Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Coming Soon to a Blog Near You (This one)
I almost forgot, there will be some big renovations to my Bloggle in the near future. He's in need of some cosmetic enhancements (poor guy is pretty embarrassed by the term "Plastic Surgery"...Sorry Bloggy.). As you can see, he's already has some coloring done; thanks Bayfield Elementary 4th grade art class! (NOTE: There is no such elementary school to my knowledge and if there were, I wouldn't trust them with my bloggle until I had an opportunity to sit down with each student individually and assess his or her artistic abilities.) Among the up and coming procedures: Websites PaulStorm frequents, a poll perhaps?, and photos! Be on the lookout!
This One Goes Out to the One I Love (That's you...no, not you. Her, the Girl with the Dancing Laugh.)
Customary Introduction
It’s hard to believe, but my blog will be three years old soon. It’s an exciting time in the life of a blog. Now that it’s potty trained and the braces are finally off, little Bloggy is getting ready to take those first big steps out of the internet and into the world of grown up media. He’s got his diagonal striped tie, vintage G.I. Joe lunch pail with drink tumbler, and a very polished 15 second Elevator Speech for why he should be hired. Newspaper editorial pages. Dear Rolling Stone Letters. Junk Mail. There’s so many things my little bloggle might grow up to be.
The two of us were sitting around the house Saturday, looking through our photo albums and reminiscing about all the great times we’ve had together. The House Mouse. Several wombat references. Reginald my Muse. My father and his many jellies. We laughed, we cried, we even cuddled a bit (which is totally acceptable since bloggles are really comfortable with their personal space and not at all emasculated by being Little-Spooned). When we got to a page of photos of me with the Griswold family (NOTE: The name “Griswold” is being used here in place of the real name of the family I’ve found myself surrounded by on more than 7 occasions. Griswolds, you know who you are.), Bloggy’s pointy little pixilated ears pricked up. Somehow, he had never heard about the weekend depicted in the pictures. I think what made him the most upset was the photo of the Gingerbread House Habitat for (Gingerbread) Humanity Renovation Project (More on that later). Bloggy loves frosting.
Realizing that I’d deprived an innocent bloggle of great material, I proceeded to tell him everything. And now, here it is, reproduced, digitally remastered in all its 2.1 stereo sound grandeur! There will be thrills, chills, spills, gills, frills, very few pills, and one sliced baby dill. That’s par for the course when you're with the Griswolds.
Thrills
The Griswolds are an adventure seeking bunch. No clumping around the TV for them. Not when there’s nature to be conquered! Okay, Okay so SOME clumping occurs between the hours and 7 and 10AM as well as between 7 and 10PM, BUT from 10AM to 7PM they are all action. Clark Griswold, for example, is an accomplished snowshoe stomper and an amateur tobogganer. On a crisp MLK jr. weekend day, he persuaded the other Griswolds and one Me to strap on the deluxe rental snow shoes provided by the base camp of Lars Mountain and follow him deep into its forbidding forests; a terrifying terrain filled with snow-concealed abysses, crags, yetis, and the remains of the camps of failed expeditions to the tippy top of Lars Mountain (a staggering 215 feet above sea level!). Our caravan of explorers shuffled and stomped up and down, around, under and over, through, and all other directions. We came upon the tracks of either ourselves or monsters chasing us several times but fortunately encountered no Abominables, Snow Monsters, Sasquatches (Sasquatchi? Sasqueetches? Sasquapods?), or snow leopards.
One among our party, however, was almost lost to the vicious predatory Cockleburs. These are not Grandma’s Garden Variety, the wild Cocklebur of Lars Mountain has stickers that make Acacia Trees look like Chia Pets. Not only that, they’re carnivores. Like Rabid-and-Lyme-Diseased Wood Ticks carrying tiny steak knifes and just done observing their religious fasting type carnivores. AAAHH! She was able to escape, but only because Cockleburs, being plants, are not particularly bright (No brains. It’s science.) and mistook her scarf for a very long French Bread.
Surviving the Cocklebur attack, our company of adventurers came upon an old and abandoned trapper’s cabin. Legend has it that the trapper was lured to the icy depths of Lake Superior by the haunting call of Gordon Lightfoot’s masterpiece, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. According to legend, one that lives on from the Chippewa on down/Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee/The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead/When the skies of November turn gloomy. The Griswolds and I surmise that the trapper- alone and most likely a bit eccentric given his preference to live alone trapping Cockleburs rather than, say, work in retail at one of the trendy outdoor gear outlet stores, tried to beat Gitche Gumee and find the lost members of the E. Fitz using a Cockle-skin canoe. NOT a reliable nautical vehicle.
Chills
Mrs. Griswold challenged me and one of her very fine daughters to race one another in our bathing suits to the hot tub over an obstacle course of black ice, snow tufts, and ogling oglers. Stripped to as bare as we can be without causing parents to cover the eyes of their children and the elderly to shake their canes gingerly and make hoodlum remarks, my Griswold opponent and I charged out into the negative-Celsius weather toward the now capitalized HOT TUB because Holy Hungarian Goulash! It was COLD! Not “oh, I think I’ll put a sweater on, cold” More like So Cold My Innie Belly Buttons Sucked Even Further In To Conserve Body Heat Cold. Yeah, mull over THAT mental image for a bit, a puckering belly button. Eesh, I think I grossed out myself.
Spills
You probably know that Lars Mountain has one of the most frighteningly steep luge courses in the world. If not, I recommend going to see it. Don’t ride it, however; survival rates are pretty low and I am not into endangering my readers (unless you’re my enemy, in which case, depending on your level of evil, I may short sheet your bed). The Griswolds, who truly do laugh in the face of death (good naturedly, of course), fear no luge. Not one. So when I found myself standing atop Lars Mountain’s summit with a flimsy plastic toboggan in hand, I knew there was no backing out.
If it were possible for a mountain to have a grade steeper than vertical, Lars Mountain has it. At one point on my descent, I think I was upside down. Once I reached terminal velocity, I crashed into a young sapling tree. Medics were called, one of those big fluffy dogs with the tiny medical keg around its neck came bounding up and used its warm and saliva-spewing tongue to lick me out of the snow drift I was stuck in like a tent peg. A rescue helicopter was dispatched and people’s regularly scheduled television programs were interrupted to bring them the courageous rescue. I injured my Prideous Maximus and Selfus Respectoid, but otherwise came out of the mishap unscathed.
Gills
I had a delish (Sorry beautiful Griswold daughter) fish dish. I repeat, it was delish (not sorry this time).
Frills
After my near-fatal crash, I found myself reflecting on my life. How will I be remembered? Have I made the world better? Should I stop photocopying coupons for fun and profit? Do I really know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Does tongue surface area matter? Do owls even like candy? Eventually, the string of ponderables brought me to the issue of Gingerbread people. Shrek was playing on TNT at the time; I took that as a divine sign that I was called to shelter the molasses-based Ginger-folk.
Elise…I mean, Griswold Daughter 1 and I knew that we could not build enough homes for the Gingers alone, we would need help. Short money for hiring, we chose instead to challenge the other Griswold daughter and her significant other to a good ol’ fashion Gingerbread House Raising. First prize; the love and affection of Momma and Poppa Griswold as well as rights to the front seats of automobiles for any trips taken into town for victuals and supplies.
I neglected to inform the younger Griswold of my previous career as a Lego-Architect. Truly the I.M. Pei of elementary school-aged builders, I have a real knack for assembling pre-fabricated parts. Elise and I quickly raised the walls of our home and shingled the roof, giving us plenty of time (and frosting) for landscaping and décor. Our little cottage shocked the brown sugar right out of the Ginger Family who won the bid to live there. That was pretty gross, but we understood. They were just really excited to move in. So, after cleaning up after Mr. and Mrs. Bread, we showed them around their new home. We chose to go with a NeoVictorian “Stick Style” home; the Breads were very impressed and really appreciated our decision to move away from contemporary GingerBread Trimming, opting instead for exposed trusses and soffits. I’ll pause here while you go on a Google-spree trying to figure out what all that mumbo was about.
