripped, turning brown, mingling with the dirt and dust that already settled there.

I was as grateful as could be expected.

They were as courteous as could be expected: the Scots spat and left.

In the mists of dream magic, and Scottish curses, my dream jumped forward.  I’m no longer standing in my living room staring at a spit screen. I’m standing in the street, staring at a foreclosure sign. The shift to the future hasn’t unsettled me, but the recent dream turn of events are a little too close to home. My house has been foreclosed, everything I own is missing, including all my unpublished fiction, and even my dog is gone.  It’s like a bad country song.

I’m dream-ported to a dark wood paneled one room apartment. It’s bare. Dream knowledge reveals that it’s where I live now.  I’m alone, because that’s how this dream has me. There is a knock at the door, so at least I have visitors.

I open the door. It’s the Scots. They’ve come to gloat. See, these bad things didn’t just happen, The Scots did it to me. They forced the foreclosure, they stole my stories and, as the little old short Scot holding a leash proves, they took my dog. Cosmo licks the old Scot and sits at his feet.

I explain to them that I don’t know why they’ve done this: I don’t have their heirloom, or birthright, or whatever they call it. They’ve taken everything, so, as they can see, I don’t have it.

“We can’t see that,” one said.

“What do you mean? You’ve left me with nothing!”

“We can’t see it. It’s invisible. You still hide it.”

“Uh…” dream me doesn’t know how to argue that logic.

“No matter. We’re not here for the birthright. We’re here for the revenge.”

They leave, taking my dog with them. There’s also a book on a shelf that I’ve been reading.  One of them grabs it as he leaves. No one spits.

The dream rushes forward again. I’m watching an entertainment show. The host is interviewing a family of five Scots who’ve written several books that are all now best sellers.  Sure enough, I recognize the Scots as quickly as I dream recognize the books. They’re my Scots and my books. The Scots edited the books, found agents and publishers and are now the next big Scottish thing since Fat Bastard, all because of what I wrote.

After raking in millions of dollars and riding the fame train as far as they can on what I’ve written, the Scots stop by again. They’re not sorry, but it was never their plan to become so rich off of my stuff. To make things even, they give me back my dog. And to remind me of what I stole from them, they give me a ghost, who hates me. Who puts me down whenever he can.

After this, I decide to find the Scotts’ invisible heirloom. I’ve got nothing else to do. After an epic dream quest with my dog and antagonist ghost, I find the thing.  I don’t know what it is: it’s invisible, but when I find it, I know that I have in fact had it all along—whatever it is. It’s magic. It gives a little bit of luck to it’s holder. Not great amounts, just little blessings, if you will. And like any other kind of magic heirloom, there is a always a side effect. The side effect of this invisible thing? The possessor is doomed to write unsellable stories.

After the revelation, I woke up. I was happy. Sure the dream was vague, but never read too much into vague dreams. Stick to the obvious. There, on the discernible surface, I found a meaning worth clutching to my heart: I’m gonna get my dog back.

I love dreams and I really love happy endings.

Meme of the Day

Truth, for those of us just discovering the groundhog lied.

Jingling Change in Yoga Pants

I hate change.

You name it; I get settled in it, and then I’m like, “Why change it?” Routines, fast food orders, and underwear, these are all things that are more comfortable when you leave them alone.

One more thing: yoga pants.

Why yoga pants? I don’t know. Everybody else is talking about them. Why should I change that?  And why should Lululemon change my yoga pants? I knew they were sheer, that’s why I bought them.

Why change them now? Didn’t somebody at Lululemon notice that the pants were a bit revealing the first time Connie in accounting tried them on?

“Connie…not a natural blonde?”

Ok, they weren’t that sheer, but one would think Connie’s leg hair showing through would have said something.

“See me now?”

No. Lululemon waited.  Why? It costs more to pull them now than to quality control them first. Some are blaming quality control in the Asian mills where the pants are made. What’s it take to quality check yoga pants?

“They stretch?”

“Check.”

“They bend?”

“Check.”

“They don’t taste like lead paint?”

“Dang it! Charlie!”

I dunno it seems that somebody would have seen through this earlier. Then again, there’s another argument against sending manufacturing overseas: you get what you pay for.

Still, that’s how we do things now, and as I said, I don’t like change. So why is Lululemon changing them at the end of the first quarter? The timing is odd. Were they afraid the company wasn’t going to make their goals so they made it look like they were sabotaged rather than just inefficient?

That sounds like a lot of work just to shoot yourself through the Spandex and still point the finger of blame at yourself. Then again, some things never change.

That’s why I hate change. It’s usually a knee-jerk reaction to something that wasn’t broken to begin with.  Remember changing to Windows ME?

Not all change is for the better.

And now we’re talking about change in printers.  Have you seen these 3D printers?  They’ll print anything you program them to print. I don’t know about you, but in the age of terrorism, I find that a bit scary. 

