Friday, July 30, 2004

The Day The Music Died

The news doesn't get any worse than this.



The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.



Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.



For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.



I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.



I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.



I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.



Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.



Sad to say, she didn't make top five.



I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.



But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.



And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.



And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.

With rhinestones, of course.

The Day The Music Died

The news doesn't get any worse than this.

The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.

Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.

For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.

I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.

I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.

I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.

Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.

Sad to say, she didn't make top five.

I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.

But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.

And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.

And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.
With rhinestones, of course.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Party of the Red Sea

I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)



If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.



In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.



Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.



If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.



So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).



I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.



Seeya Standing In Line Losers!



I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.



But oh my goodness. The people.

THE PEOPLE.

The bar people.

(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)



The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.



And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.



So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.



The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.



To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!



Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.



Finally, the dreaded time came

(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)

and I had to go inside and find....the restroom

(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)



As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.



I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.



I took her at her word.



After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.



Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"



I took two tablets and called it a night.

Party of the Red Sea

I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)

If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.

In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.

Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.

If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.

So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).

I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.

Seeya Standing In Line Losers!

I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.

But oh my goodness. The people.
THE PEOPLE.
The bar people.
(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)

The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.

And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.

So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.

The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.

To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!

Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.

Finally, the dreaded time came
(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)
and I had to go inside and find....the restroom
(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)

As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.

I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.

I took her at her word.

After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.

Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"

I took two tablets and called it a night.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

A Post About Nothing

I feel very Seinfeld. It's a post about nothing.



There are some days when witticisms come easy, when poignant or funny family stories just pour out. And then there are other days when it's just a regular boring day. Go to work and putter and then go home and putter. This is definitely one of those days. It's Putterday.



Putterday is boring. On Putterday I'd rather be just about anywhere else doing just about anything else. Unfortunately, I can pretty much guarantee you that a change of venue or activity would not solve the boredom of Putterday. I'd just wish for something else all over again. Still in all, I try not to let Putterdays get me down, because the day will surely come when I'd sell a kidney for a Putterday or even a Putterhour.



I don't even have much of interest to share on Putterday. My banner ads are alternately Belgian Wafflemakers (again) or Origami. Some of my newest referrals are:

1. Rocket Popsicles

2. Extra Ingredients added to Green Eggs and Ham

3. VH1 Top Ten School Slow Dances

4. Hatteras Nekkid




As a point of interest

1. Rocket Popsicles? Not my favorite. You'd have to talk to TinyTuna

2. People, There were NO extra ingredients added to green eggs and ham. The whole book was about location and dining companions. You know, with a fox, in a box, here or there, anywhere. You're confusing this with green eggs and hamburger helper.

3. Was there anything else besides Stairway to Heaven? I mean, come on, the song was about 45 minutes long. Aside from the weird fast part about 24 minutes into the song, it was a slow dance dream.

4. Hatteras Nekkid = Sunburned butt. Thanks, but no.



I guess that's all I have to offer today. Maybe I have a website of mention. Let's see. My newest Bloglines RSS Favorite: Spamusement -- Poorly Drawn Cartoons inspired by actual spam subject lines. Enjoy.

A Post About Nothing

I feel very Seinfeld. It's a post about nothing.

There are some days when witticisms come easy, when poignant or funny family stories just pour out. And then there are other days when it's just a regular boring day. Go to work and putter and then go home and putter. This is definitely one of those days. It's Putterday.

Putterday is boring. On Putterday I'd rather be just about anywhere else doing just about anything else. Unfortunately, I can pretty much guarantee you that a change of venue or activity would not solve the boredom of Putterday. I'd just wish for something else all over again. Still in all, I try not to let Putterdays get me down, because the day will surely come when I'd sell a kidney for a Putterday or even a Putterhour.

I don't even have much of interest to share on Putterday. My banner ads are alternately Belgian Wafflemakers (again) or Origami. Some of my newest referrals are:
1. Rocket Popsicles
2. Extra Ingredients added to Green Eggs and Ham
3. VH1 Top Ten School Slow Dances
4. Hatteras Nekkid


As a point of interest
1. Rocket Popsicles? Not my favorite. You'd have to talk to TinyTuna
2. People, There were NO extra ingredients added to green eggs and ham. The whole book was about location and dining companions. You know, with a fox, in a box, here or there, anywhere. You're confusing this with green eggs and hamburger helper.
3. Was there anything else besides Stairway to Heaven? I mean, come on, the song was about 45 minutes long. Aside from the weird fast part about 24 minutes into the song, it was a slow dance dream.
4. Hatteras Nekkid = Sunburned butt. Thanks, but no.