Pills
If there’s one thing the Griswolds love (and wonder how I’ve neglected to mention until now), it’s Canasta-based card games. In particular, they are Hand and Foot Fanatics (HaFoFans). And when I say HaFoFans, I’m not exaggerating. Every Griswold has a set position at the HaFoTa (Hand and Foot Table) which is determined by a no-holds-barred, full contact, bull rushing of the HaFoTa by all HaFoFans. Failure to yield the right of way to charging HaFoFans can result in immediate incapacitation and the importance of HaFo to HaFoFans means you will be without medical attention for 4-8 hours so unless you happen to keep a Swiss-Rescue-Dog-with-Tiny-Medical-Keg Dog Whistle around your neck, you might as well dash a bit of salt and pepper on your head and wait for the Cockleburs.
After the weekend’s HaFo, Elise and I became suspicious that HaFoPerEns (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancers) might have “accidentally slipped” into some someone’s Cocoa Coffees. A few too many conveniently timed and executed plays of both the Hand and the Foot of a to-remain-nameless duo led to an enormous upset…Okay, okay, it was a totally legitimate win and I just really really really prefer winning to losing (I’d say almost 4:1) BUT, next time there will be mandatory HaFoPerEnTes (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancer Testings).
The Baby Dill
Advice: Do not order double cheeseburgers late at night from DQs in tiny towns where the pickles seem not only lacking in the Kosher-ness, but also in the whole “vegetable” quality. I’m rather certain I ate a gelatin molded to resemble a pickle in shape, but not at all in the two Ts: texture and taste.
Overall, it’s a fabulous time, staying with the WalGriswolds. I’m truly lucky and special; how else do you explain their not having relocated and continuing to answer my calls. Thanks Grisgrens, you’re wonderful people. Bloggy wishes he could come along next time.
It’s hard to believe, but my blog will be three years old soon. It’s an exciting time in the life of a blog. Now that it’s potty trained and the braces are finally off, little Bloggy is getting ready to take those first big steps out of the internet and into the world of grown up media. He’s got his diagonal striped tie, vintage G.I. Joe lunch pail with drink tumbler, and a very polished 15 second Elevator Speech for why he should be hired. Newspaper editorial pages. Dear Rolling Stone Letters. Junk Mail. There’s so many things my little bloggle might grow up to be.
The two of us were sitting around the house Saturday, looking through our photo albums and reminiscing about all the great times we’ve had together. The House Mouse. Several wombat references. Reginald my Muse. My father and his many jellies. We laughed, we cried, we even cuddled a bit (which is totally acceptable since bloggles are really comfortable with their personal space and not at all emasculated by being Little-Spooned). When we got to a page of photos of me with the Griswold family (NOTE: The name “Griswold” is being used here in place of the real name of the family I’ve found myself surrounded by on more than 7 occasions. Griswolds, you know who you are.), Bloggy’s pointy little pixilated ears pricked up. Somehow, he had never heard about the weekend depicted in the pictures. I think what made him the most upset was the photo of the Gingerbread House Habitat for (Gingerbread) Humanity Renovation Project (More on that later). Bloggy loves frosting.
Realizing that I’d deprived an innocent bloggle of great material, I proceeded to tell him everything. And now, here it is, reproduced, digitally remastered in all its 2.1 stereo sound grandeur! There will be thrills, chills, spills, gills, frills, very few pills, and one sliced baby dill. That’s par for the course when you're with the Griswolds.
Thrills
The Griswolds are an adventure seeking bunch. No clumping around the TV for them. Not when there’s nature to be conquered! Okay, Okay so SOME clumping occurs between the hours and 7 and 10AM as well as between 7 and 10PM, BUT from 10AM to 7PM they are all action. Clark Griswold, for example, is an accomplished snowshoe stomper and an amateur tobogganer. On a crisp MLK jr. weekend day, he persuaded the other Griswolds and one Me to strap on the deluxe rental snow shoes provided by the base camp of Lars Mountain and follow him deep into its forbidding forests; a terrifying terrain filled with snow-concealed abysses, crags, yetis, and the remains of the camps of failed expeditions to the tippy top of Lars Mountain (a staggering 215 feet above sea level!). Our caravan of explorers shuffled and stomped up and down, around, under and over, through, and all other directions. We came upon the tracks of either ourselves or monsters chasing us several times but fortunately encountered no Abominables, Snow Monsters, Sasquatches (Sasquatchi? Sasqueetches? Sasquapods?), or snow leopards.
One among our party, however, was almost lost to the vicious predatory Cockleburs. These are not Grandma’s Garden Variety, the wild Cocklebur of Lars Mountain has stickers that make Acacia Trees look like Chia Pets. Not only that, they’re carnivores. Like Rabid-and-Lyme-Diseased Wood Ticks carrying tiny steak knifes and just done observing their religious fasting type carnivores. AAAHH! She was able to escape, but only because Cockleburs, being plants, are not particularly bright (No brains. It’s science.) and mistook her scarf for a very long French Bread.
Surviving the Cocklebur attack, our company of adventurers came upon an old and abandoned trapper’s cabin. Legend has it that the trapper was lured to the icy depths of Lake Superior by the haunting call of Gordon Lightfoot’s masterpiece, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. According to legend, one that lives on from the Chippewa on down/Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee/The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead/When the skies of November turn gloomy. The Griswolds and I surmise that the trapper- alone and most likely a bit eccentric given his preference to live alone trapping Cockleburs rather than, say, work in retail at one of the trendy outdoor gear outlet stores, tried to beat Gitche Gumee and find the lost members of the E. Fitz using a Cockle-skin canoe. NOT a reliable nautical vehicle.
Chills
Mrs. Griswold challenged me and one of her very fine daughters to race one another in our bathing suits to the hot tub over an obstacle course of black ice, snow tufts, and ogling oglers. Stripped to as bare as we can be without causing parents to cover the eyes of their children and the elderly to shake their canes gingerly and make hoodlum remarks, my Griswold opponent and I charged out into the negative-Celsius weather toward the now capitalized HOT TUB because Holy Hungarian Goulash! It was COLD! Not “oh, I think I’ll put a sweater on, cold” More like So Cold My Innie Belly Buttons Sucked Even Further In To Conserve Body Heat Cold. Yeah, mull over THAT mental image for a bit, a puckering belly button. Eesh, I think I grossed out myself.
Spills
You probably know that Lars Mountain has one of the most frighteningly steep luge courses in the world. If not, I recommend going to see it. Don’t ride it, however; survival rates are pretty low and I am not into endangering my readers (unless you’re my enemy, in which case, depending on your level of evil, I may short sheet your bed). The Griswolds, who truly do laugh in the face of death (good naturedly, of course), fear no luge. Not one. So when I found myself standing atop Lars Mountain’s summit with a flimsy plastic toboggan in hand, I knew there was no backing out.
If it were possible for a mountain to have a grade steeper than vertical, Lars Mountain has it. At one point on my descent, I think I was upside down. Once I reached terminal velocity, I crashed into a young sapling tree. Medics were called, one of those big fluffy dogs with the tiny medical keg around its neck came bounding up and used its warm and saliva-spewing tongue to lick me out of the snow drift I was stuck in like a tent peg. A rescue helicopter was dispatched and people’s regularly scheduled television programs were interrupted to bring them the courageous rescue. I injured my Prideous Maximus and Selfus Respectoid, but otherwise came out of the mishap unscathed.
Gills
I had a delish (Sorry beautiful Griswold daughter) fish dish. I repeat, it was delish (not sorry this time).
