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

Back in the Gym

Two weeks and I'm back to working out. It's tough. The first week I was sick, the next week I was unloading all the ook from my body. Now it's time to get back in.

This morning I got back to the gym. I didn't get the 3 miles in under 45 minutes I only got to 2.75. I couldn't get my lungs to comply. I'm still coughing up stuff. My apartment complex has a strict, "no passing out" gym policy, so I eased up.

I did do my night weight lifting. The Pirate Queen joined me, and we swam afterward. My swim looked more like "floating" but at least I got in the pool.

And my weight? I'm at 234. Not bad, considering. It's not my lightest, but it's not up, so hooray! I get back in there from here.

Now I get to bed. Hopefully I won't cough like this again:

Meme of the Day

Today's is a cautionary meme. If Fred is willing to remove his right thumb, then unless you're willing to stage an intervention, Wilma, better do as he says.

Oscar Goat's Gruff.

Everybody’s talking Oscar.

Nobody watched, but everybody’s talking it. Well that’s not true. Some people did watch the Academy Awards. The fishbowlers watched so they could rub up their famous favorites as they strolled down the red carpet.

“Honey, could you stop licking the screen? There’s a Brad Pitt stain, and, frankly, you’re scaring the kids.”

But even they draw the curtains and Windex the 1080p of Hi-Def glory, after the show actually starts. They don’t care about the awards. They didn’t pick the movies, and they certainly didn’t get to vote.

And years like this year, picking the best Oscar horse wasn’t even a head scratcher of a horse race. My cat’s Oscar picks were more accurate than an LA weatherman’s forecast.

“Today will be sunny, with smog.”

“Mew-mew.”

The mews have it.

Members may have voted on best drama, but there’s no drama on the screen. Why watch? Seth MacFarlane? Unless he does the whole show as Peter Griffin, nobody even knows who he is. And, since he’d told us in advance that the Oscars were not the “Family Guy,” why watch? I’ll just turn to Fox and watch the Seth I know is gonna be funny.

The problem with the Academy Awards is that it doesn’t reflect our opinion. We the people who pay $10 a ticket to watch their movies don’t get a vote. The Academy Awards reflect the opinions of academy members who slip DVD copies of their movies under doors of clandestine closets, like they’re taking confession.

“Forgive me, Meryl, I made Twilight.”

“You are forgiven, now go watch 3 Argo’s and one Lincoln.”

We may not pay that kind of penance, but we do pay to keep their industry alive, and our votes don’t count for more than a nod at box office scores. That’s ok. Let them have their little back-pat circle-jerk, just don’t expect me to watch. I can only take so much self-love.

“You’ll shoot your eye out.”

It’s like watching Hemmingway talk about his favorite Hemmingway books. Ernest was an interesting guy, but four hours of hearing about him, from him, for the love of him, sounds like less fun than a barrel of bedbugs.

And that’s my impression of the Oscars.

Maybe I will watch when they start honoring what we the viewer watch. I looked into that—what we the viewer watch—Do you know what we watch? Goats. Yup, according to YouTube hits, we watch goats, a lot of goats.

Based on our YouTube history, this would be the shape of our Academy Awards based on viewing:

Best Goat Documentary:

Best Actress in a Goat Drama:

Best Goat Musical:

Best Foreign Goat:

Yah, sorry. He’s everywhere.

 “Goat-Goat style”

No wonder the Academy picks their own movies. Next year I’ll just watch the Oscars.

Meme of the Day

Truth in meme-ertizing, part 2. "Blah, blah, blah--KITTEN!"

Getting Schooled

First it was hiding the salami, now it’s swapping the tuna. What’s this world coming to? Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark and, yes, this time it is the fish.

And the mongers.

And the retailers.

And some restaurants.

There’s a fish racket going on and it’s not just those singing McDonald minnows.

“Fishy, Fishy…”

Well, wait, they’re not minnows—but that is the problem. When buying fish, nobody knows what they’re eating. It’s not the same thing as the Nugget mystery meat quandary of the 80’s:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To hide his nuggets.

What is a chicken’s nugget, and can you show it to me while my children are watching?

These are not the latest fishy questions raised by a concerned group of watchdogfish. Their question is simple: Is the fish you order the fish you’re getting?  According to Oceana, a non-profit ocean protection group, the answer is, “no.”

Sorry Charlie.

Oceana sampled fish from retailers, restaurants and mongers and found that all too often, the fish you order is not the fish you’re getting. Order red snapper at your favorite restaurant? It could be tilapia. Is your free salmon farmed?

“Moooo!”

Probably not that farm, but there is a difference between free and farm salmon, and that is usually included in the price.

So to whom do we point the fishy finger of blame in this ocean-sized conspiracy? I say it’s Charlie Tuna.  You can never trust an old tuna in glasses. What about Chicken of the sea? “Ask any mermaid you happen to see?” Really? And where am I finding this well endowed bastion of aquatic truth?