Guns don’t kill people, printers do.

“It’s turning a little brave new world a little fast for my liking.”

Who said that?

Huxley?

No.  My grandmother, the first time she saw a microwave oven.

Great. In my inability to change, I’m changing into my Grandmother.  Somebody print me a cane. I’m gonna sausage case my legs into my see through yoga pants. I need to chase the kids off the lawn.

Meme of the Day

Wordy meme to ponder.

360 Degrees of Kevin Bacon Cooked Brown Crisp and Tasty

Have you watched that new show of Fox, The Following? Creepy, and that’s not just the scripted parts. 

The Following is a serial killing drama of epic proportions.  Think Homer meets Clive Barker and Jackie Susann at a Nantucket beach house mixer: hilarity ensues. Okay, maybe not hilarity, unless you find unreasonable body counts funny, but there is a lot to swallow here, and it’s not just the cocktails.

It’s hard to imagine all the love triangles, quadrangles and sextangles you can fit into a weekly serial killer serial, but they do it: everywhere.  At least the bad guys and gals do. The good guys get pent up, broken and filled with churlish contempt.

This is the glitzy glory gory of turning to the dark side.  The Following is a cult. A group of outsiders looking to belong. They’ve found faith and understanding through an ex literature teacher turned convicted murderer with his romantic visions of Poe and death.

“Johnny, angry Johnny…I want to blow you…away…”

No, wrong Poe.

“Nevermore.”

There you go.

According to Nielsen, the show has a decent following of its own. Then again, with DVRs and the Internet, who listens to Nielsen anymore? They don’t have quite the following they used to have.

“Nevermore!”

Nielsen doesn’t believe that; they believe they have a relevant future in TV ratings. Like Fox Television, they’re looking for new ways to bring the believers in. Right now they’re looking at correlations. What’s like TV?

A cult?

Maybe, but they don’t want to go that far. They have noticed that ratings and Twitter go hand in hand. Shows that get Tweets during their airing, get watched during their airing. Nielsen found this so interesting, they wrote a report on it.

Networks, like Fox, followed. They looked for ways to bring cult-like devotion to their programming. Fox already had a cult. They just needed a following. To do that, they needed a way to recruit the outcasts, a way to make them feel like they belong to something secret and cool.

Last night, at the end of the episode, when the Warner Brothers logo came up, a voiceover announcement came too. Watch next weeks episode live, and tweet “#thefollowing” during the airing, and you will receive a special gift. Limited quantities, so first to belong, only to get love. Follow quickly or get left behind.

Wow! Gifts that bring a sense of belonging to a secret society and the special warmth that comes with no longer standing on the outside. It’s almost like belonging to a cult.

One that follows serial killers.

I’m more than a little creeped out.

“Nevermore!”

yah…

Meme of the Day

It's bad-pun-for Tuesday.

Music was the Case That They Gave Me

A lot of music news out there this week.

The good:

Dave Letterman and Selena Gomez both laughed about making Justin Bieber cry.  In unrelated news, I owe them both $10. I’ll owe you too if you can prove you made Justin cry.

"This is what it sounds like when Justin cries..."

The bad: 

Bobby Smith died.  Most of you didn’t know Bobby. I didn’t either, but I liked his music. He was lead vocalist for the Spinners.  I grew up on their music. They’re not the kind of band I would have admitted listening to after the age of ten, but before that, they were kinda cool. Rubberband Man, I’ll be Around, How could you not miss the Spinners? I know I will.

"Whenever you want me, I'll be there..."

Ok, you're dead. That's just creepy, Bobby.

The ugly:

Michelle Shocked.  Michelle’s not ugly. I like Michelle, Apparently though, she said some ugly things. She spoke her feelings towards gay and lesbian relationships, on stage at her San Francisco concert. As a result, the venue shut off the lights and her mic, while the audience voiced their opinion. 

Like Michelle, I was shocked on two fronts.  First, I didn’t realize she was still making music.  I hadn’t heard her make any new music since the early 90s.  Second, I always thought she was a lesbian. 

Guess not. 

I don’t really have a lot more to say about that.  I mean we all have opinions and misconceptions (obviously I do. Michelle isn’t gay.) And I think that Michelle’s speech was a little opinionated, and filled with some misconceptions which I won’t repeat here. On the other hand, she has the right to say what she wants. People paid to see her; it’s her stage. That said, people have the right to not pay to see her again, so I hope it was worth it.  

Michelle, can commiserate with the Dixie Chicks about opinionated stage dives. Sometimes it’s a good idea to know your audience before you speak out.

Me, I don’t have a lot to say on the subject. I try to keep my hateful thoughts to myself.  Let’s not be confused: I do have hateful thoughts, and every one of you who’ve wronged me knows that that’s true.  On the other cheek, the one that I’m supposed to turn, there’s already enough hate out there. I don’t need to add mine.