Frills
After my near-fatal crash, I found myself reflecting on my life. How will I be remembered? Have I made the world better? Should I stop photocopying coupons for fun and profit? Do I really know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Does tongue surface area matter? Do owls even like candy? Eventually, the string of ponderables brought me to the issue of Gingerbread people. Shrek was playing on TNT at the time; I took that as a divine sign that I was called to shelter the molasses-based Ginger-folk.
Elise…I mean, Griswold Daughter 1 and I knew that we could not build enough homes for the Gingers alone, we would need help. Short money for hiring, we chose instead to challenge the other Griswold daughter and her significant other to a good ol’ fashion Gingerbread House Raising. First prize; the love and affection of Momma and Poppa Griswold as well as rights to the front seats of automobiles for any trips taken into town for victuals and supplies.
I neglected to inform the younger Griswold of my previous career as a Lego-Architect. Truly the I.M. Pei of elementary school-aged builders, I have a real knack for assembling pre-fabricated parts. Elise and I quickly raised the walls of our home and shingled the roof, giving us plenty of time (and frosting) for landscaping and décor. Our little cottage shocked the brown sugar right out of the Ginger Family who won the bid to live there. That was pretty gross, but we understood. They were just really excited to move in. So, after cleaning up after Mr. and Mrs. Bread, we showed them around their new home. We chose to go with a NeoVictorian “Stick Style” home; the Breads were very impressed and really appreciated our decision to move away from contemporary GingerBread Trimming, opting instead for exposed trusses and soffits. I’ll pause here while you go on a Google-spree trying to figure out what all that mumbo was about.
Pills
If there’s one thing the Griswolds love (and wonder how I’ve neglected to mention until now), it’s Canasta-based card games. In particular, they are Hand and Foot Fanatics (HaFoFans). And when I say HaFoFans, I’m not exaggerating. Every Griswold has a set position at the HaFoTa (Hand and Foot Table) which is determined by a no-holds-barred, full contact, bull rushing of the HaFoTa by all HaFoFans. Failure to yield the right of way to charging HaFoFans can result in immediate incapacitation and the importance of HaFo to HaFoFans means you will be without medical attention for 4-8 hours so unless you happen to keep a Swiss-Rescue-Dog-with-Tiny-Medical-Keg Dog Whistle around your neck, you might as well dash a bit of salt and pepper on your head and wait for the Cockleburs.
After the weekend’s HaFo, Elise and I became suspicious that HaFoPerEns (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancers) might have “accidentally slipped” into some someone’s Cocoa Coffees. A few too many conveniently timed and executed plays of both the Hand and the Foot of a to-remain-nameless duo led to an enormous upset…Okay, okay, it was a totally legitimate win and I just really really really prefer winning to losing (I’d say almost 4:1) BUT, next time there will be mandatory HaFoPerEnTes (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancer Testings).
The Baby Dill
Advice: Do not order double cheeseburgers late at night from DQs in tiny towns where the pickles seem not only lacking in the Kosher-ness, but also in the whole “vegetable” quality. I’m rather certain I ate a gelatin molded to resemble a pickle in shape, but not at all in the two Ts: texture and taste.
Overall, it’s a fabulous time, staying with the WalGriswolds. I’m truly lucky and special; how else do you explain their not having relocated and continuing to answer my calls. Thanks Grisgrens, you’re wonderful people. Bloggy wishes he could come along next time.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Another Blog so soon?!
Another Blog?!?!
Ladies and gentlemen, your author is feeling particularly inspired today. The chef cap and “kiss the cook” apron are on and I’m cooking up an especially scrumptious batch of bloggings. So get out the stretch pants, folks, and saunter on up to the buffet. If you finish three heaping plates of blog, I’ll make you a T-shirt. Provided you pay for the shirt, permanent marker and postage, of course. As anyone who has played Monopoly with me knows, I’m not exactly Uncle Moneybags…The Community Chest was rigged!
The goals
As we all pretend to do, I’ve made a list of goals I will accomplish for the New Year. Yes, it’s mid January. Yes, said goals are traditionally a January 1 “thing.” BUT, my goal list will convince you all of the OK-ness inherent to my not-exactly-right-after-old-father-time-croaked-at-the-sight-of-a-new-year-baby-in-a-top-hat-and-partial-gratuitous-nudity goals. Besides, by starting a bit ‘late,’ I look that much more committed to people who aren’t in on my little secret. Said people with then feel a renewed gumption to stick to their goals. So really, I do this for you.
GOAL #1: Resist the herd mentality
That’s right all you conformists, by not giving in to the corporate climate of Jan. 1 New Year’s Resolutions, I’m actually resisting the herd mentality while simultaneously attacking life like a hungry wombat in a field of snow tussocks…mmmm indigenous grasses! From now until I lapse back into my old ways, I will not buy what the magazines tell me to buy or watch what’s hip on the TV. No. Nothing but what I find in the bargain bin or unattended in various lobbies or advertized in the Christian Science Monitor for me. And if the TV is on, it’s all Frasier reruns and poorly special-effected science fiction movies from the 70s for me.
Have a taste and tell me it’s not classic
Martin (Frasier’s dad): Remember when we turned off the highway? Well, right down from there is the Bed and Bass Motel! Frasier: Bed and Bass–ah yes, one of the finer fish-themed motels!
Niles: You'll see who feels foolish when I'm sitting on a mechanical bull sipping champagne.
Frasier: Don't stare at me, Eddie (Frasier’s dad’s dog). I'm a humane man, but right now I could kick a kitten through an electric fan.
Yep, who needs Rock of Love with classic material like this?
GOAL #2: Run a Half Marathon with the conditional goal of running a Full Marathon later
Now while my athletic accomplishments border on legendary (I hold the Babe Ruth League Unofficial record for most beans in a season- 27 of 29 at bats AND I am the only student in the history of my high school to hyperventilate every single time we had to run the mile AND I once threw a dart into the back of another dart Robin Hood-style), I have yet to put a notch in my marathon belt (yes, I have a notchless marathon belt. I own many belts with various notch numbers, some less humiliating to admit owning than others… Oh strip solitaire belt, why did I ever bring you to show-and-tell?). And how, I ask you, can I wear a notchless belt? Not possible, not at all. SO training has begun for the Grandma’s Half Marathon. I bought a crate of 5-hour energy shooters, some top-of-the-line (by which I mean clearance rack) New Balance shoes, and got myself on a run-until-the-world-has-a-blue-hue-to-it-and-then-seek-out-the-nearest-oxygen-tank-towing-senior-citizen-and-suck-on-the-aforementioned-tank regimen sure to whip me into a shape other than the soggy pear one that I currently sport. IF I do not die or otherwise incapacitate myself beyond recovery, bring on the other 13 miles of huff-puff-huff!
GOAL #3: Stop comparing myself to soggy produce
Along with the running “thing,” I’m a weight lifter again. There’s even one of those strangely huge plastic tubs of flavored protein in my cupboard. Soon, if I compare myself to anything soggy, it will be a soggy predator which no one would dare laugh at because even soaking wet, a tiger can pounce. In fact, the pounce will be rendered more deadly by the added weight of sogginess. So all you gigglers out there…beware my fearful symmetry!
GOAL #4: Use Sir William Blake references more often in my daily life.
I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
Check. And check.
Whhhhy? Because some people are bad.
For Christmas, my roommate, A., bought Minnesota Wild Tickets for myself and my other roommates P., J., and…um…other J. (herein, “Jay”). Yesterday was the big game. I could tell you all about it, but no one reads this blog for sports updates (6-3 Wild. GO CLUTTERBUCK!!!!!). What YOU want to hear about is the 5 year old in the bathroom learning how to use the urinal for the very first time.