I guess that's all I have to offer today. Maybe I have a website of mention. Let's see. My newest Bloglines RSS Favorite: Spamusement -- Poorly Drawn Cartoons inspired by actual spam subject lines. Enjoy.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Power of Positive Thinking

This morning I woke up in my usual haze and I managed to remember to remember that today my good friend HolyCowTuna begins his two-day sojourn through that special place in hell known as The Bar Exam (scary music Duh-Duh DUH!). Because I strongly believe in the power of positive thinking, if you think of it, raise your beverage of choice and say a little ditty to J.C., Allah, Muhammad or to that big puffy cloud over there to your right. Every little bit helps, and you can tell 'em that Tuna sent you.



Power of Positive Thinking

This morning I woke up in my usual haze and I managed to remember to remember that today my good friend HolyCowTuna begins his two-day sojourn through that special place in hell known as The Bar Exam (scary music Duh-Duh DUH!). Because I strongly believe in the power of positive thinking, if you think of it, raise your beverage of choice and say a little ditty to J.C., Allah, Muhammad or to that big puffy cloud over there to your right. Every little bit helps, and you can tell 'em that Tuna sent you.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Things To Do When You're Bored



I can do this.....





or this...





or this...





Diversions courtsey of George Says and The Tombstone Generator

Things To Do When You're Bored


I can do this.....


or this...


or this...


Diversions courtsey of George Says and The Tombstone Generator

Friday, July 23, 2004

Superlatives

In the music world, it's "higher, faster louder".

In the business world, it's "doing more with less".

In the Viagra world, it's "the bigger the better."



Superlatives run our world. From the cutest baby to the smartest child to the strongest athlete we are programmed from birth to go for the gold. Uncle Sam wants us to be all that we can be. We're number one, baby, and we have a giant foam finger to prove it.



Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not here to knock the idea of bettering oneself for the common (or individual) good. Afterall, isn't that one of the very trademarks of American life? We are known for being a country of innovators. We are a people of creative thinkers and doers that (pardon the very tired saying) think outside the box to come up with new and improved ways to live our lives and do our jobs. For this we are both proud and grateful. Glory, Halleluia!



But I'm not convinced that we are always thinking outside the box. If we are, then it seems we are armed with blinders and a stopwatch. We may be thinking outside the box, but we are deciding inside the box, staring at our own reflections and basing our decisions on what we see in the glass.



And even that, in and of itself, isn't necessarily bad, except when it is marketed to be something that it is not. It's the spin, stupid. The logic behind a decision may start from the point of reason but it often goes out of control, eventually landing in quagmire from which there is no escape. Still we repeat our mantra -- "We're Number One" -- even as we sink deeper and deeper into the muck, until all that's left is a smudged slogan on a giant foam fingertip, soon to be forgotten.



I'm not just talking about the business world, where quantity has permanently destroyed the concept of quality. I'm not just talking about the athletic world, where the quest to be best thumbs its nose at the principles of sportsmanship. I'm not just talking about politics, where policies and procedures are spun as if it were flax into gold. Where philosophies are changed into something they are not -- for the betterment of mankind -- and oh, don't mind all those bodies and human rights trampled over there in the corner...We'll send in the maid to sweep them up later. I'm not just talking about people we interact with every day who let innuendo do the talking, or who say one thing...and do another.



I'm not just talking about any one of these things. I'm talking about all these things, because it's everywhere. We make decisions in vacuums. We excel in imposing rules, but we fail to employ any common sense. We trample over people and feelings like the bulls of Pamploma. It's not really our fault if they were in our way. We're just running with the crowd.



But if we could slow down....



If we could recognize and appreciate quality....



If we could take the time to look at decisions and policies from both sides of the equation....



If we could reflect on how our words and deeds affect others....



We would be healthier



We would be happier



and we would live in a world that might just be ... superlative.

Superlatives

In the music world, it's "higher, faster louder".
In the business world, it's "doing more with less".
In the Viagra world, it's "the bigger the better."