We pray, “…forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Sometimes I wonder if that’s not God’s little sarcastic joke, cuz we don’t forgive. We fail to love our neighbor, and rage against them as if it’s somehow justified.

There are venues for dogmas, politics and opinions; my blog isn’t a courtroom or and executioners block.  So Michelle I wish you the best. If it’s any consolation, I won’t burn your CDs. I still like your music, especially songs like, If Love was a Train. I like that thought.

But like you sang, “If love was a train but love ain't a train.”

So, my $10 offer for making Justin cry still stands.

The Problem with the Dream is the Dreamer.

The nice thing about writing is that the words are always at my fingertips. They may jump the tracks on the way to my lips, but my tips are always on track and on time

I’m a writer not a talker.

At least not about the substantial.  Words are bombs to be left in backlit silhouetted font corners.

“It says here that…”

Boom!

Conversations are a different matter. Conversations are about things that are close. Conversationalists have to stay and live the aftermath.  With the mouth, I’m always quick with the wrong joke, or slow to speak the right words.

When it comes to writing though, I always know what to say, and I have time to edit.  An instant in writer world is like hours in the real world.  It’s like the opposite of the dream world.

In dreams, you can relive life’s river rapids in less time than it takes drool to trickle down your cheek. In dreams your decisions may not be right, but they are interesting.

Usually.

Have you ever had boring dreams? Have you ever woken up and thought, “Man, I need to go to work for some excitement.”  It’s rare, but it does happen. Those dreams are worse than the dreams where you think you’ve woken up, but you’re still asleep.

And almost as bad as the dream where you scream in your dream but you have no voice for that scream to escape. I’ve had that dream a lot lately.  A few nights ago MyQueen woke me up because I was mew-whining in bed, and kicking all the sheets down.

“Honey, if you’re going to kick the sheets, kick them over here. It’s cold.” 

The next morning she asked me about the dream. 

“I dunno.”  I said.  I couldn’t remember the dream. Only that I was trapped in some net and I needed out. I couldn’t even scream to make anybody hear me. In my dream, even the mew-whine wouldn’t come out and I was trapped, for what seemed like forever.

“I had a weird dream last night,” said MyQueen, trying to start her dream conversation. “I dreamed that I woke up, and walked out to the living room, and you were on the couch, watching porn.”

“Can I have your dream?” I thought I’d ask, it sounded more appealing than the one I’d had.

“I was pissed.” She continues with the details. She doesn’t need to; she had me at “porn.”

“Maybe we should trade dreams.” I offer. I wouldn’t have been pissed and she’s a strategist.  Maybe she can find her way out of the net. Maybe not, but either way, a dream where I watch porn certainly sounds more appealing than a dream where I’m trapped and voiceless.

Odd that those are the only dreams I remember lately. I don’t remember any dreams of promise.  Where are the cool spy dreams I had when I was a kid?

“Chocolate milk, shaken, not stirred.”

I had a dream a few weeks ago where I was teaching a Sunday school class.  I was teaching the kids about Jesus, and his sacrifice, and I started expounding on his birth. In the dream, I was trying to make a point, about the relevance of that birth. In my dream I said, “The most important thing that you need to take from this birth…” and then I burst into tears. Overcome by the enormity of Jesus’ sacrifice and that the concept I tried to convey could not be expressed in mortal words. Then my dream shifted into three pictures of Jesus that sort of looked like FaceBook icons and three broken Q-tips.

Then I woke up.

After that revelation, I woke up, just as befuddled as when I fell asleep. My dreams don’t make any sense to anybody, and lately they’ve made even less sense to me. And yet I cling to them, because these dreams are mine. They’re why I go to sleep. They’re answers to questions that cannot be expressed in mortal words.

And maybe when I figure them out, I’ll have a great story to tell for it.

For now, I blog.

TV Time

Just heard in a TV ad:

"On the next Extra, the History Channel introduces Jesus this weekend. One the next Extra with spoiler alerts."

Spoiler alerts? I think I know how this story ends...

Computers Are Revolting.

Yes they are. And because of that, today will be blog less Thursday. In memorial of the Rob synapses shot in battle.

Meme of the Day

Holy Google-Moogle, Batman! You mean the Internet lies?

No Good Deed Goes Unpublished.

He’s a man.

He’s a hero.

He’s an online shark wrestler, and now he’s unemployed.

Don’t mess with the sharks. Their union is pretty impressive. They’ll get you anywhere you hide. They even know where you live. They’re also apex predators, which means the shark is at the top of the food chain.  Unless you’re a Jet, then you’re a Jet all the way, and the Sharks’ll steer clear.

Paul Marshallsea, a 62 year-old Welsh man visiting Australia found out about sharks the hard way. One day on the beach, he saw a dusky whaler shark swimming near water splashing toddlers.

We’ve all seen Jaws. We know how sharks hate to get splashed.