So there I was, minding my business, reading the over-the-urinal periodicals (Yes, ladies, we have over-the-urinal periodicals. Jealous?) when a man came in with his son who, for the sake of the blog, was 5 (He very well might have been 6 or 4, depending on genetics and diet). Below is a 100% factual and not-at-all-embellished transcription of their conversation (Scout’s honor):
Man: Ok, you can go there. I’ll use this one. No, go over there, this one is mine.
Boy: WhhHHhhy?
Man: Because men don’t share.
Boy: Oh. (Boy reaches out and grabs lip of urinal next to his as if steadying himself the way old men sometimes use the wall to steady themselves (yes, ladies, old men steady themselves at the facilities)).
Man: What are you doing?! Don’t touch that!
Boy: WhhhHHHhhhy?
Man: Because some people are bad.
Boy: Oh.
Man: Jeez, now you have to wash your hands.
…NOW you have to wash your hands?! Isn’t it standard protocol that before you leave the bathroom you soap and scrub, scrub and soap?! Have the theories of parenting changed that much since I was a wee urinal user?
COMING ATTRACTIONS
Coming Soon. Go find something else to do now! Tom, get off the internet!
Ladies and gentlemen, your author is feeling particularly inspired today. The chef cap and “kiss the cook” apron are on and I’m cooking up an especially scrumptious batch of bloggings. So get out the stretch pants, folks, and saunter on up to the buffet. If you finish three heaping plates of blog, I’ll make you a T-shirt. Provided you pay for the shirt, permanent marker and postage, of course. As anyone who has played Monopoly with me knows, I’m not exactly Uncle Moneybags…The Community Chest was rigged!
The goals
As we all pretend to do, I’ve made a list of goals I will accomplish for the New Year. Yes, it’s mid January. Yes, said goals are traditionally a January 1 “thing.” BUT, my goal list will convince you all of the OK-ness inherent to my not-exactly-right-after-old-father-time-croaked-at-the-sight-of-a-new-year-baby-in-a-top-hat-and-partial-gratuitous-nudity goals. Besides, by starting a bit ‘late,’ I look that much more committed to people who aren’t in on my little secret. Said people with then feel a renewed gumption to stick to their goals. So really, I do this for you.
GOAL #1: Resist the herd mentality
That’s right all you conformists, by not giving in to the corporate climate of Jan. 1 New Year’s Resolutions, I’m actually resisting the herd mentality while simultaneously attacking life like a hungry wombat in a field of snow tussocks…mmmm indigenous grasses! From now until I lapse back into my old ways, I will not buy what the magazines tell me to buy or watch what’s hip on the TV. No. Nothing but what I find in the bargain bin or unattended in various lobbies or advertized in the Christian Science Monitor for me. And if the TV is on, it’s all Frasier reruns and poorly special-effected science fiction movies from the 70s for me.
Have a taste and tell me it’s not classic
Martin (Frasier’s dad): Remember when we turned off the highway? Well, right down from there is the Bed and Bass Motel! Frasier: Bed and Bass–ah yes, one of the finer fish-themed motels!
Niles: You'll see who feels foolish when I'm sitting on a mechanical bull sipping champagne.
Frasier: Don't stare at me, Eddie (Frasier’s dad’s dog). I'm a humane man, but right now I could kick a kitten through an electric fan.
Yep, who needs Rock of Love with classic material like this?
GOAL #2: Run a Half Marathon with the conditional goal of running a Full Marathon later
Now while my athletic accomplishments border on legendary (I hold the Babe Ruth League Unofficial record for most beans in a season- 27 of 29 at bats AND I am the only student in the history of my high school to hyperventilate every single time we had to run the mile AND I once threw a dart into the back of another dart Robin Hood-style), I have yet to put a notch in my marathon belt (yes, I have a notchless marathon belt. I own many belts with various notch numbers, some less humiliating to admit owning than others… Oh strip solitaire belt, why did I ever bring you to show-and-tell?). And how, I ask you, can I wear a notchless belt? Not possible, not at all. SO training has begun for the Grandma’s Half Marathon. I bought a crate of 5-hour energy shooters, some top-of-the-line (by which I mean clearance rack) New Balance shoes, and got myself on a run-until-the-world-has-a-blue-hue-to-it-and-then-seek-out-the-nearest-oxygen-tank-towing-senior-citizen-and-suck-on-the-aforementioned-tank regimen sure to whip me into a shape other than the soggy pear one that I currently sport. IF I do not die or otherwise incapacitate myself beyond recovery, bring on the other 13 miles of huff-puff-huff!
GOAL #3: Stop comparing myself to soggy produce
Along with the running “thing,” I’m a weight lifter again. There’s even one of those strangely huge plastic tubs of flavored protein in my cupboard. Soon, if I compare myself to anything soggy, it will be a soggy predator which no one would dare laugh at because even soaking wet, a tiger can pounce. In fact, the pounce will be rendered more deadly by the added weight of sogginess. So all you gigglers out there…beware my fearful symmetry!
GOAL #4: Use Sir William Blake references more often in my daily life.
I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
Check. And check.
Whhhhy? Because some people are bad.
For Christmas, my roommate, A., bought Minnesota Wild Tickets for myself and my other roommates P., J., and…um…other J. (herein, “Jay”). Yesterday was the big game. I could tell you all about it, but no one reads this blog for sports updates (6-3 Wild. GO CLUTTERBUCK!!!!!). What YOU want to hear about is the 5 year old in the bathroom learning how to use the urinal for the very first time.
So there I was, minding my business, reading the over-the-urinal periodicals (Yes, ladies, we have over-the-urinal periodicals. Jealous?) when a man came in with his son who, for the sake of the blog, was 5 (He very well might have been 6 or 4, depending on genetics and diet). Below is a 100% factual and not-at-all-embellished transcription of their conversation (Scout’s honor):
Man: Ok, you can go there. I’ll use this one. No, go over there, this one is mine.
Boy: WhhHHhhy?
Man: Because men don’t share.
Boy: Oh. (Boy reaches out and grabs lip of urinal next to his as if steadying himself the way old men sometimes use the wall to steady themselves (yes, ladies, old men steady themselves at the facilities)).
Man: What are you doing?! Don’t touch that!
Boy: WhhhHHHhhhy?
Man: Because some people are bad.
Boy: Oh.
Man: Jeez, now you have to wash your hands.
…NOW you have to wash your hands?! Isn’t it standard protocol that before you leave the bathroom you soap and scrub, scrub and soap?! Have the theories of parenting changed that much since I was a wee urinal user?
COMING ATTRACTIONS
Coming Soon. Go find something else to do now! Tom, get off the internet!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Festivus
So here we are, midway through the holiday season, and I’ve realized that many people on my list of to-be-gifted have not received their flashy-paper-wrapped mystery bundles. Being the Scroogey person you all know me to be, I’ve decided that this year’s gift will be cheaper than coal, but hopefully give you just as warm an all-over feeling…I’m updating my blog!
Merry Giftmas!
Let’s begin with a holiday season montage of highlights.
That’ll be $50.00
Giftmas is a time to be with family, getting the things you want that family to give you. Due to several mis-giftings in the past, my family instituted a new Giftmas policy: buy what you want and save the receipts, you will be reimbursed. Thanks to this new and highly efficient means of not knowing my family’s whims, Mom got the yoga mat and bathrobe she apparently always wanted. I love you, Mom!
The Grapes of Wrath
I’ve never liked grapes. At an early age, I developed a deep skepticism of ovular fruits. It’s their pack-mentality; fruits which travel in hordes should not be trusted, they’re plotting something. Of course, don’t forget they can be turned into raisins and inserted into cookies where chocolate chips should go. That’s my biggest beef with the grape, it was in my Giftmas cookies this year. How? I don’t know.
Linton, North Dakota?!