“Yup, that’s a chicken.”

“Holy crap!”

I have a far better chance of finding somebody to blame for mislabled fish than I have of finding a mermaid.

What about the fish themselves? Is this underwater espionage? Are grouper infiltrating schools of Atlantic cod in order to discover the secrets of the deep, only to get schooled in the circle of life?

“In the circle of life, I am but a triangle.”

And the triangle grouper still gets eaten as battered cod. Because we don’t know the difference. Our little See-and-Say never distinguished fish noises for us. Sure, the cow goes, “moo,” the sheep goes, “baaa,” but what does the Sea Bass do? 

Hold up a chart of underwater swimmers in an optometrist office and you’ll get the following:

“Read line one please?”

“Fish.”

“Line two?”

“Fish, fish, fish, fish”

“hmmm…Which way is the perch pointing?”

“I can’t tell.”

“I see…let’s try this. How about now?”

“Mackerel, Mahi Mahi, Amberjack, Bluefish.”

“As I thought, Mr. Brown.  You need fish-focals.”

We all do. Oceana says the best thing to do is to buy your own whole fish and prepare it. Many fillets look alike, whereas whole fish do look different. This only helps if you know what you’re looking at.

Buy a fish book. I’m sure Oceana will start selling them for donations.

In the meantime: caveat emptor, fishy, fishy.

Meme of the Day

Today's meme is all about truth in advertising:

Discoveries, New and Old

“If it were a snake, it’d bit you.”

“If it were a snake, I wouldn’t have been looking for it.”

“And it still woulda bit ya.”

And so it goes with most discoveries. We usually discoverthem while looking for something else we can’t find.  Newton was looking for a tasty way to preserve his figs, anddiscovered that lying under falling rocks was no way to accomplish this.

In Newton’s day the world was newer. Discoveries could befound everywhere. You couldn’t throw a rock without discovering something. Idon’t believe that has changed, even though the world is older. I do believewe’ve stopped throwing things.

Too many glass houses? Probably, but I also think we’vegrown complacent. I believe there are new things everywhere; we just need toopen our eyes to see them.

In Tucson, a scientist opened his eyes to discover a newbreed of scorpion. How many breeds do we need, you might ask. I don’t know, Iwould answer, but now Tucson has one more.  According to Zookeys, a website dedicated to new species anddiscovery, there are now ten species of mountain scorpions now living in theSky Islands, a group of mountains north east of the city.

Because of the region’s seclusion, creatures survive withouthuman interference. At least until now. Now we’ve found them. Who knows howthey’ll fare. Be careful though: they aren’t snakes, but they still might biteyou, if you go looking. Then again, you may just discover an eleventh species.

See how that works?

Look.

The new scorpion is actually quite distinctive, compared tothe old scorpions. Vaejovis brysoni (as the new scorpion is called) is a smallbodied scorpion, medium brown in color, with legs that vary in color from brownto yellow.  The female is a littleover an inch long.

 

The old scorpions are pale and Germanic in nature, alsoquite small, and cling to their youth with fierce pinchers. Usually drawntoward loud noises, scorpions can be found, “on the hunt tonight, for love atfirst sting.”

What were you expecting to find here? I’ve been sick for aweek.

You were looking for my blog, and you found it.

It’s good to be back. That’s my new discovery.

The Great Wall

Hey!

Glad you're here. Could you knock down that wall of crumpled Kleenex? Maybe that'll help me breathe.

No, I didn't mean push it over on me, but thanks. I've got it from here, it's my snot, my problem.

So far my problem has lasted thee days. It's this annoying thing. No fever, but I've got the energy of a sloth, and this drainage that tastes like the bottom of my college beer fridge. The fuzzy underside bottom. Don't ask how I know.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by. I'll get these Kleenex, later--after a nap.

Meme of the Day

Today's meme is brought to you by the number "one" and the letter "U."  It's also brought by the same teacher who told us in first grade that "ain't, ain't a word."  That's ok, because she means well, and this distopian warning of a bleak tomorrow is a valid one.

Go ahead, try the Google search. Note that even "How can I" turns up happier results than "How can U" Maybe it's less about grammar and more about you and I. If you think it's more about you and me, you should know: "You" doesn't fare any better than "U" in Google grammar.  Although, "Me" will get you advice for "me and my girlfriend" to quit fighting.

Perhaps better grammar is the answer.

Google doesn't think so. None of the links led me to Strunk and White's or any other usage sites. 

As I writer, I have found that it's not the clothes that make the man; it's the grammar. And that's why this meme gets to be my meme of the day.

Now let's eat Blog readers!

Holy Dan Gable, Batman!

Wrestling is out of the Olympics. There’s no way to soften the blow. It’s not fake. It’s really gone.  The IOC voted wrestling out of the 2020 Olympics without so much as a wrestle off.