This shark wasn’t Jaws.

“We’re gonna need a smaller boat.”

Smaller.

Yeah, that’s about right.

Still, the shark was about six-foot long. A small child probably looked like an early lunch. Paul thought so too, and he didn’t want any shark messing with his meal, so he dove into the water, grabbed the shark by tail and fin, and guided it out to sea. That action made Paul a hero.

“Yay!”

It also turned him into a YouTube sensation. Or is that visa-versa, because what act can be considered “heroic” without being caught on camera and posted online first? It’s really only a “thoughtful gesture” until uploaded.

Almost immediately after driving of the dusky whaler shark, other sharks filled the waters.

“Hi, I’m Bob Sneed, channel 2 news. I just happened to see your thoughtful gesture. Can I have your thoughts?”

Paul told the mirror.uk his thoughts. “It’s shallow for about six yards where the shark was and a lot of babies and toddlers splash about there. It could have been very nasty,” Marshallsea said. “When I dragged the shark to just over a knee deep he turned on me and just missed me with a bite. It nearly took my leg off in a split second.”

Gasp!

Drama!

Heroics!

Danger!

Paul was a sensation online and in the press. An inspiration to one and all.  All except his boss back home.

See, Paul worked for Pant and Dowlais Boys & Girls Club, a Welsh charity. Paul called in sick to visit Australia and wrestle sharks.

I wish I were that sick.

Paul’s boss was sick too, and his cure was to let Paul go. Seems Pant and Dowlais has a “well enough to wrestle sharks, well enough to work” policy. It doesn’t matter that Paul was busy saving Australian children. Welsh charities are selfish with their philanthropy. On the plus side, Welsh taxes may not be so stringent. Paul might be allowed to write the trip off as a work related charity effort.

Not really. Don’t try this at home, even if home is Wales. And don’t strain anything beyond a “thoughtful gesture” if you’re calling in sick.

In a related story, Paul’s wife works for Pant and Dowlais too. It seems that she called in sick the same days Paul did.

They’ve fired her too.

Meme of the Day

Don't hate my goats. I didn't write it.

Employment Considerations

There are advantages to unemployment.

Last Friday a man filed suit against a Florida temp agency because he lost his penis and testicles on the job.  Not “lost” as in, “So, this is the big Bermuda Triangle warehouse…hey, where did my penis go?” No, this “lost” was the “Ow! Your machine just cut off my penis!” variety.  Although I’m sure his version sounded more like, “AHHH! AH! AH! AH! AH!” 

Few words properly encompass the emotion behind, “I’ve lost my penis.” Trust me.  I’m speechless, and I know right where mine is.

“There, there, little batman. It’s ok…you’re still attached. Go back to sleep…”

And this Florida guy didn’t screw around with his castration. He let the machine take his testicles too. I don’t know how temp agencies work in Florida, but I usually make the employer pay me, not the other way around.

This guy didn’t know how Florida temp agencies worked either. He was new to our country. He’s a Puerto Rican national. According to his soprano claim, Edgardo Toucet was sent to a machine shop, where he was shown a peeler.

No, bigger.

Right idea, bigger still.

There we go. Yes. Edgardo was told to work the foam peeler without any proper training. Adding to his difficulty, Edgardo doesn’t speak or read any English either, explaining why he didn’t know to keep his penis clear of the spinning razors.

I thought penis preservation was a universal concept, but it just goes to show how insensitive we Americans are to other cultures. To each their own. To Edgardo, he got his in a bag to go.

Now I’m not blaming Edgardo. Oh at first I was. At first, I was looking at the picture of the peeler going, “How did he get it there…” I even stood at bar pretending it was a peeler, trying to understand how he could get it caught...

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, your disturbing the other patrons.”

I’m sorry; I mean the bar at my house.

“Honey, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, you’re disturbing the cats. Oh, and here’s a Clorox wipe for the bar. Take care of that.”

I still don’t get it, but according to the Orlando Sentinel, Edgardo isn’t the first victim of this particular peeler. That’s right, this has happened before.

“Oh… “

Now this makes sense to me on so many levels. I’m still a little confused about the how, but obviously it’s a pattern. Maybe the machine’s possessed. I’ve read about that in Stephen King books.  It could happen. The point is, the machine is collecting penes. Men shouldn’t work it. The regular workers know it. They won’t touch the peeler with a twelve-inch—never mind. They won’t touch it. So when a temp comes in they send him to the official temporary work station.

“Uhm, why are there candles, a pentagram and is that blood on the machine?”

“I thought you didn’t speak English?”

“I don’t, but I found this important enough to try.”

“Oh, right. Good effort. The candles are for light, the pentagram shows you where to stand.”

“And the blood?”

“You’ll figure it out.  It’s perfectly safe. Remember to pull down your pants.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I said ‘there might be ants...’”