I won’t even pretend anyone has heard of Linton, ND. If- for some unfortunate Trivial Pursuit reason- you know where Linton is, now is the time to sit on your hands and keep that information to yourself… blurting out any Linton factoids at this time will only cost you “cool points” or whatever imaginary currency you and your friends exchange. If you don’t exchange any such monopoly money, you’re that much cooler. So please, people, do not turn to whoever is nearby you and say “Linton? Isn’t that where Phyllis Wolverton was from? You know, the contralto, trained under the world renowned Madam Schumann-Heinck who became the director of the Linton High School Glee Club while teaching English and History.” Also please avoid admitting knowledge of Charles Patterson- Linton’s hotel mogul (owner of the one hotel (now a motel) in Linton)- who, in 1906, went to Minneapolis, MN and bought Linton’s first automobile, drove it back to Linton, and almost as soon as he entered city limits, got in the first Linton automobile accident when he crashed into the city’s prized bull on Broadway. It should be noted he was speeding- a full 2 mph over the city limit of 8. Authorities believe he was drunk. (Please see http://www.lintonnd.org if for some reason you think I made any of this up) Why bring up Linton? Well, it proved to be the powder-keg igniting topic on my flight into the heart of NoDak.
For Giftmas this year, my family decided to celebrate in Bismarck, ND with my grandparents. Not wanting to spend 7 hours on cruise control, staring ahead blankly at scenery that can only be described as “blank,” I opted to fly instead. Since I expected a MSP airport filled with roving tribes of Home Alone-esque families waging war on one another over who was first at the Cinn-a-bon counter, I arrived a bit early, in as complete of riot gear as I expected the airport authorities would permit without pulling me aside into the little clear cubicle where they demand to see your underwear’s elastic and ask you if you have latex allergies. There was almost no one there. Economic Depression: 1. Holiday Hassles: 0.
Gate A14. That was my destination. Sounds front-of-the-airport enough that a person might be a tad surprised to discover the actual location of aforementioned A14 is at the absolute end of the last terminal. There is an outer boundary of the MSP airport, and I found it; no food court, no Starbucks, not even a vending machine filled with carby delights. This A14 is where Linton, ND becomes relevant, not because it is in Linton, but because that is where a tired british man who just wanted to be left in peace met Earl; as Lintonish a Lintonite as there ever was.
Earl is somewhere in his 30s or a very unhealthy 20-something. He was D-R-U-N-K on the plane, the type of drunk that needs to be spelled out in capital letters, each one accompanied by a little drunk hiccup. Drunk. Earl sat across the aisle from me (I was seated next to the much-too-large-for-his-seat-where’d-the-armrest-go? guy.) next to the window. Next to him sat a very well-dressed and tired-appearing gentlemen. Wolf Blitzer beard, Burberry eye glasses; a real dapper bloke. When Earl introduced himself, the man seated next to him made two fatal mistakes: 1.) He answered Earl’s “where-er-oo-eaded?” with “Linton, North Dakota” and 2.) He used a genuine British accent.
Earl’s droopy eyes lit up “LINTON, NORTH DAKOTA? S***, I’M FROM LINTON, NORTH DAKOTA YOU BETTER GO TO THE GREEN LANTERN YOU EVER BEEN TO THE GREEN LANTERN I LOVE THE GREEN LANTERN!” This proceeded until our unfortunate British friend demanded Earl leave him alone. A few curses were exchanged before our flight attended moved Earl to the back of the plane (where the awful swears wafted forward on a bed of boozey breath) and served the complimentary sodas. Ah, Northwest. How your commitment to quality inspires us all.
Tucker Max
I received the gift of Tom this year. Yep, one whole week of finding little Tom waiting at home for me by the front door jumping up and down with eager anticipation of the walks I will take him on every day so he can sniff the sniffables and stretch his little legs. Tom is well-known around these parts for his natural charm, political correctness, sunny disposition, and not-naked-at-inappropriate-times-ness. Having a Tom is a wonderful experience, but sometimes Toms can be bad. If a Tom is especially bad, consider Tommy Obedience School (TOS).
Take today, for example. I arrived home to discover Tom cleaning my house. Good, Tom. Then, he told me stories about his first night here. Bad, Tom, Bad! No Treat for you! Tom next made dinner; trout with prosciutto and butter sauce. Good, Tom. Then he recommended a movie to us Good, Tom. More goods than bads…the newspaper can be unrolled. But I’m watching you, Tom.
Merry Giftmas!
Let’s begin with a holiday season montage of highlights.
That’ll be $50.00
Giftmas is a time to be with family, getting the things you want that family to give you. Due to several mis-giftings in the past, my family instituted a new Giftmas policy: buy what you want and save the receipts, you will be reimbursed. Thanks to this new and highly efficient means of not knowing my family’s whims, Mom got the yoga mat and bathrobe she apparently always wanted. I love you, Mom!
The Grapes of Wrath
I’ve never liked grapes. At an early age, I developed a deep skepticism of ovular fruits. It’s their pack-mentality; fruits which travel in hordes should not be trusted, they’re plotting something. Of course, don’t forget they can be turned into raisins and inserted into cookies where chocolate chips should go. That’s my biggest beef with the grape, it was in my Giftmas cookies this year. How? I don’t know.
Linton, North Dakota?!
I won’t even pretend anyone has heard of Linton, ND. If- for some unfortunate Trivial Pursuit reason- you know where Linton is, now is the time to sit on your hands and keep that information to yourself… blurting out any Linton factoids at this time will only cost you “cool points” or whatever imaginary currency you and your friends exchange. If you don’t exchange any such monopoly money, you’re that much cooler. So please, people, do not turn to whoever is nearby you and say “Linton? Isn’t that where Phyllis Wolverton was from? You know, the contralto, trained under the world renowned Madam Schumann-Heinck who became the director of the Linton High School Glee Club while teaching English and History.” Also please avoid admitting knowledge of Charles Patterson- Linton’s hotel mogul (owner of the one hotel (now a motel) in Linton)- who, in 1906, went to Minneapolis, MN and bought Linton’s first automobile, drove it back to Linton, and almost as soon as he entered city limits, got in the first Linton automobile accident when he crashed into the city’s prized bull on Broadway. It should be noted he was speeding- a full 2 mph over the city limit of 8. Authorities believe he was drunk. (Please see http://www.lintonnd.org if for some reason you think I made any of this up) Why bring up Linton? Well, it proved to be the powder-keg igniting topic on my flight into the heart of NoDak.
For Giftmas this year, my family decided to celebrate in Bismarck, ND with my grandparents. Not wanting to spend 7 hours on cruise control, staring ahead blankly at scenery that can only be described as “blank,” I opted to fly instead. Since I expected a MSP airport filled with roving tribes of Home Alone-esque families waging war on one another over who was first at the Cinn-a-bon counter, I arrived a bit early, in as complete of riot gear as I expected the airport authorities would permit without pulling me aside into the little clear cubicle where they demand to see your underwear’s elastic and ask you if you have latex allergies. There was almost no one there. Economic Depression: 1. Holiday Hassles: 0.
Gate A14. That was my destination. Sounds front-of-the-airport enough that a person might be a tad surprised to discover the actual location of aforementioned A14 is at the absolute end of the last terminal. There is an outer boundary of the MSP airport, and I found it; no food court, no Starbucks, not even a vending machine filled with carby delights. This A14 is where Linton, ND becomes relevant, not because it is in Linton, but because that is where a tired british man who just wanted to be left in peace met Earl; as Lintonish a Lintonite as there ever was.
Earl is somewhere in his 30s or a very unhealthy 20-something. He was D-R-U-N-K on the plane, the type of drunk that needs to be spelled out in capital letters, each one accompanied by a little drunk hiccup. Drunk. Earl sat across the aisle from me (I was seated next to the much-too-large-for-his-seat-where’d-the-armrest-go? guy.) next to the window. Next to him sat a very well-dressed and tired-appearing gentlemen. Wolf Blitzer beard, Burberry eye glasses; a real dapper bloke. When Earl introduced himself, the man seated next to him made two fatal mistakes: 1.) He answered Earl’s “where-er-oo-eaded?” with “Linton, North Dakota” and 2.) He used a genuine British accent.