Wrestling legend Dan Gable isn’t taking this one lying on his back. He’s ready to fight. “The thing is, because of wrestling, I have a mindset that is strong. Exceptionally strong,” Gable told Press-citizen.com. “I don’t believe in the four-letter word ‘quit.’ I don’t believe in the four-letter word ‘can’t.’”

He does believe in a few other four-letter words. Some of which he used to refer to the IOC leader, Haalph Nelson.  Ok. No, Haalph Nelson isn’t even half accurate, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was? Still, I’m sure that Dan did use more than half a dozen four-letter words to describe the IOC before talking to the press.

As Gable should: wrestling has been berry, berry, good to him. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been so good to network television. Last Olympics, wrestling was relegated to afternoon viewing at best. For network television, wrestling is as sales salient as shot put. The real dollars are in basketball, gymnastics and track sans field.

Oh and wakeboarding. 

Yah, wakeboarding. That’s one of the sports vying to take the place of wrestling. Others include rock climbing and squash. Oh, we’re in for a televised treat come 2020! It’s kinda like bringing Keith Urban to American Idol.

Sorry Keith, but you’re no Dan Gable. Neither is some wakeboarder whose name I don’t know. Then again, I’m biased.  I wrestled in school. I’ll miss it when it’s gone from the Olympics.

As Dan Gable pointed out, “It’s not like you have a sport like baseball, that has a pro baseball league that’s outstanding — so kids can dream of going places beyond the educational system. So that kind of eliminates the high end for us.”

Maybe they should settle this the same way we settle conflicts in high school wrestling: on the mat. 

Dan Gable takes on the IOC in a no-holds-barred cage match of the millennium.  I say since there’s no pro/amateur Olympic distinction anymore, let’s bring in a few pro wrestlers to help him out.  I’m sure Hulk Hogan and the Rock have something to say about Olympic wrestling, even if they never wrestled freestyle a day in their lives. Oddly enough, Mr. T did wrestle; so let’s bring him in too.

“What’s your prediction for the fight, Clubber?”

“Pain.”

Let’s show them what a show wrestling can be. Wrestling is the oldest competitive sport, dating back as far as 3000 BC, according to USA Today. And they should know: they’ve been reporting news that long. Back then it was just a single sheet, carved out on rock. Ancient wrestlers used to use USA Today to knock competitors out of the ring, before the invention of the folding chair.

Now the sport has lost its zing. Two guys hugging in tights doesn’t have the same draw as the mixed martial arts.

Can we afford to throw it out, though? Wrestling is a part of the Olympic heritage. If we throw wrestling out, we throw out the foundation for why we compete: legacy.

In life, we struggle and compete for a sense of lasting meaning. That life will remember what we do for longer than a Facebook post. I was never a great wrestler, but when I did wrestle it taught me about myself.

It taught me that I was a better blogger than a wrestler.

And I owe that disappointment to Dan Gable and the sport of wrestling.

But in our “everybody wins” society, I’d hate to see the opportunity to lose taken away from deserving others.

Dan knows what’s at stake. He’s a wrestler. There are four letter words he doesn’t know, because wrestling knocked them out of his head. But what wrestling did teach him is that even when you’re beat, you get back out there and try again. That’s what wrestling is about.

That’s what life is about.

That’s what the Olympics are supposed to be about.

And that’s why I blog.

Meme of the Day

This meme has a small target audience: Concordia University Wisconsin.

I graduated from here. This meme helps show curricular focus. The theology department is the Avengers.

When I attended, the communications head was called Ned Flanders. You can see the pecking order. This meme confirms it. It also confirms that Graphic Design hangs its head as high up the food chain as the communications head.

Never mind that I could do better Photoshop editing, and I took Photoshop in a community college. As Iron Man Maschke's smile says: it's all in fun.

Still, things have changed since I graduated. The theology team now allows the Norse god Thor to play a part in the ministry.

Oh, and they also now allow women.

Sick Day

Bleh. 

You know what sucks about blogging? I don’t get sick days.  Ok, technically I suppose I do; I do make the same wage whether I’m sick or not.

And I pass that savings, in quality, back to you.

Yah, so you can thank whoever gave me this cold-thing for the quality of today’s blog. Whether it was H. R. Coughn’snots at the gym, The phlegmy mist left in the wake of drive-by shopping cart kid, or the person who left the band-aid in my sink. No matter, thanks to all of you.

And why is it that sick people feel this compulsion to come out amongst the rest of us? Isn’t that why God made spouses? And then there are those who go into work sick. Why? Misery loves the Company?  C’mon. You get the day off paid. It didn’t stop you calling in sick last Friday when you had the emergency trip to Vegas. So why are you so dedicated today when the heat from your fever has set off two sprinklers? Yah, we really appreciate you. Excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.