 Ants or no, that seals it. I’m a writer not a worker.  The worst thing that can happen to me now is a scalding coffee burn.

All things considered, I’m okay with that.

“Back to sleep. It was just a bad dream, little batman…”

Meme of the Day

Somebody get Micky's feet. I think he needs a tug.

When Best Intentions Stop to Smell the Roses

“…We’ve reduced…[problems] by 92 percent from Day 1.”

Who said this?

a)    Detroit’s new Emergency Manager.

b)   Kwami Kilpatrick’s “I’m sorry” PR manager.

c)    Lucy Bradshaw

The answer is C: The other two people don’t exist.

Lucy Bradshaw is the general manager for Maxis, a division of Electronic Arts video games. If you’ve played video games for more than ten years, you’ll recognize Maxis as the maker of Sim City, the most popular open-ended video game ever made.

Until last weekend.

Last week, reviewers who praised their tester copy began backpedaling. Polygon.com, who loved the game enough to rate it 9.5/10, now posts Sim City with a flop 4/10.

What happened?

Let me repeat Lucy Bradshaw’s quote, “We’ve reduced game crashes by 92 percent from Day 1.” Any time you have that much room for improvement, there are going to be a few haters along the way.

“The doctor says I’m 92 percent herpes free!”

Not quite the same thing, but you get the idea. It’s a PR nightmare.  Those of us who live anywhere near Detroit know exactly what Maxis is going through.  We tried to build a city too, and we too failed miserably.

We didn’t even have to overcome Maxis sized Sim City adversities like roaming monsters and alien attacks. We just needed to overcome ourselves. We couldn’t do it. Even the governor said enough is enough. He’s now picking an emergency manager to clean things up.

What’s an emergency manager? You would be like an emergency manager if you reloaded your Sim Detroit to find that your little brother had hacked your game and run your city into the ground before saving over all your old games. Your job as the emergency manager would be to bring the city back to its former glory.

Sim City players found last week that they were more like Detroit emergency managers than they realized. They couldn’t access their games because Maxis’ servers were overloaded with players.  Some players couldn’t access their cities for days. They were the lucky ones. Other players found their cities were never saved at all. 

Detroit knows how they feel.  We’ve got a city council that’s blocking every connection from an emergency manager. The council would just as soon let your little brother continue to play for you, thanks for logging in anyway. 

“We’ve reduced city spending by 92 percent. We’ll just live without luxuries like police departments, fire departments, street lights, and street paving.”

That’s funny, that’s just what your little brother did. What’s next? Alien invasion?

“Maybe you haven’t been keeping up on current events, but we just got our asses kicked.”

Different aliens. Maxis doesn’t have trademark rights to those aliens. Neither does Detroit. Our aliens were played by Kwame Kilpatrick. He’s all ours.  Or is it the other way around?  If you haven’t been keeping up with current events, Kwame Kilpatrick is the ex-mayor of Detroit.  Have you seen the new Sim City ads with the Sim mayor sitting on the desk in his underwear talking about what he’s done with his city, because it’s his? That’s Kwame, except Kwame wore pants.

Today a federal jury convicted Kwame of 24 out of 30 counts, which included racketeering, corruption, fraud, and extortion.  The federal government only got 80 percent. Not as good as Maxis. I’m just saying…

It’s still enough to put away Kwame for a bit, and put any city in a little brother-sized hole. Detroit’s current council is intent on throwing a rug over that hole and pretends nothing ever happened.

“What hole, mom?”

And here we are: Maxis, Kwame, Detroit, all looking to put in some serious time to correct mistakes made in the past. Only Maxis admits that there ever were mistakes made in the first place.

Me, I just wish there were a way to reboot the city and start from scratch.

Meme of the Day

In honor of the new Oz movie.

At the Root

Cash incentives work. News at 11.

Yup, it was news to me too, but a study done by the Mayo Clinic proves it to be true.  Cash is king when it comes to motivational incentives.

That does explain why slavery never worked.

“Would you rather have: a, a whip, or b, one hundred dollars, for some grueling housework?”

Sure, on a scale of made up statistics, 1 in 40 would rather have the whip, but there’s always one of those in every crowd.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Do you have a hall pass?”

Yup, same guy. But that’s just what motivates him. The rest of us? We like cash. The Mayo Clinic tried out this theory on weight loss programs and discovered it worked there too.

“I’ll starve for cash.”

They offered $20 a month in a yearlong study and found that, in a group of 100 obese people, the group lost an average of 9 pounds.  The same study without cash turned out only a two-pound loss, and three jelly donuts. Ok, nobody found any donuts, but that’s just because one of the test subjects ate them.

So what does this prove? Nothing that we don’t already know. We watch TV. We know that people will do the stupidest things for money. I mentioned the network looking for new reality stars, right? They are. You don’t get much stupider than reality TV unless you’re a college kid with a bottle of Jack and a shopping cart out after midnight.