Earl’s droopy eyes lit up “LINTON, NORTH DAKOTA? S***, I’M FROM LINTON, NORTH DAKOTA YOU BETTER GO TO THE GREEN LANTERN YOU EVER BEEN TO THE GREEN LANTERN I LOVE THE GREEN LANTERN!” This proceeded until our unfortunate British friend demanded Earl leave him alone. A few curses were exchanged before our flight attended moved Earl to the back of the plane (where the awful swears wafted forward on a bed of boozey breath) and served the complimentary sodas. Ah, Northwest. How your commitment to quality inspires us all.
Tucker Max
I received the gift of Tom this year. Yep, one whole week of finding little Tom waiting at home for me by the front door jumping up and down with eager anticipation of the walks I will take him on every day so he can sniff the sniffables and stretch his little legs. Tom is well-known around these parts for his natural charm, political correctness, sunny disposition, and not-naked-at-inappropriate-times-ness. Having a Tom is a wonderful experience, but sometimes Toms can be bad. If a Tom is especially bad, consider Tommy Obedience School (TOS).
Take today, for example. I arrived home to discover Tom cleaning my house. Good, Tom. Then, he told me stories about his first night here. Bad, Tom, Bad! No Treat for you! Tom next made dinner; trout with prosciutto and butter sauce. Good, Tom. Then he recommended a movie to us Good, Tom. More goods than bads…the newspaper can be unrolled. But I’m watching you, Tom.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Home Sweet Home
The blog is back from hiatus! I know you missed it. All those sleepless nights you spent staring up at the ceiling, wondering if it was every coming home can finally come to an end. If you got your local dairy farmers to put its picture on the side of their cartons, be sure to notify them that it’s ok to start printing the Moo-Maze again. That trip to Kinkos you had planned for tomorrow can be crossed off your schedule. Go ahead, throw out the template flyer you made; it’ll bring you a sense of closure. With the blog home, we can move on to the more pressing matter of determining an appropriate punishment for the little bugger. I can’t tell you how worried I was; the torture I went through was truly ineffable. So please think about appropriate punishments for the blog while you read.
If it helps, think of the blog as Ginger Spice running away from the other Spices (aka us) to try and make it big on its own. Ol’ blog forgot that it’s nothing without us though. Nothing! So this entry is sort of like Ginger realizing she’s not all that (or the bag of chips, Scary Spice is totally the chips) and agreeing to a Spice Girls’ comeback tour (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/6246448.stm). Thus, I think it’s only fitting if we adhere to the following ground rules:
1. If you want my future forget my past,
2. If you wanna get with me better make it fast,
3. Now don't go wasting my precious time,Get your act together we could be just fine
If you can agree to those terms, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. What do I want, you ask? I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna reallyreally really wanna zigazig ha.
THE MINNESOTA STATE FAIR
FOOOOOOOD
This year was my first ever experience of all things deeply fried in Carney oils. Candy bars, cheese curds, scotch eggs, various on-a-sticks, and the curiously corn dog-like “pronto pup” (I smell a lawsuit…nope, never mind. That was the great big turkey sandwich drizzled in BBQ sauce, sprinkled in Cajun spices, and dripping with grease-a-liciousness) all found there way into my craw (because no word is more appropriate than ‘craw’ when talking about fair food) with the help of a few gulps of fresh squeezed lemonade and a swig from the water fountain. A chocolate bacon may or may not have been consumed in my time at the fair as well (don’t judge me!). Of course, what meal could be complete without the fragrances lurking in the animal barns? Swine smells, sheep scents, cow colognes, poultry potpourris, and even rabbit redolence; there are no better aromas for ensuring a satisfactory acid reflux. *Burp*
I had 4.
There were some foods I just could not muster the requisite bravery to try. At the top of my Do Not Eat That Thing Under Any Circumstance list: the frozen pickle juice popsicle, any and all seafood items (who honestly trusts the shrimp salesman who operates out of the back of a horse trailer? Seafood should only be purchased from restaurants required to pass health code inspections! If you are a Minnesota citizen, please write your senator to prevent the deep friend shrimp on a stick from making a return next year), the deep-fried mystery mammal, and anything which could be purchased at the convenience store for 1/3 the price.
OBSERVATIONS OF THE DOMESTICATED MINNESOTAN
Ok, so domesticated is a stretch. I’m rather certain that some of the people I saw were tranquilized by the Minnesota DNR (or by Vladimir Putin http://www.abcnews.go.com/Travel/wireStory?id=5695880), taken from their wilderness habitats and relocated to the Fairgrounds for the viewing pleasure of the masses of urbanites. There’s no other way to account for the milling herds of bedraggled…something-or-others. The dredlocked, mohawked, bearded, mulleted, balded, and other such strangely tufted creatures were all out in their finest short shorts and tank tops for the festival.
No matter how they were dressed or- in some horrible cases- not dressed, everyone had one thing in common; the willingness to pay $11 for the supreme joy of squishing against other bodies into some sort of human lipid bilayer (that’s some science talk for all you biology majors out there!). Throw in the oversized stuffed animal prizes and you’ve got a fluid mosaic model analogy that Minnesota high school teachers everywhere silently wish they thought of. Elise, I give you full permission to use my brilliant idea…so long as you pay me royalties. I accept double pinochles.
Of the many different tribes I saw, the bewildered family of four with two kids on leashes was my favorite. Nothing is more satisfying than seeing a tethered, teething two year-old being dragged on his/her bum back to mom’s side so she can feed the wee one a bit of slushy. Kids are so precious!
MOVING ON UP TO THE EAST SIDE
Actually, I’m moving a bit to the West, but since I’m still east of Fargo, would you cut me some slack? I’ll make you breakfast in my wondrously spacious new home. You see, Prospect Park and I must, sadly, part. BUT, my new home in Uptown more than makes up for the Autumn move. Please check out the photo tour at http://www.zenmation.com/2205Aldrich/index.html to see where you can find little old me. Same roommates, great new location. And now, stained glass windows. HOO HA!
I FOUND $20!! NO, REALLY!
There it was, sunning its lovely self at Lake Calhoun with the rest of the Labor Day Weekend vacationers. It looked ready to take a nap, and I realized that the beach was no place for a double sawback to fall asleep. Bird do-do, waves; dripping popsicles; greasy, ketchupy, mustarded hot dogs; and all assortments of sweaty people posed too big a health risk to Mr. Jackson. I had to save him, so I picked the little guy up and deposited him in the nearest noodles and company cash register where he could get a decent night’s sleep. The people at Noodles & Co. were so amazed by our act of kindness that they rewarded us with two heaping bowls of carbohydrates. All in a day’s work.
TOM JOHNSON
Way to go Tom! You know what I’m talking about. Hero.
If it helps, think of the blog as Ginger Spice running away from the other Spices (aka us) to try and make it big on its own. Ol’ blog forgot that it’s nothing without us though. Nothing! So this entry is sort of like Ginger realizing she’s not all that (or the bag of chips, Scary Spice is totally the chips) and agreeing to a Spice Girls’ comeback tour (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/6246448.stm). Thus, I think it’s only fitting if we adhere to the following ground rules:
1. If you want my future forget my past,
2. If you wanna get with me better make it fast,
3. Now don't go wasting my precious time,Get your act together we could be just fine
If you can agree to those terms, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. What do I want, you ask? I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna reallyreally really wanna zigazig ha.