Superlatives run our world. From the cutest baby to the smartest child to the strongest athlete we are programmed from birth to go for the gold. Uncle Sam wants us to be all that we can be. We're number one, baby, and we have a giant foam finger to prove it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not here to knock the idea of bettering oneself for the common (or individual) good. Afterall, isn't that one of the very trademarks of American life? We are known for being a country of innovators. We are a people of creative thinkers and doers that (pardon the very tired saying) think outside the box to come up with new and improved ways to live our lives and do our jobs. For this we are both proud and grateful. Glory, Halleluia!

But I'm not convinced that we are always thinking outside the box. If we are, then it seems we are armed with blinders and a stopwatch. We may be thinking outside the box, but we are deciding inside the box, staring at our own reflections and basing our decisions on what we see in the glass.

And even that, in and of itself, isn't necessarily bad, except when it is marketed to be something that it is not. It's the spin, stupid. The logic behind a decision may start from the point of reason but it often goes out of control, eventually landing in quagmire from which there is no escape. Still we repeat our mantra -- "We're Number One" -- even as we sink deeper and deeper into the muck, until all that's left is a smudged slogan on a giant foam fingertip, soon to be forgotten.

I'm not just talking about the business world, where quantity has permanently destroyed the concept of quality. I'm not just talking about the athletic world, where the quest to be best thumbs its nose at the principles of sportsmanship. I'm not just talking about politics, where policies and procedures are spun as if it were flax into gold. Where philosophies are changed into something they are not -- for the betterment of mankind -- and oh, don't mind all those bodies and human rights trampled over there in the corner...We'll send in the maid to sweep them up later. I'm not just talking about people we interact with every day who let innuendo do the talking, or who say one thing...and do another.

I'm not just talking about any one of these things. I'm talking about all these things, because it's everywhere. We make decisions in vacuums. We excel in imposing rules, but we fail to employ any common sense. We trample over people and feelings like the bulls of Pamploma. It's not really our fault if they were in our way. We're just running with the crowd.

But if we could slow down....

If we could recognize and appreciate quality....

If we could take the time to look at decisions and policies from both sides of the equation....

If we could reflect on how our words and deeds affect others....

We would be healthier

We would be happier

and we would live in a world that might just be ... superlative.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Evil Duck Alert

Talking about evil ducks is nothing new for me. I first stole the idea from comedian Eddie Izzard who does a bit on Noah's Ark and evil ducks. The whole idea amuses me, so I mention them from time to time, in the hopes that someday I'll find an Evil Duck banner ad at the top of my page.



But now, Evil Ducks are no longer just an abstract idea. Now there is proof. CHECK IT OUT!



Although this latest eBay sale is nowhere near as funny as the Wedding Dress from this past spring, I'm still endlessly amused by the fact that someone is selling an evil duck. Sad to say, however, the current bid is $56, which is a bit out of my price range. Hopefully, whoever becomes the owner of said duck will keep the Internet community at large appraised of its evil activities.



Edited to add -- Upon closer examination of the eBay page, I FULLY understand the eviltude of the duck. Look carefully for the point of origin of the sale. Yes, that's right....CANADA. Say no more.

Evil Duck Alert

Talking about evil ducks is nothing new for me. I first stole the idea from comedian Eddie Izzard who does a bit on Noah's Ark and evil ducks. The whole idea amuses me, so I mention them from time to time, in the hopes that someday I'll find an Evil Duck banner ad at the top of my page.

But now, Evil Ducks are no longer just an abstract idea. Now there is proof. CHECK IT OUT!

Although this latest eBay sale is nowhere near as funny as the Wedding Dress from this past spring, I'm still endlessly amused by the fact that someone is selling an evil duck. Sad to say, however, the current bid is $56, which is a bit out of my price range. Hopefully, whoever becomes the owner of said duck will keep the Internet community at large appraised of its evil activities.

Edited to add -- Upon closer examination of the eBay page, I FULLY understand the eviltude of the duck. Look carefully for the point of origin of the sale. Yes, that's right....CANADA. Say no more.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Gross

I will fully admit that I am not a doughnut-a-holic. I will eat a doughnut on occasion, but I won't go out of my way to either purchase or eat one. Once in awhile, though, they're fine.



But THIS is going too far. I'm thinking if you have to have your doughnut and drink it too, there is a twelve-step program out there with your name on it.