If I’m your boss, I’m not reading “dedication” in your ability to infect the healthy staff, and especially not when your delirium makes your reports read like nursery rhymes.

“Fuzzy Wuzzy was in sales. Fuzzy Wuzzy sold six percent...”

Me? My excuse for coming to work? Lord knows nursery rhymes can’t actually hurt my blogs. Besides, there’s nobody here but me.

I’m the blogger in a bubble. That’s right, me and John Travolta we’re like “this.”  Ok, more “this,” like before the massage-boy incidents. Kinda the Vinnie Barbarino era “this.”

Although I’m no “this” with nobody right now, because I’m sick. Not even the PirateQueen will touch me with an eight-foot plank. And I blame somebody. I just don’t know who.

Instead, I stay home and dream up ways to get even.

Ways to make my blog viral.

Yah, see what you’ve done? Now I’m dillusional.

Thanks.

Teach a Man to Fish...and He'll Want Hamburger

Hey! Short one tonight. I'm up a half pound and kinda discouraged. That doesn't mean I'm gonna stop, it just means I need to to rethink things. You know, get more bang for my buck. SOME bang for my buck.

Part of my problem might be that I've been wearing down during my workout. Today was my run and walk day, I slowed it down a bit so I could concentrate on keeping a steady speed. It worked, but I didn't burn as many calories. I'll need to build back up.

Food wise, today was more of the same. I did eat sloppy joes, but I tried to watch my portions.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Meme of the Day

Memes don't always have to scare you on purpose.  Sometimes you're just scrolling through and go, "Oh My!" This is a Perfect Storm Meme.  It contains all the elements of meme persuasion:

1. Cats
2. Cute
3. Nerd Cultural Inclusion
4. Trendy messaging reference
5. Anthropomorphic Animal Torture

This was obviously created by a Gen X nerdess or somebody who wants to get in her pants. 

My money is on the nerdess.

The proof is in the Frodo.  Guy geeks would never think enough about the lexicon to kid-cute the word "Frodo" into a plural.  This is how older women pretend they've still got a little girl inside them. Or, yes, how a clever thinking guy geek tries to get his little man inside them. But, what a guy geek wouldn't think of the "es" ending after the "o." All the wanton lust of a male nerd could never think through a complex plural noun. Maybe it's the testosterone, maybe it's just the trouble of adding an extra letter, we couldn't be bothered to think that hard about the language. Bottom line: it's not a guy.

This was obviously created by a woman yearning to let her nerdy-locks down by dressing innocent animals and flexing her whimsical grammar muscle, despite its OCD twitch.

Besides, if a guy did this, the cat would be wearing chain-mail, and a really cool Darklord beast-horn helmet, and maybe, just maybe, wearing a gold ring, forged for the elven lords in a backyard LOTR forge...

Not that I can speak with any authority on the subject.

Another Reason MyQueen Won't Let Me Touch Her Breasts.

Yay!

Science beats cancer in double overtime! That’s what the headline should read. It doesn’t, but that’s probably because it isn’t true.  Science hasn’t beaten cancer yet—but it’s getting closer. 

This week a team of University of Minnesota scientists announced that they’d found the enzyme the causes breast cancer.  According to the scientists, the U enzyme (what, you didn’t think they were gonna call it the “Me enzyme?” Nope, we’re blaming this one on you.) mutates breast DNA and that allows the cancer to set up home.  Think of it as a traditional zombie movie, with the U enzyme playing the role of the accidentally uncovered zombie toxin. The cancer cells are the doomed teenagers, and your breast is the ravaged town.

“I’ll be back.” 

Wrong zombie movie.  That was the California gubernatorial election.

Now, scientists can monitor the U enzyme for early detection, and that should also lead to a way to stop the mutating enzyme in the first place. 

It’s a great day for breasts!

It’s also a good day for other cancer fighters too, because the scientists are saying there’s a good chance that this U enzyme could be the cause in up to one-third of all other cancers.

Wait.

“good chance…could be…up to…”  Translation: “We have no frackin’ clue.”

Still, it could be. It might be, and some days we take what we can get. Especially when other news reports are telling us that cases of Alzheimer’s are expected to triple by 2050.

If you read these reports together and apply the rule of media guestimated statistics, you see that while one-third of cancers will be cured, three times more people will get Alzheimer’s Disease.

Yay Cancer! Wha—?

So that means that if I dodged a cured cancer bullet, I’ve got a new target on my brain that says “Alzheimer’s.” I gotta tell ya, that blows.

It blows really bad.  Here’s the thing: Cancer sucks. Nobody wants it. It’s a slow painful death, and most current cancer “cures” suck as bad as the disease. People don’t hold up banners saying, “I’m a cancer survivor,” because they want sympathy. They hold up the banners because they can. Because they looked death in the eye and said, “not today” and death said, “Uh, okay. Can I interest you in some Avon on my way out, then?”