THE MINNESOTA STATE FAIR
FOOOOOOOD
This year was my first ever experience of all things deeply fried in Carney oils. Candy bars, cheese curds, scotch eggs, various on-a-sticks, and the curiously corn dog-like “pronto pup” (I smell a lawsuit…nope, never mind. That was the great big turkey sandwich drizzled in BBQ sauce, sprinkled in Cajun spices, and dripping with grease-a-liciousness) all found there way into my craw (because no word is more appropriate than ‘craw’ when talking about fair food) with the help of a few gulps of fresh squeezed lemonade and a swig from the water fountain. A chocolate bacon may or may not have been consumed in my time at the fair as well (don’t judge me!). Of course, what meal could be complete without the fragrances lurking in the animal barns? Swine smells, sheep scents, cow colognes, poultry potpourris, and even rabbit redolence; there are no better aromas for ensuring a satisfactory acid reflux. *Burp*
I had 4.
There were some foods I just could not muster the requisite bravery to try. At the top of my Do Not Eat That Thing Under Any Circumstance list: the frozen pickle juice popsicle, any and all seafood items (who honestly trusts the shrimp salesman who operates out of the back of a horse trailer? Seafood should only be purchased from restaurants required to pass health code inspections! If you are a Minnesota citizen, please write your senator to prevent the deep friend shrimp on a stick from making a return next year), the deep-fried mystery mammal, and anything which could be purchased at the convenience store for 1/3 the price.
OBSERVATIONS OF THE DOMESTICATED MINNESOTAN
Ok, so domesticated is a stretch. I’m rather certain that some of the people I saw were tranquilized by the Minnesota DNR (or by Vladimir Putin http://www.abcnews.go.com/Travel/wireStory?id=5695880), taken from their wilderness habitats and relocated to the Fairgrounds for the viewing pleasure of the masses of urbanites. There’s no other way to account for the milling herds of bedraggled…something-or-others. The dredlocked, mohawked, bearded, mulleted, balded, and other such strangely tufted creatures were all out in their finest short shorts and tank tops for the festival.
No matter how they were dressed or- in some horrible cases- not dressed, everyone had one thing in common; the willingness to pay $11 for the supreme joy of squishing against other bodies into some sort of human lipid bilayer (that’s some science talk for all you biology majors out there!). Throw in the oversized stuffed animal prizes and you’ve got a fluid mosaic model analogy that Minnesota high school teachers everywhere silently wish they thought of. Elise, I give you full permission to use my brilliant idea…so long as you pay me royalties. I accept double pinochles.
Of the many different tribes I saw, the bewildered family of four with two kids on leashes was my favorite. Nothing is more satisfying than seeing a tethered, teething two year-old being dragged on his/her bum back to mom’s side so she can feed the wee one a bit of slushy. Kids are so precious!
MOVING ON UP TO THE EAST SIDE
Actually, I’m moving a bit to the West, but since I’m still east of Fargo, would you cut me some slack? I’ll make you breakfast in my wondrously spacious new home. You see, Prospect Park and I must, sadly, part. BUT, my new home in Uptown more than makes up for the Autumn move. Please check out the photo tour at http://www.zenmation.com/2205Aldrich/index.html to see where you can find little old me. Same roommates, great new location. And now, stained glass windows. HOO HA!
I FOUND $20!! NO, REALLY!
There it was, sunning its lovely self at Lake Calhoun with the rest of the Labor Day Weekend vacationers. It looked ready to take a nap, and I realized that the beach was no place for a double sawback to fall asleep. Bird do-do, waves; dripping popsicles; greasy, ketchupy, mustarded hot dogs; and all assortments of sweaty people posed too big a health risk to Mr. Jackson. I had to save him, so I picked the little guy up and deposited him in the nearest noodles and company cash register where he could get a decent night’s sleep. The people at Noodles & Co. were so amazed by our act of kindness that they rewarded us with two heaping bowls of carbohydrates. All in a day’s work.
TOM JOHNSON
Way to go Tom! You know what I’m talking about. Hero.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Blog Numero Dos
The Bigger Better Blog
Dear Faithful readers,
I am sorry for yesterday’s entry. Upon a second reading, it really wasn’t quite up to snuff. Much to short, rather unsubstantial, and definitely not one of the better links I’ve used in a thinly veiled attempt to distract you from actually reading. I’ve gotten a bit rusty. I guess there’s only one thing to do; get out the oil can lube up the ol’ joints and try, try again.
I just got back from South Dakota, a region often confused with North Dakota by non-Dakotans. The best way to distinguish between the Hearty Proud Dakotans of the North and our awkward Southern cousins is to compare the architecture. If you find yourself inside buildings made out of corn, you’re in South Dakota. Here’s an example: http://www.ronsaari.com/stockImages/roadsideAttractions/cornPalace.jpg
Oh, sure, it looks exciting, but if you recall a certain three little pigs story, you realize how unwise it is to build structures from flimsy cellulose-based materials in regions of the world known to serve as habitats for: http://images.buycostumes.com/mgen/merchandiser/10172.jpg
It’s just not a good idea. We in the North know not to challenge the lung capacity of Canus lupis bigus badius. Our buildings are made from brick and the wolves leave us alone. Corn is for eating and corn cob pipes, not for building.
Also, they have an obsession with blowing up mountains to turn them into giant people. Again, this is risky business. What if those giant presidents come to life? All it’ll take is one lightning storm and this could happen!
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-69414486881463942 DEFINITELY NOT SAFE FOR BABIES OF ANY KIND!!!! (There’re some swears and not so family safe images)
It’s science people. There will be no corn for anyone. South Dakota, you really need to do a better job of thinking about the future!
Finally, in North Dakota, you may sleep wherever you choose. Not so in SD. There, it is illegal to sleep in cheese factories! Who are these monsters?!
http://www.dumblaws.com/laws/united-states/south-dakota
So now that I’m back in the forward thinking, normal, but oh so exciting state of ND, I am preparing for my newest voyage. Tomorrow, I seek out the lands of Minnesota where I will begin my job as a people inflator. Yes, there are many other aspects to my job- knob twisting, button pushing, switch toggling, etc.- but the most noticeable thing about what I do is the person inflating. You see, surgery these days is not as messy as it used to be. Nowadays, some surgeons have opted for the laparoscopic route. That’s your word of the day, laparoscopic. Basically, it means that surgeons fill your belly with air and then poke a camera and some instruments in there to make you all better. Much cleaner than the old method that I’m sure you’re all envisioning right now, so there’s no need for me to describe. BUT, the new method cannot be performed without people like me running some of the various machines.
In preparation for this job, I’ve been practicing my skills at the arcade. Crane games for hand-depth perception coordination…and the occasional stuffed animal for defending me from bedtime monsters. Pinball to teach me patience and hone my reflexes to samurai-like precision. Dance Dance Revolution is teaching me how to handle nurses barraging me with thousands of commands (if I’m ever asked to arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow up arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow up arrow down arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down, I’ve got it covered!). I even find a bit of time in there to practice assertive driving with Parking Ramp Perils 3: Rise of the Sub-Compacts. Yeah, I’m ready.
I’d say one the biggest perks of the job is the attire. I’m being paid to wear pajamas all day long. Enough said.
What else is there to report? Hmmm….I’ll think about it some more and return with another blog later. If I strain myself now, I might be out for the rest of the blogging season.
Dear Faithful readers,
I am sorry for yesterday’s entry. Upon a second reading, it really wasn’t quite up to snuff. Much to short, rather unsubstantial, and definitely not one of the better links I’ve used in a thinly veiled attempt to distract you from actually reading. I’ve gotten a bit rusty. I guess there’s only one thing to do; get out the oil can lube up the ol’ joints and try, try again.