Oh, and for you carb-counters out there: A 20 oz. double chocolate frozen drink thing has 740 calories and 160 carbs. That's probably equivalent of eating a herd of cattle.

Gross

I will fully admit that I am not a doughnut-a-holic. I will eat a doughnut on occasion, but I won't go out of my way to either purchase or eat one. Once in awhile, though, they're fine.

But THIS is going too far. I'm thinking if you have to have your doughnut and drink it too, there is a twelve-step program out there with your name on it.

Oh, and for you carb-counters out there: A 20 oz. double chocolate frozen drink thing has 740 calories and 160 carbs. That's probably equivalent of eating a herd of cattle.

Whuh?

When we last left our hero, GreenTuna was trying to figure out why her banner ads so desperately wanted her to buy waffle-makers.....

Whuh?

When we last left our hero, GreenTuna was trying to figure out why her banner ads so desperately wanted her to buy waffle-makers.....

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Words Fail

As my coworker said today, "How can this NOT be illegal?"



Possible Names:

Prince Michael Comforter IV

Prince Michael Duvet V

Prince Michael 500-Count Cotton King-Sized Sheet VI

Prince Michael Dammit-I-Still-Can't-Fold-Fitted-Sheets VII

Scrappy Doo VIII



Words Fail

As my coworker said today, "How can this NOT be illegal?"

Possible Names:
Prince Michael Comforter IV
Prince Michael Duvet V
Prince Michael 500-Count Cotton King-Sized Sheet VI
Prince Michael Dammit-I-Still-Can't-Fold-Fitted-Sheets VII
Scrappy Doo VIII

Educating Tuna

Now that the pounding that was known as "new roof" is over and done with (and it looks awesome, thanks for asking!) we are making the master plan Barbie Dream-House list of everything we need to do and want to do in the house. Several trees gave their lives for this list. After we dropped TinyTuna at play practice last night, GramTuna and I decided to loiter in Home Depot and "just look". Two hours later, I have more questions than I have answers.



WHY oh why do they display toilet bowls twenty feet overhead? Not only are they displayed at angles straight off of the set of The Poseideon Adventure, but they aren't in a row, so it's impossible to compare one from the next.



WHEN did it become so all-fire important for toilet bowls to be LONG? Were people falling off? Were they missing? I'm not mocking the longness, I'm just not understanding.



WHAT is up with Super-Sonic flush action and Super-Vortex flush action? I want to flush, not go to the moon.



WHO (and I really want to know the answer to this one) decided a good way to test said flushing action was to dump golf balls in the toilet. I kid you not. The big draw of toilet bowl number 74 (EZ find Q-4) was that it was able to flush TWO DOZEN GOLF BALLS. I don't want to flush golf balls. I never have once, in all my years, had a need to flush golf balls. Nor does my body excrete anything remotely resembling a golf ball.



Other areas of pondering included medicine cabinet with hinges that stick out and would poke you in the eye...the mysteries of building codes and vanity placement...the wonderment of knobs...and the mysteries of kitchen cabinetry.



Forget Calgon...Vern, take me away!!

Educating Tuna

Now that the pounding that was known as "new roof" is over and done with (and it looks awesome, thanks for asking!) we are making the master plan Barbie Dream-House list of everything we need to do and want to do in the house. Several trees gave their lives for this list. After we dropped TinyTuna at play practice last night, GramTuna and I decided to loiter in Home Depot and "just look". Two hours later, I have more questions than I have answers.

WHY oh why do they display toilet bowls twenty feet overhead? Not only are they displayed at angles straight off of the set of The Poseideon Adventure, but they aren't in a row, so it's impossible to compare one from the next.

WHEN did it become so all-fire important for toilet bowls to be LONG? Were people falling off? Were they missing? I'm not mocking the longness, I'm just not understanding.

WHAT is up with Super-Sonic flush action and Super-Vortex flush action? I want to flush, not go to the moon.

WHO (and I really want to know the answer to this one) decided a good way to test said flushing action was to dump golf balls in the toilet. I kid you not. The big draw of toilet bowl number 74 (EZ find Q-4) was that it was able to flush TWO DOZEN GOLF BALLS. I don't want to flush golf balls. I never have once, in all my years, had a need to flush golf balls. Nor does my body excrete anything remotely resembling a golf ball.