“You know what would be really cool…?”

Not that I’d know anything about that. It’s only what I’ve heard.

And now I’ve heard there’s a study for money. Maybe there’s hope for my blog yet. Sure, if people will give up food for $20 a month, imagine what blog-fodder they’d read for pennies on the dollar. Then imagine if I could prove that my blog makes you lose weight! Whoa! I’d have a gold mine.

RobBlog: Better than Botox!

A dream has to start somewhere. Nobody’s offering me cash to write; maybe I should turn that around.

I’ll let you know, just as soon as I get some cash. First I have to find somebody willing to motivate me with cash.

“Yes mistress.”

No, not you.

Meme of the Day

For those of us willing to admit we have a problem.

Alternate Realities

“Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn…”

“Say Wha?”

Guess who just made vacation plans?  That’s right, me!  Don’t tell the Pirate Queen though. It’s a surprise.  And boy will she be surprised: she’s not coming.

“Surprise!”

That’s right. Okay, that’s not right. It’s a lie.  She’s coming, but boy wouldn’t that be funny. Funny, just like some of the stuff in reality television these days. Contrived drama for viewer interest, that’s reality.

And why would I contrive reality about the woman I love when there are no viewers to interest? That’s easy: because my plan is generate them.

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering?”

“I think so Rob, but how do we get thirty fruity drink parasols to cling to the nose hairs?”

Say wha..?

Uhm…I’m gonna pitch the RobShow. Not much different really.

See, the company that brought us Honey Boo Boo, and Toddlers in Tiaras, is looking for the next big alternate reality. They don’t want famous reality, they want you and me reality. You know, normality.

Or at least normality worth televising, and that’s hard to find. What if they do find it? How do they gauge this normality as worthy television? Good question. I’m glad I asked. They want us to send in YouTube and Vemeo videos of our regular life. You know, dinner with the fam, booger battles with the kids, or cubical based tantrums at work. You know: 

Announcer: Coming this fall to TLC: These three men have everything they desire. Power, money, women. What they don’t have is loving parents.

Voice off screen: Get in here you little ginger, SOB!

Announcer: That’s right, and now it’s their turn to take care of these unworthy care givers.

Woman (in bed with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and a plate of donuts in her hand. One donut has a bite missing): Ignatius, you ingrate! I said jelly filled.

Ignatius: I-I-I-I’m sorry m-m-ma-m-m-a.

Woman: I told you, I am not your mama. I married your father because I needed citizenship. (throwing the plate). Now get me jelly filled!

Announcer: New this fall, TLC brings you Red Headed Stepchildren! They’re kings in every castle but their own home.

Yikes.  That’s scary!  

You could have me instead. Hairy and pale, mister up-tighty whitey blogging in his tighty-whiteys.

“Sir could you please put on some pants or leave our Starbucks?”

Now that’s a tough programming choice. I guarantee you there are at least a hundred more video pitches just like both of those options. All planned for your enjoyment as part of your $120 cable subscription.

Yah, Saved by the Bell reruns look pretty good now, huh?

Go ahead, see if you can find an episode on. Me I’m practicing for my big break.

“Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn…”

Looks like the surprise is on you, dear viewer.

Meme of the Day

The most average cat in the world.

Sick Day

Did I miss a Monday?  Of course I did.  Well, I didn’t really miss it. It happened. I was here. I still paid my dues, just not as a blogger. I paid them as a husband.

Yah, the difference is far more labor intensive.

It appears last year I agreed to love honor and cherish. Somewhere around page 37, paragraph 3 of that agreement, there’s a servitude clause. 

“READ IT!” Says MyQueen handing me a snotty Kleenex.  She’s a little delirious. The wedding document is in her other hand. If she’ll only blow her nose on that, I’m a free man. That’s written in the fine print on the next page.

 I shouldn’t complain. I love her, and by all bio-virulent calculations, this cold is my cold she’s carrying.

“Mom! Dad! The Pirate Queen is having my virus!”

“Thanks son. It’s 3am.”

I feel a little guilty. Not about the call. My folks are used to that. I mean about passing on the cold. I’m also a little understanding. I’ve had this thing. It only had her down for four days. It took me over a week to pass it along.  She’s just proving her superiority. I let her.  That’s on page one of our contract.

It’s bad if I ignore page one before our first anniversary.  That’s coming up soon. Did you know?  I sure did.  According to Hallmark, the first anniversary is paper. Yah, I think they have a vested interest in that.

Well this first anniversary I have a little surprise for their marketers. This year I’m bucking their tradition and going vinyl.

“It’s a Cat Woman suit. How thoughtful…”

Shhh. Don’t spoil the surprise. 

Actually, no. I’m not going that vinyl. It turns out that my anniversary is also National Record Store Day. Whoo freakin’ Hoo! Record stores participating in my anniversary will give away Jimi Hendrix posters, and bands like Garbage are putting together special recordings to celebrate my love. Jack White is the official RSD ambassador. That makes him my anniversary ambassador!