I just got back from South Dakota, a region often confused with North Dakota by non-Dakotans. The best way to distinguish between the Hearty Proud Dakotans of the North and our awkward Southern cousins is to compare the architecture. If you find yourself inside buildings made out of corn, you’re in South Dakota. Here’s an example: http://www.ronsaari.com/stockImages/roadsideAttractions/cornPalace.jpg
Oh, sure, it looks exciting, but if you recall a certain three little pigs story, you realize how unwise it is to build structures from flimsy cellulose-based materials in regions of the world known to serve as habitats for: http://images.buycostumes.com/mgen/merchandiser/10172.jpg
It’s just not a good idea. We in the North know not to challenge the lung capacity of Canus lupis bigus badius. Our buildings are made from brick and the wolves leave us alone. Corn is for eating and corn cob pipes, not for building.
Also, they have an obsession with blowing up mountains to turn them into giant people. Again, this is risky business. What if those giant presidents come to life? All it’ll take is one lightning storm and this could happen!
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-69414486881463942 DEFINITELY NOT SAFE FOR BABIES OF ANY KIND!!!! (There’re some swears and not so family safe images)
It’s science people. There will be no corn for anyone. South Dakota, you really need to do a better job of thinking about the future!
Finally, in North Dakota, you may sleep wherever you choose. Not so in SD. There, it is illegal to sleep in cheese factories! Who are these monsters?!
http://www.dumblaws.com/laws/united-states/south-dakota
So now that I’m back in the forward thinking, normal, but oh so exciting state of ND, I am preparing for my newest voyage. Tomorrow, I seek out the lands of Minnesota where I will begin my job as a people inflator. Yes, there are many other aspects to my job- knob twisting, button pushing, switch toggling, etc.- but the most noticeable thing about what I do is the person inflating. You see, surgery these days is not as messy as it used to be. Nowadays, some surgeons have opted for the laparoscopic route. That’s your word of the day, laparoscopic. Basically, it means that surgeons fill your belly with air and then poke a camera and some instruments in there to make you all better. Much cleaner than the old method that I’m sure you’re all envisioning right now, so there’s no need for me to describe. BUT, the new method cannot be performed without people like me running some of the various machines.
In preparation for this job, I’ve been practicing my skills at the arcade. Crane games for hand-depth perception coordination…and the occasional stuffed animal for defending me from bedtime monsters. Pinball to teach me patience and hone my reflexes to samurai-like precision. Dance Dance Revolution is teaching me how to handle nurses barraging me with thousands of commands (if I’m ever asked to arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow up arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow up arrow down arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down arrow up arrow left arrow left arrow down arrows right and left arrows up and right arrow left arrows up and down, I’ve got it covered!). I even find a bit of time in there to practice assertive driving with Parking Ramp Perils 3: Rise of the Sub-Compacts. Yeah, I’m ready.
I’d say one the biggest perks of the job is the attire. I’m being paid to wear pajamas all day long. Enough said.
What else is there to report? Hmmm….I’ll think about it some more and return with another blog later. If I strain myself now, I might be out for the rest of the blogging season.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego? It’s not Sioux Falls, SD. I know, I’ve checked.
I have once again taken to the road in search of treasure, glory, and adventure. This week, I found myself in the luxury of a SD Comfort Inn. To my right, the sights, smells, sounds, and other “S” words of South Dakota. To my left, a cup of rooibos tea.
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: What, pray tell, is this rooibos tea of which thou doth speak?
ME: Uh…who are you? And how did you get in my blog?
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee.
ME:…uh huh. Reginald put you up to this didn’t he? He gave you his spare key so you could get in here muddle everything up with your “doths” and “thines” and codpieces and other ridiculousness. You’re working for Reginald aren’t you?
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell just as sweet.
ME: Really? You’re going to do that? I swear, if you do nothing but recite lines from Romeo and Juliet, I’ll—
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: Oh, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconsistent moon—
(A struggle takes place off stage. There is much shouting and many yelps of pain. Paul returns to the stage. He is out of breath, but victorious)
Sorry about that, Romeo and Juliet belongs in 9th grade literature books, not my blog. So where was I? Ah, yes, pulling one of my patented What-Was-The-Point-Of-That?!™ openings.Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with South Dakota’s water supply. I began to suspect something was awry a few days ago when I noticed I’ve been doing many things recently which are highly uncharacteristic of your garden-variety PaulStorm.
I’ve been waking up around 5AM
I have NOT been rolling over and back into my sweet slumber at 5:01AM
I bought a pair of Crocs. They are as comfortable as advertised; if you are croc-less, I recommend you get off your high fashion horse and buy a pair.
I’m opting for tea over coffee. Rooibos, by the way, is an excellent remedy for colicky babies. If you have or are yourself a colicky baby, Rooibos will make it all better. If you are a colicky baby, are you reading this blog unsupervised? If you are, do not go here, it’s for mature adults: http://www.dumbfreegames.com/play/1191/sketch-it.html I’m serious, baby!
I’m working?!
Yes, I recently joined the ranks of the tragically employed. No longer will my days be filled with mindless, free, flash games. No more reading for 5 hours and then taking an unearned nap. The days of lounging in my skivvies till 3PM are gone. I am now a productive member of society. What do I do? Well, I push buttons on machines worth much more than my annual salary. One button fills a person up with air. Another, fills that person up with even more air. Too many pushes and…well…let’s not talk about that. There are babies present, afterall.
If you are confused, I am afraid you will have to wait till tomorrow to find out more. Why? Because I am most exhausted from all the button pushing.
I have once again taken to the road in search of treasure, glory, and adventure. This week, I found myself in the luxury of a SD Comfort Inn. To my right, the sights, smells, sounds, and other “S” words of South Dakota. To my left, a cup of rooibos tea.
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: What, pray tell, is this rooibos tea of which thou doth speak?
ME: Uh…who are you? And how did you get in my blog?
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee.
ME:…uh huh. Reginald put you up to this didn’t he? He gave you his spare key so you could get in here muddle everything up with your “doths” and “thines” and codpieces and other ridiculousness. You’re working for Reginald aren’t you?
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell just as sweet.
ME: Really? You’re going to do that? I swear, if you do nothing but recite lines from Romeo and Juliet, I’ll—
Shakespearean Understudy for Romeo and Juliet: Oh, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconsistent moon—
(A struggle takes place off stage. There is much shouting and many yelps of pain. Paul returns to the stage. He is out of breath, but victorious)
Sorry about that, Romeo and Juliet belongs in 9th grade literature books, not my blog. So where was I? Ah, yes, pulling one of my patented What-Was-The-Point-Of-That?!™ openings.Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with South Dakota’s water supply. I began to suspect something was awry a few days ago when I noticed I’ve been doing many things recently which are highly uncharacteristic of your garden-variety PaulStorm.
I’ve been waking up around 5AM
I have NOT been rolling over and back into my sweet slumber at 5:01AM
I bought a pair of Crocs. They are as comfortable as advertised; if you are croc-less, I recommend you get off your high fashion horse and buy a pair.
I’m opting for tea over coffee. Rooibos, by the way, is an excellent remedy for colicky babies. If you have or are yourself a colicky baby, Rooibos will make it all better. If you are a colicky baby, are you reading this blog unsupervised? If you are, do not go here, it’s for mature adults: http://www.dumbfreegames.com/play/1191/sketch-it.html I’m serious, baby!
I’m working?!
Yes, I recently joined the ranks of the tragically employed. No longer will my days be filled with mindless, free, flash games. No more reading for 5 hours and then taking an unearned nap. The days of lounging in my skivvies till 3PM are gone. I am now a productive member of society. What do I do? Well, I push buttons on machines worth much more than my annual salary. One button fills a person up with air. Another, fills that person up with even more air. Too many pushes and…well…let’s not talk about that. There are babies present, afterall.
If you are confused, I am afraid you will have to wait till tomorrow to find out more. Why? Because I am most exhausted from all the button pushing.
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