Other areas of pondering included medicine cabinet with hinges that stick out and would poke you in the eye...the mysteries of building codes and vanity placement...the wonderment of knobs...and the mysteries of kitchen cabinetry.

Forget Calgon...Vern, take me away!!

Monday, July 19, 2004

Hand-Me-Downs

If you are an only-child, the eldest sibling, or come from an otherwise privileged background, you probably haven't had to deal with the dreaded issues of hand-me-downs.



For the uninformed, hand-me-downs are things cast off from those older than you. Or at least, luckier than you. Usually they are clothes that no longer fit. If you're lucky, they are still relatively clean. If you're lucky, they don't have an embarrassing slogan or picture. If you're lucky, they are either still in style, or else so old, they're in style again. Most of the time, however, the concepts lucky and hand-me-down don’t exist in the same sentence, because if you were truly lucky, you'd get new clothes.



Aside from clothes, the other favorite category of hand-me-downs are toys. I'm not sure if these are better or worse than clothes. After all, you don't have the issue of style. Monopoly is Monopoly, after all. The problem with hand-me-town toys is that they are SO used, they are falling apart. Hand-me-down toys suffer from two major plagues. The first is the box that has been smashed to smithereens. Most hand-me-down boxes are held together by:



a) A single strip of yellow, peeling Scotch tape (if you are a child of the 60s)

b) Layers upon layers of masking tape (if you are a child of the 70s)

c) Colored book tape (if your mom fixed the box)

d) Duct tape (if your dad fixed the box)

e) Some gum, staples and a rubber band (if a child fixed the box)



The instant ownership transferred, the tape crumbles into a pile of dust, and the box self-destructs. Your mom then declares that you can put the game in a shoe box, assuring that it will never see the light of day again.



The second plague of hand-me-down toys is the plague of missing key pieces. When I was little, we had the game Mousetrap that contained everything except whatever you needed to actually play the game. So we would play Mousetrap by building the big complicated trap thing, setting the marble in motion and watching it go through its paces. But at the end some other part didn't work right either, so we'd have to push the trap so it would fall. The end. Game over. Back into the self-destructing box.



Since TinyTuna is the only wee Tuna in the household, she is relatively spoiled in the hand-me-down department. Those few items that she's gotten she thinks are cool, partly because she doesn't have any siblings telling her otherwise.



Last summer TinyTuna got a big time hand-me-down on vacation. It was a boogie board that had been deemed two small for its two previous owners. It was hardly used, and she was thrilled -- especially since her mother had previously proclaimed that she was probably too small to deal with boogie boards quite yet. Well, she got the board; she proved her mother wrong and had a rip-roaring time in the ocean.



There was just one teensy-weensy problem. The boogie-board was black and had a picture of a Great White Shark coming out of the water, with it's 250 rows of teeth bared and ready to chomp you in half. The background was either bloody or fiery (I don't remember which), and TinyTuna took every opportunity to tell me that this scary bloody shark was just not what she had in mind.



What she had in mind -- she didn't need to tell me this, because I knew -- was something along the lines of a princess boogie board. Or a unicorn boogie board. Or a Barbie boogie board. I hoped we could achieve a compromise by having a Barbie being eaten by a shark boogie board, but no go. From the time we returned from vacation last year until the time we left for vacation this year, I was constantly reminded of the boogie board and its offensive design.



I caved, because I was tired of the yammering, and when we reached the beach this year, we went hunting for a more TinyTuna appropriate boogie board. Fortunately they were fresh out of unicorns and Barbies, so we settled on a black board with a single blue flower which we convinced her was Hawaiian and the prettiest board there. Mission accomplished. She boogied all week and I rested in peace.



The shark on the rejected boogie board spent this vacation in our garage terrorizing the storm windows. This weekend, though, it was passed on yet again, to my beloved NephewTuna, on the occasion of his fifth birthday. NephewTuna -- like TinyTuna before him -- was thrilled beyond words with the fourth-hand boogie board. And, being a BOY, he thought the shark was just fine, thank you very much. He strapped the Velcro around his wrist and ambled into the pool. He was THE -- CAPS LOCK et al. -- COOLEST kid in the world. So what if there weren't any waves to ride? Nobody else in the pool had a boogie board, so he and his board instantly reached top dog status.