That makes this the best marriage ever!

How many other couples can say they spent their first anniversary with Jimi Hendrix and Garbage?  Okay, so Jimi will only be there in spirit. We’re not digging him up, but the Garbage is there and they’re real.

“I thought you were special. I thought you should know…”

This is a big event. Go to your favorite record store, or the Record Store Day website and celebrate both my loves!

I can’t wait.

Until then, I’m handling the less glamorous side of love: the dirty Kleenex.

“READ IT!”

“Yes, my love…”

Meme of the Day

Me? I see a really cool antler wine rack.

Obstruction of Traffic

“License and registration please.”

I don’t know about you, but that’s my least favorite phrase in the world, other than “Bend over and grab your ankles.”  Not that I have any experience with the latter. It just seems like something I don’t want to hear.

The former, I heard this morning, much to my chagrin.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that chagrin away. We don’t allow that in this state.”

Great, I can’t even get grumpy.  I’ve been pulled over by Andy Taylor. Andy’s not exactly happy either. He’s caught me speeding, but I’m going to be more trouble than I’m worth.  I’ve got an out of state drivers license and my proof of insurance is only available electronically today. Yesterday was the last day the paper copy was valid.

“Sigh.”  That’s not me. That’s Andy.  “I’ll be right back.” Yeah, that’s Andy at his surly worst. He needs practice.

Andy’s more of a passive aggressive peace officer.  He’s gonna make me wait while he sits in his SUV and sips coffee.  That’s ok. It gives me time to think about today’s blog. If only I had something to write about.

I love talking about myself, but most of my blogs lately have been about other people and their other news. My days are fairly boring. I work out. I blog. I write my young adult novel. I work out again. I go to bed. I get up. I shower, lather, rinse, repeat.  I can make a blog of that, but by if I stretch it across a blog week, it starts sounding like a season of Three’s Company.

“Jack!”

“Janet!”

“Mr. Furley!”

Don Knotts isn’t the guy writing me my ticket.  Deputy Fife would be done now.

Another cop car pulls beside Andy’s SUV. His car is black. His doors are white. If you don’t see these colors correctly then you probably shouldn’t be driving.  The other cop has a yell conversation through car windows with Andy and his partner.  I thought that was what the radio was for.  Maybe they’re yelling because Andy’s radio is tied up running my License. 

Great. Another reason for Andy to hate me.

I watch and wait.  The other car doesn’t move. I’m a little concerned. I don’t have anything in my car, and I’m pretty sure I’m not a wanted fugitive, but still. The more police who congregate, the more chance there is for some misinterpretation.  I reach for my gum.

“He’s got Dentine!”

See what I mean? I said gum.  But boy that would be something to blog about.

Don’t get me wrong.  I appreciate law enforcement and everything they do—even if it’s pulling me over. They put their lives on the line everyday, and every day with budget cuts and lay offs there are fewer and fewer of them on the road. Even ticket writing Andy never knows who’s behind the wheel of the car he’s approaching. So I understand if Andy’s a little twitchy. My goal is not to give them reason to twitch.

The other cop car pulls away and slowly rolls past my car.  Actually it’s not that slow. He’s going the speed limit. That miscalculation is why Andy pulled me over in the first place.

Huh. Despite the ticket, I’m happy to have something new happening.  Is that weird? A little something new to break the monotony, and I get a character study. Other writers pay more money for conferences, and don’t get the same one on one time.

And like that, the fun is over. Andy walks up, gives me back my license and registration with a lecture about Michigan laws concerning out of state driver’s licenses. I smile and nod.  He hands me my ticket. It doesn’t have a dollar amount on it, butAndy says I can call the courts about that. He also tells me to try and have a good day.

I will. I’ve got today’s blog finished.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back, Andy. We can write a new blog called “Reckless Endangerment.”

The day

Ok. I did my day.

I wrote a post.

Iphone deleted it.

Sigh.

So I'm grumpy, frustrated, and tired. You don't want to read that. Lets just say I did all my work outs. I ate okay. Yay me. My weight? 231.5. The same

I'm okay with that.

Ok. Time to throw my iphone in the snow and stomp on it.

Did I mention I'm grumpy?

Meme of the Day

Uhm, yah...you win I'm speechless. I'll be in the corner feeding the tree.

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy!

Guess what?  Georgetown University has announced another statistic that I’ve achieved.

Whoo-Hoo!

At first the whole great white caboose thing was kinda cool. I mean, I wasn’t chic or popular, but when it came to the American norm, I was the man. Divorce, foreclosure, laid off, if Grant Wood and Norman Rockwell had a paint fight over the American dream, I would be the drippings.