To me, Alzheimer’s is worse.   I don’t want to forget who I am. What’s more, I don’t want to forget people like my PirateQueen. I love MyQueen, and that love may have come easy but it was also an earned love that was hard fought for. Every day she and I find ways to love, honor and remember each other over ourselves. I don’t want to forget that, and I definitely don’t want to think of her suffering through me forgetting that.

“Who are you?”

“Here, read this blog, it’ll explain everything.”

“Who wrote this crap.”

“You did. It was part of your charm…”

I don’t want her to live through the horror of my writing every day.

I’d rather have my cancer back.

As the Treadmill Spins

Well I was right, the pizza was not a good weight loss decision. Today I weigh 236. That's 2 days after pizza day. One day after pizza day? Yah, never mind.

We're just pushing forward. I've continued my workouts. It's tough when my weight is on the treadmill too, not going anywhere. It appears something's gotta change, and I think it's the pizza.

Don't tell it yet though, let me break it to it slowly, over cheese, pepperoni, and sausage.

So today I completed both workouts. I had a swim, and I ate pretty good. What's pretty good? Oatmeal for breakfast, a peanutbutter sandwich for lunch, and chicken with lemon pepper for dinner.

That was my day.

And here is my Animal, from the Muppets, impression. I hate working-out early

Meme of the Day

Have you heard enough from me today?  Yah, sorry, now you know how the PirateQueen feels.  I was just surfing Facebook. Facebook was kinda cool before everybody started posting their laundry status as news. Luckily that was replaced by pretty pictures and hip slogans created by every graphic design wannabe with a copy of Photoshop and a picture of a cat.  We call these internet bumper stickers, "memes," although the official definition of meme is slightly different.

According to Google:

Meme: Noun

1. An element of a culture or behavior that may be passed from one individual to another by nongenetic means, esp. imitation.
2. An image, video, etc. that is passed electronically from one Internet user to another.

In social media, we've taken a word, given it a new meaning and repeated it until our definition caught on as truth. That's an example of "meme." as well as a definition for a social media meme.

In common social media usage, a meme is a clipart poster where the creator tries to shape cultural opinions through a creative usage of image and text.  Think Awkward Family Photos meets a bored marketer in a bar, and then hooks up. That's a meme, and if your Facebook page looks like mine, you can't scroll a dead cat without hitting a live one that's part of somebody's meme.

Most are fluffy self affirmation or  eye-roling political dogma, but some are either so funny, so horrifying, or so both that the require a second glance.

So, I figure I'll do us both a favor: I'll find the best memes on my page and post them here. You win: you'll never have to check facebook again.  I win: just another way I can pretend somebody's reading my blog. Sound fun? 

Ok.  Today's winner:




If Hitler ever wrote a sequel to "Mien Kampf" This would be it's cover.  This is like "Winds of War" meets "Texas Wildcat." Well, maybe a little less Texas in this Wildcat, but equally as idealistic and headstrong, yet yearning to be tamed by the right man.  Look at the longing regret in Adolf's eye. Clearly he would change if only...Yah.

 I'm glad nobody is trying to scare me into a decision.

What's funny here is—nothing. Nothing's funny. I'm against gun control, but this effort to control me through fear makes me want to jump on the Obama wagon.

How do we keep our gun rights when our banner-men wave Hitler in everyone's face?

And the Winner Is?

Next week is the Grammy Awards.  You and your Water Cooler Club watching?

I might.  I’m undecided.  I haven’t watched for the last few years. Some say it’s because I’m bitter ever since I lost my music industry job. Some also say that Pete Rose was bitter after they kicked him out of hockey, and he was a lot closer to the puck than I ever was to a Grammy, or the music industry, really. Trust me.

No, my “music industry” gig was playing “name that tune” for the radio machine, and selling playlists to the highest bidder. I was a sort of a radio & record James Bond, without the Martinis, the guns, or the women. Still, a pretty good gig while it lasted. It lasted till the same technology that brought you Shazam (the song identifier, not the super hero.) started naming all the music for me.

“Shazam! Shazam! Shazam!”

Yah, still wrong Shazam, Gomer Pyle.

And I, like Charlie Bucket’s father and the toothpaste factory, was out of a job. In a way I was bitter, but more like, “wow, that was a waste of time,” and not like “I’m with you Pete Rose! I hate music!”

Still, over the last few years, I’ve have kinda hated music, but that had nothing to do with my old job, Pete Rose or Gomer Pyle.  Okay, maybe Jim Nabors did freak me out a bit, but that was different.

“Well Sergeant Carter, have the lambs stopped screaming?”

Don’t remember that one? It’s a lost episode. Just like my music. 