NeiceTuna wanted to try. No way. NeiceTuna asked nicely. Nope. NeiceTuna threatened. Nope. Other cousins asked for a turn. Nope. Nope. Nope. NephewTuna turned to me at one point and said, "Here I come on the board, DUDE!"



Dude? Can you be a DUDE in the mitten? I'm not so sure.



Later, he told his dad (OlderBrother Tuna, for those of you playing along) that



1. He needed to boogie three times a day.

2. He was going to be a lifeguard.

3. He would tell everybody the rules like "NO DIVING!!!"

4. He needed a whistle.



He finally passed the board -- temporarily while he went to the bathroom -- to his only male cousin. That action proved to infuriate his sister no end. "Why does HE get to use the board? Why can't I use it?"



"Because he's the coolest cousin," NephewTuna replied.



Ahh, hand-me-downs. They'll get you coming, and going.

Hand-Me-Downs

If you are an only-child, the eldest sibling, or come from an otherwise privileged background, you probably haven't had to deal with the dreaded issues of hand-me-downs.

For the uninformed, hand-me-downs are things cast off from those older than you. Or at least, luckier than you. Usually they are clothes that no longer fit. If you're lucky, they are still relatively clean. If you're lucky, they don't have an embarrassing slogan or picture. If you're lucky, they are either still in style, or else so old, they're in style again. Most of the time, however, the concepts lucky and hand-me-down don’t exist in the same sentence, because if you were truly lucky, you'd get new clothes.

Aside from clothes, the other favorite category of hand-me-downs are toys. I'm not sure if these are better or worse than clothes. After all, you don't have the issue of style. Monopoly is Monopoly, after all. The problem with hand-me-town toys is that they are SO used, they are falling apart. Hand-me-down toys suffer from two major plagues. The first is the box that has been smashed to smithereens. Most hand-me-down boxes are held together by:

a) A single strip of yellow, peeling Scotch tape (if you are a child of the 60s)
b) Layers upon layers of masking tape (if you are a child of the 70s)
c) Colored book tape (if your mom fixed the box)
d) Duct tape (if your dad fixed the box)
e) Some gum, staples and a rubber band (if a child fixed the box)

The instant ownership transferred, the tape crumbles into a pile of dust, and the box self-destructs. Your mom then declares that you can put the game in a shoe box, assuring that it will never see the light of day again.

The second plague of hand-me-down toys is the plague of missing key pieces. When I was little, we had the game Mousetrap that contained everything except whatever you needed to actually play the game. So we would play Mousetrap by building the big complicated trap thing, setting the marble in motion and watching it go through its paces. But at the end some other part didn't work right either, so we'd have to push the trap so it would fall. The end. Game over. Back into the self-destructing box.

Since TinyTuna is the only wee Tuna in the household, she is relatively spoiled in the hand-me-down department. Those few items that she's gotten she thinks are cool, partly because she doesn't have any siblings telling her otherwise.

Last summer TinyTuna got a big time hand-me-down on vacation. It was a boogie board that had been deemed two small for its two previous owners. It was hardly used, and she was thrilled -- especially since her mother had previously proclaimed that she was probably too small to deal with boogie boards quite yet. Well, she got the board; she proved her mother wrong and had a rip-roaring time in the ocean.

There was just one teensy-weensy problem. The boogie-board was black and had a picture of a Great White Shark coming out of the water, with it's 250 rows of teeth bared and ready to chomp you in half. The background was either bloody or fiery (I don't remember which), and TinyTuna took every opportunity to tell me that this scary bloody shark was just not what she had in mind.

What she had in mind -- she didn't need to tell me this, because I knew -- was something along the lines of a princess boogie board. Or a unicorn boogie board. Or a Barbie boogie board. I hoped we could achieve a compromise by having a Barbie being eaten by a shark boogie board, but no go. From the time we returned from vacation last year until the time we left for vacation this year, I was constantly reminded of the boogie board and its offensive design.

I caved, because I was tired of the yammering, and when we reached the beach this year, we went hunting for a more TinyTuna appropriate boogie board. Fortunately they were fresh out of unicorns and Barbies, so we settled on a black board with a single blue flower which we convinced her was Hawaiian and the prettiest board there. Mission accomplished. She boogied all week and I rested in peace.