Now Georgetown is throwing out new statistics at the American Rob, and smacking him right in the face. Now I’m sort of like that Thrift Shop song that’s hitting the radio: fun at first, but after a while it’s just tired and worn out. I know. You still think it’s cute. Give it time. Trust me.

“I wear your granddad’s clothes, I look incredible…”

So what other American dream have I achieved now? According to a new Georgetown study, students who earn a two-year AA degree are making better money than students who earn a four-year bachelor’s degree.

Yup.

My Mass Comm BA and I can attest to that. Then again, in my unemployed state, there are high school graduates making more money than I am.  They didn’t spend a dime on their degree. I’m waiting for that statistic next.

On the other hand, I am off the graph areas: my student loan is paid off. Who else can say that? Yeah, who’s the dummy now!  Now watch this:

paycheck – loan payment = income.

Where paycheck = 0 and loan payment = 0…

Oh.

Holy Econ 101, Batman!

Well at least four years of school taught me how to work that kind of higher math. Maybe I should have gone for my master’s degree; then I could have learned to deal with the resulting depression from my results of mathematics.

Georgetown did offer one hopeful caveat. Their study furthered that in the long term and fine print, a bachelor’s degree earner would earn more than an associates degree earner.

Now that’s more like it. I now have something to work for. I still have a lot of long term left. That’s why I spent the longer term in college. I can win the long game. I have the extra education. I have the tools. I have the technology.

“We can rebuild him…”

I just need to play for the future. In the end I’ll come out ahead. Just like all those other artists whose work became famous after they died.

After they died…

Wha…?

Ok, so my plan needs work. Still, I’m a long-term white caboose, and my game isn’t over and I’ve got time to figure out how to play that game out.

Or time to be the best greeter Wal Mart has ever seen.

Time

Workout

So I worked out. Despite my lungs' protest.

I came.

I saw.

I coughed.

Lots.

Unceasing fits.

But, I made it. I look at it like an anaerobic workout without the physical commitment. Where can you get that?

I got it, at no additional charge. I also got my 3 miles today, barely. So lets celibate. Slowly and Softly. My muscles hurt. I also did some cardio at night, so I'm pretty much worked out out.

My food intake was ok. Cereal for breakfast, tuna for lunch, and tilapia with asparagus for dinner.

Over all it was a good day.

And I'm down to 231.5

Way to go, Rob

Meme of the Day

This is why parents should pay into a psychiatrist fund as well as a college fund.

“Angels Want to Steal My Red Shoes…”—Elvis Costello

I’m not Catholic, but if I were, I’d want to be pope.  In fact, I’ll pull the pointy hat off my pointy little head and throw it in the ring. Catholics, if you want me on your team, make me pope.  I’m a great addition to any bowling league, and a ringer wrestler. For full disclosure though: Vatican league softball will suffer under my reign.

I heard the exiting pope was a solid fielder. The Cardinals will miss that.  Right now they’re bitter. Did you hear what they’re doing to Pope Benedict before he leaves?

Most companies, throw you a party, then take your security codes and make you sign a confidentiality waiver. Not the Vatican.  I’m sure there’s a waiver, but that’s between Benedictine and God. The Vatican doesn’t have time for such trivialities. They want what’s important: the popes red shoes.  That’s right. Tomorrow the pope gives a farewell speech at St. Peter’s Square. After that, he’ll smile, wave and disappear behind the curtain, never to be seen as pope again. Behind that curtain the pontiff will turn over his Swiss Guard, his papal ring, and his awesome red shoes to a wardrobe accountant.

“And remember, never let those ruby slippers off your feet for a moment, or you will be at the mercy of the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Glenda would be so disappointed.

Pope Benedict does get to keep his white cassock. yay! Sounds like a bad day on “Let’s Make a Deal” to me. He’s also the one pope who gets out alive. I think there’s something to say for that. No, really, there is something to say. Say, “His Holiness Benedict XVI, Roman pontiff emeritus.” That’s his new title. Friends will still call him “Stymie.”

Without the red shoes, nobody will every call him Dorothy again—or pope, for that matter.

Shoeless Joe? No, that one’s already taken.

So now that “Stymie” enters the private sector, what will he do? He was a pope. That’s a hard act to follow. I don’t take him as a sit on the porch and yell, “Get off my lawn, baby Jesus” sort of guy. Or, really as a stay-at-home guy. So, in honor of the worlds first pontiff emeritus, here are a few post-papal options. Hope they help:

1.     Make a Harlem Shake video

2.     Challenge Lance Armstrong to a race. Lance gets his drugs, Stymie gets God

3.     Tour with the Chili Peppers

4.     Move to Mars. “Mars needs pontiff emeritus!”

5.     Stay on as a paid papal consultant

6.     Go to Universal Studios, cast out Harry Potter.

7.     Judge on American Idol

8.     Become a weather man

9.      Challenge Chuck Norris to a Badass contest

10. Wal Mart Greeter