Music has been on the downbeat for a few years.  There’s nothing new. That’s not to say there’s nothing good. I do like all the artists up for album of the year. Jack White, Mumford & Sons, Black Keys, Frank Ocean, and Fun.? All great. I don’t care who wins. They deserve it, but are they new? Not really. Not even Frank & Fun., who are up for the Best New Artist Award, don’t sound that new.  They sound like every other song on every other radio stations.

Good, but not new, and now it’s good and stale.

The good news is music is cyclical. For every down, there’s an up, and with every beat, there’s hope that things will get funky again and meet on the one. I’ve seen it happen before. When I was a kid, I was lolled into a stupor by disco, but shaken awake by punk and funk. That was the late 70’s early 80’s. The new music came as a backbeat to the gas crunch, high inflation, unemployment, and hostages in Iran. It came as a way to cope, and voice of dissatisfaction.

Then life got softer, and so did the music. Yuppies ruled, and money flowed. By the end of the 80’s a faceless army of hair-bands partied and rappers lost street cred. Paychecks written by mall rats paid for music’s soul and every musician danced to the same lifeless tune.

We didn’t worry, we were happy.

Then we went to Iraq, and woke up next to Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. A new high jobless rate drew us out of the mall in an early morning walk of shame.

“I hope I can get home before anybody sees me wearing Lycra.”

That’s not to say we sobered up, we just needed a new drug, different from the one Huey Lewis had sold us. Some found it the industrial haven of Nine Inch Nails, who built up a sonic wall, and preached the evils of God money. We were all game, until Trent told us what he wanted to do to us like an animal. Then we were really into him.

Nirvana came out sounding like a noise we’d never heard before. Something harmonious and brash and wailing, but always new, even compared to the grunge-clones we tried tying them to.

“He’s the one who likes all our pretty songs…”

“Shazam! Shazam! Shazam!”

Tupac gave us California Love, and we only felt a little dirty for accepting it, and Oasis built us a Wonderwall. It was nice a gift.  Then life got better and the music suffered again, and it has been nothing but the same ever since.

Now, we’re enduring the worst recession, the mortgage industry has failed us, and jobs are harder to find than a long term Taylor Swift relationship.

“Shaza—“ It ain’t happening, Gomer. Give it up.

I’ve gone through the old pain and suffering, again. Now where the heck is my new music? Where’s my “Hell yah, that’s how I feel!”?  Where is my frackin’ consolation prize? Something is horribly wrong when so many American’s are unemployed for so long that we have to give them a name (the 99ers), and the only consolation that they get is Carly Rae Jepsen patting them gently on the back and saying, “Call Me, Maybe.” At least with Trent we got a reach around.

“I lost my home in 08 and all my banker got me was this Justin Bieber T-shirt.”

Now it’s Grammy time. I just don’t know if I have the heart to watch, because I don’t know if they’ve got the heart to make new music.

Disfunctional Locationships

Ever notice when a locationship ends, the imperfections of the offending location glare brighter than Las Vegas neon?

Detroit and I, we still hang out. Really, it’s because we have to. I have nowhere else to go. Although we’re uncomfortable around each other, we smile and muddle, until we can afford to separate.  It’s in this time that bad locationships, are the same as bad relationships. This is that phase where everything the other person does wrong reminds you exactly what pushed you over the edge in the first place.

My reasons for disillusion should be filed under “irreconcilable differences.” Detroit isn’t abusive, overly violent, and it rarely cheats. It’s not perfect, but it tries…sometimes, and for some people, that’s enough. For me, it’s like stealing a kiss from Jane Krowly in junior high. She was beautiful when she didn’t speak, but once you kissed her, you had to talk to her.  It was doomed from the start.

Same with Detroit. Despite it’s rugged reputation, I wanted to believe in the city that slept with a gun under her pillow. She’d lived through a lot; now was her underdog comeback.

We all love underdog stories. MyQueen and I watched “Rudy” last weekend. Even she chanted “Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!” in the end.

“Alright honey, can I stop now?”

“No! you gotta keep going! Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!”

“You are so going to Steel Magnolia hell for this…”

Underdogs remind us that we all have a shot. I’m in a very underdog susceptible place these days. You know what we all love even more than underdogs though? We love redeemed underdogs. That’s right.  Look at the prodigal son. Who didn’t cheer the young rebel come home to make good?

“Detroit! Detroit! Detroit!”

That’s right. Detroit’s been a bad boy. We all want to believe that this is its time to come home and make good: to apologize and accept the reward of grace, and not the reward it deserves. We’re ready, Detroit!

Unfortunately, if Detroit were the prodigal son, our story would end with Detroit coming home, suffering from a raging case of herpes, turning to its father, and saying, “Ya know, I think I want to go out whoring some more.”

The latest prodigal efforts by Detroit involve the island of Belle Isle.  When I moved here, I knew nothing of Belle Isle. MyQueen was quick to educate me though, she’d grown up with Belle Isle history.