The shark on the rejected boogie board spent this vacation in our garage terrorizing the storm windows. This weekend, though, it was passed on yet again, to my beloved NephewTuna, on the occasion of his fifth birthday. NephewTuna -- like TinyTuna before him -- was thrilled beyond words with the fourth-hand boogie board. And, being a BOY, he thought the shark was just fine, thank you very much. He strapped the Velcro around his wrist and ambled into the pool. He was THE -- CAPS LOCK et al. -- COOLEST kid in the world. So what if there weren't any waves to ride? Nobody else in the pool had a boogie board, so he and his board instantly reached top dog status.

NeiceTuna wanted to try. No way. NeiceTuna asked nicely. Nope. NeiceTuna threatened. Nope. Other cousins asked for a turn. Nope. Nope. Nope. NephewTuna turned to me at one point and said, "Here I come on the board, DUDE!"

Dude? Can you be a DUDE in the mitten? I'm not so sure.

Later, he told his dad (OlderBrother Tuna, for those of you playing along) that

1. He needed to boogie three times a day.
2. He was going to be a lifeguard.
3. He would tell everybody the rules like "NO DIVING!!!"
4. He needed a whistle.

He finally passed the board -- temporarily while he went to the bathroom -- to his only male cousin. That action proved to infuriate his sister no end. "Why does HE get to use the board? Why can't I use it?"

"Because he's the coolest cousin," NephewTuna replied.

Ahh, hand-me-downs. They'll get you coming, and going.

Friday, July 16, 2004

Arrrrgh!

Speaking of Pillaging....today at day camp TinyTuna finishes up her "Treasure Island" week. On Fridays they have "All Camp" in the afternoon and they do lots of activities related to the theme. So today is, "Dress Like a Pirate Day".



Now, I don't know about you, but I don't have any pirate clothes laying around. My vision is good enough that I don't have an eye patch, and I don't even have a puffy shirt in my closet. If you need flowing dresses and sparkly wands, I have plenty to spare, but after my unsuccessful attempt last Halloween to get her to be anything that didn't involve acres of tulle, I pretty much gave up.



So, when she came home yesterday begging for piratey clothes, I thought "now's my chance!" Off we went and found THE coolest pirate hat. I also bought her a finger puppet that I safety-pinned to her shirt, so she could have a little pirate parrot on her shoulder. She decided to skip the eye patch, which didn't surprise me, since I figured it would last about 5 minutes before she yanked it off, anyway.



All the way home I heaped on the piratey praise. "What a cool hat! You look awesome! I love the bird! I'm so glad we went and found these things!" When I was done, GramTuna went for the kill: "Now you have more than half of your costume for Halloween!"



With three-and-a-half months to go....I'm thinking I might have a chance this year.

Arrrrgh!

Speaking of Pillaging....today at day camp TinyTuna finishes up her "Treasure Island" week. On Fridays they have "All Camp" in the afternoon and they do lots of activities related to the theme. So today is, "Dress Like a Pirate Day".

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't have any pirate clothes laying around. My vision is good enough that I don't have an eye patch, and I don't even have a puffy shirt in my closet. If you need flowing dresses and sparkly wands, I have plenty to spare, but after my unsuccessful attempt last Halloween to get her to be anything that didn't involve acres of tulle, I pretty much gave up.

So, when she came home yesterday begging for piratey clothes, I thought "now's my chance!" Off we went and found THE coolest pirate hat. I also bought her a finger puppet that I safety-pinned to her shirt, so she could have a little pirate parrot on her shoulder. She decided to skip the eye patch, which didn't surprise me, since I figured it would last about 5 minutes before she yanked it off, anyway.

All the way home I heaped on the piratey praise. "What a cool hat! You look awesome! I love the bird! I'm so glad we went and found these things!" When I was done, GramTuna went for the kill: "Now you have more than half of your costume for Halloween!"

With three-and-a-half months to go....I'm thinking I might have a chance this year.

Sequel Power

OK, this made me laugh out loud. They are possible follow-up songs for one-hit wonders:



How Are We Going to Get These Dogs Back In?



Bust an Additional Move



Seriously, Eileen, Come On



Want more? Check it out. Thanks to Boing-Boing and McSweeneys

Sequel Power

OK, this made me laugh out loud. They are possible follow-up songs for one-hit wonders:

How Are We Going to Get These Dogs Back In?

Bust an Additional Move

Seriously, Eileen, Come On

Want more? Check it out. Thanks to Boing-Boing and McSweeneys

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Short Stories

Someone's Been Cleaning in MY Room!