According to Wikipedia, it’s a 982-acre island on the Detroit River that houses a race track, aquarium, and a conservatory.  According to MyQueen, it’s a kick-ass piece of Detroit history.  Belle Isle has been a park since the mid 1800’s, although during World War II it also served as a staging area for the military. This is that part of the Detroit personality that first attracts you.

Until you find that it’s a part of Detroit that she just squanders.  Belle Isle, through the bad years has suffered as much as Detroit itself. The bathrooms don’t work and have been replaced by porta-johns. The paths and trails are littered with branches, leaves and other discarded debris. And despite the natural beauty of the park, everything seems to be buried beneath the gloom of disregard.

On the one hand, you can’t blame Detroit for the disregard of Belle Isle. Maintenance costs are roughly $6 million a year, and that’s just keeping it at its current state. That does not include building it back up and repairing what needs to be fixed. Last year they had to stop the Belle Isle Grand Prix because the road patch came up mid race. Belle Isle needs some pretty expensive TLC that the Detroit can’t afford to give itself, let alone one park. In Detroit’s state, fire and police departments are luxuries.

“Ya know, I think I want to go out whoring some more.”

That’s where the State of Michigan comes in. Not the whoring part. Michigan is the father; try to keep up. Michigan offered to take care of Belle Isle, to maintain it as it does any other state park.  The state offer wasn’t to buy the park, but to lease it for 10 years. After 10 years, Detroit could elect to take back Belle Isle, or leave it in the hands of Michigan. This wasn’t an adoption program, as much as a foster parent arrangement.

Yes, the state would reap the profits, and those profits would go back into the park system, but Michigan is in a much better state than Detroit is—figuratively speaking, of course. Michigan can afford it. Belle Isle is our prodigal son’s love child, and Daddy Michigan, is more than willing to look after her, while Detroit gets it’s private parts cleaned up.

Like any deal, this deal did have a downside. For the city, the downside included a clause written into the contract saying that although the state would maintain the property, it would not maintain the utilities, which would be lighting and plumbing. So the toilets would probably still on Detroit to fix. It also said that the state may, but is not obligated to continue any contracts, or construction affiliated with the park. That meant that the state could let go of people, bring in their own people, and even hire new teams for construction or maintenance projects. 

The downside for the visitors?  The state would charge an $11 fee to visit the park. That’s $11 you’d pay to visit any state park, and once you’ve paid the fee, you could visit any state run park within the year for no additional charge.

At the mention of a fee, the city of Detroit balked. First the city said, a fee is outrageous! This is a public park, for the public of our fair city. Later they amended that to say, unless the city gets that fee.

A city fee is a not as good a deal as a state fee though. First, a visitor won’t get to visit other city or state parks for proposed fee. Second, according to the Detroit Free Press, the proposed city fee will need to be a per visit fee, to potentially break even with the $6 million per year maintenance. Even with that fee, Detroit mayor Dave Bing, says the city will need to close 50 other parks, and limit the maintenance of 19 other parks, to support the costs.

Translation: we’ll create 69 new locations for our limited vice cops to patrol.

So did Detroit get greedy, seeing that the state would charge a fee, or was it the part of the contract that endangered deals they’d brokered with local companies, or was it something completely different? Whatever the cause, the city has said, “no thanks” to the state’s deal, and the state took their money to play somewhere else. Now Detroit will need to find a new way to staunch its financial bleeding.

Detroit: It hurts when we pee.

That’s not the official city slogan. The PR team is discussing alternatives. They do say that the state offer wasn’t all that. That’s all they are willing to say. That, and that they will have their own plan…soon. Soon, but for now nobody’s sure of anything, except that the city wants to charge an entrance fee to the park, and that they’re talking of revising a previous plan that was rejected in the 1990’s because it would cost $180 million to implement. Where is the city getting $180 million when they can’t even keep Belle Isle toilets open?

The only thing anyone can be sure of is that, with Detroit, it’s hard to be in a dysfunctional locationship.

Sources: Detroit Free Press mlive.com.

Dog Days

Gloomy Monday. Not only was it grey and stormy, I packed on the pounds.

237

I gotta say, I'm more than a bit disappointed. Yes, I ate poorly over the Super Bowl. I admit to beer and nachos, but 237? 2.5 pounds? Really?

So, let me just say I took it poorly, and tomorrow won't look much better. I ate my frustration on a pizza, and it tasted kinda like pepperoni and mushroom. Really good.

But enough about that, we all have bad days. I had a weekend and a bad day. Tomorrow, I'll cinch my pull-ups around my waist, and get back on the potty, so to speak.

Still, today wasn't a complete failure. I got my morning run in as well as my evening weightlifting. So I did do that. It was tough. Especially, looking out the window while running the treadmill made me think I was a sled dog.

Mush!

Here's pullin' for a better tomorrow.

Lost Gatherations

So you’re standing at the water cooler.  Theo, from accounting, the dude with the bad breath, but a really sweet fire-orange Vette steps up and grabs a cup. In fact, if it weren’t for the Vette or the fact that Theo supplies the office donuts, you might not talk to him. I mean he did hit on your sister at the office party last Christmas…

But anyway, I digress. You, Theo, water cooler: It’s Monday, what do you discuss?

The Superbowl?

The Commercials?

Intense Beyonce Barbie, with the kung-fu action grip?

Jenny McCarthy’s new foot tattoo?

The recent discovery of Richard III’s bones?

Ahhh, the water cooler. The time honored opinion hub of the office space.  It’s like the coffee room, but cooler people are less jittery and don’t jump topics like derailed trains, because the caffeine has hypercharge their ADD.

“Farmers…Ram Trucks…Clydsdale…Flacco…Harbaughs…touchdown…Squirrels!”

I know! Add some hashtags and you might as well be reading a blog. Not my blog: I’m not coffee topical.  I’m highly untopical, unless you’re talking ointment, then yah, rub a little on the rashy spots. I am an irritant, but I too avoid the coffee corner.

Especially when that pseudo-intellectual goth-girl, Kat, is there. She’s the temple of conversational doom, because she knows so much more than everybody else, except her musician boyfriend. He’s a freakin’ genius. He’s so indy he’ll never succumb signing with a record label, even if they did ask…

Yeah, you talk a lot about Kat at the cooler. She’s never there. The worst irritant at the water cooler, other than Theo, who never leaves (making him a close second), is Cal.  He’s a slosher.  He can’t seem to talk without his hands. Learned that the hard way, right? Last time you’ll wear silk to the office again, huh? Still, Theo, Cal, and even Barb, from HR, are good people. They know a lot about the world around them, and talking to them is much better than anti-social living through Twitter.

Water people are cooler people. They’re local. Their concerns are your concerns, and yeah, sometimes Cal breaks into Goo Goo Dolls’ classics like he’s wailing bar anthems, but that’s just cuz it takes him back to college. Cal was also the one who got you to understand the “fiscal cliff” using sugar packets and Dixie Cups impaled on stirrer straws. And Barb says so long as he stays away from the feminine hygiene closet this time, corporate will allow him try to explain Obama Care again. 

“I just want you to know who I am!”

“Damnit, Cal! You sloshed me again!”

The best thing about water coolers over Anti-social Media? Nobody at the water cooler, including Nina, the self-proclaimed grammarian, uses the word “trending.”

Nothing trends at the cooler. It’s life. It happens. Conversations flow. They don’t follow pre-forged rails designed by marketing analysts, and anti-social media experts. The water cooler never burbles with the meh, unless the topic is meh.

“Barb, what’s up with the new co-ed bathrooms?”

“Nothing. It’s just PC meh.”

“Meh, isn’t used like that, Barb.”

“Carful Nina, or she’ll ‘meh’ on your performance review.”

…

Nina’s a good know-it-all.  She knows when to shut up.  That’s the other thing about the water cooler.  Everybody knows when to talk, and when to listen.  Yah, Theo’s a little wordy, but you all know that about him, and you know when to avoid him.

“Did you see how they ruined the new Star Trek?”

Sometimes I’m jealous.  I don’t hang out with your get-along-gang.  I’m a loner. I get my news from the media, without the personal touch.  I translate how it affects my life, but I don’t get Cal’s extra special insight, or Nina’s intense corrections.

That’s why I worry about those who came behind the great white caboose. On the caboose, we were still part of something, a collective. When it derailed, it left many of us looking to make something of ourselves. The only element of capitalism we pulled into our hobo sack before disembarking was the bundle of “me.”

We took that we were all special stars and turned that into enterprise. Facebook, Twitter, they’re all about the “me.” It’s no longer about the give and take at the water cooler, it’s about me saying what I have to say, whether you’re listening or not.  It’s the great wall of “me.”

On the one hand, it’s good. It removed the gatekeepers, like Kat and her friends, who blockaded the doors, and never let any of us play their reindeers games, because they’re still bitter about what happened in high school. 

What happened to “what happened in high school stays in high school?”

Why did my generation carry the cross of being unpopular only to plant it in everybody else’s front yard with a placard saying, “None shall pass”?

So Hooray! The next generation broke through, but only to lose themselves in the Social Media mirror. 

I Tweet, therefore I am.

Where is the age of the ensemble?  The choir singing together? Where is the community? Where are the relationships that forge us like sharpening swords? Now we can’t revolt, because we can’t even figure out what revolt over.

“We have met the enemy, and he is revolting.”

Until we come back together, it’s gone. And if it continues this way, we may even lose the cooler, and I think we’ll all be a little lesser for that. Except, Kat.  She’ll get by.