While TinyTuna was at play practice last night, I decided to go through her overstuffed bookcase and weed out a number of things that she had outgrew, giving us space to shelve her more age-appropriate literature. Keep in mind, I did this when she was GONE, because woe unto anyone who tries messes with this kid's memories.



Ninety minutes and four trips to the basement later, things were looking pretty darn good. All the Nancy Drews were together, as were the Magic Tree House books, the Narnia Chronicles, Harry Potter and many many more volumes. I did keep a handful of picture books and other kiddie-lit I wasn't ready to part with quite yet. This means Minnie and Moo, Tacky, and Frog and Toad will live to be read another day.



When TinyTuna came home, I didn't give her any advance warning of my cleaning spree. I opened the door, she walked in, and the next thing I hear is, "Who's been PILLAGING in my room?"



Pillaging? Pillaging??



GramTuna fell over laughing, and I snuffled loudly as I said, "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it PILLAGING, but I might have asked, "who was so nice as to clean out my bookcase?" Sheesh. Pillaging.



Recommendations

I've been saving up miscellaneous websites for a rainy day. Today the sun is shining, but I still feel compelled to share.



1. Blog Shout-Outs

Well, we're always complaining we need more Blogs from the Male perspective *cough*couOVERGough* and now here it is. The one, and only

HULK'S DIARY. I laughed. I cried. I shared it with you.



As long as I'm sharing boy-blogs, you should also visit Goombah's Blog. Best thing about it? He's four years old.



2. Current Events

Oh sure, now that school is out, there are awesome human events coming out of the woodwork! So many to choose from.



National Barbie in a Blender Day. Although I'm not quite ready to sacrifice my kitchen appliances to the God of Plastic mutillation, I have to admit freedom of speech is a pretty worthy cause.



Grilling Camp. Boy the things in this world I never knew existed... Not only is there a grilling camp, there is a McCormick Grilling Camp. And not only is there a McCormick Grilling Camp, JOE MONTANA will be at the McCormick grilling camp. But, if you read the fine print carefully, it isn't clear what function Joe will have in this roast-off. Still, Grilled Beef and Beefcake in one place...it sounds like a party to me.



Guns don't kill people. Kangaroos kill people.



Man raised by chickens. Well, He had better not go to grilling camp, because things could get messy.



Speaking of chickens and grilling -- it's the local Kiwanis Chicken BBQ day. Time to jump in the car and do some drive by consuming. Don't forget 8pm: BB5!

Short Stories

Someone's Been Cleaning in MY Room!
While TinyTuna was at play practice last night, I decided to go through her overstuffed bookcase and weed out a number of things that she had outgrew, giving us space to shelve her more age-appropriate literature. Keep in mind, I did this when she was GONE, because woe unto anyone who tries messes with this kid's memories.

Ninety minutes and four trips to the basement later, things were looking pretty darn good. All the Nancy Drews were together, as were the Magic Tree House books, the Narnia Chronicles, Harry Potter and many many more volumes. I did keep a handful of picture books and other kiddie-lit I wasn't ready to part with quite yet. This means Minnie and Moo, Tacky, and Frog and Toad will live to be read another day.

When TinyTuna came home, I didn't give her any advance warning of my cleaning spree. I opened the door, she walked in, and the next thing I hear is, "Who's been PILLAGING in my room?"

Pillaging? Pillaging??

GramTuna fell over laughing, and I snuffled loudly as I said, "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it PILLAGING, but I might have asked, "who was so nice as to clean out my bookcase?" Sheesh. Pillaging.

Recommendations
I've been saving up miscellaneous websites for a rainy day. Today the sun is shining, but I still feel compelled to share.

1. Blog Shout-Outs
Well, we're always complaining we need more Blogs from the Male perspective *cough*couOVERGough* and now here it is. The one, and only
HULK'S DIARY. I laughed. I cried. I shared it with you.

As long as I'm sharing boy-blogs, you should also visit Goombah's Blog. Best thing about it? He's four years old.

2. Current Events
Oh sure, now that school is out, there are awesome human events coming out of the woodwork! So many to choose from.

National Barbie in a Blender Day. Although I'm not quite ready to sacrifice my kitchen appliances to the God of Plastic mutillation, I have to admit freedom of speech is a pretty worthy cause.

Grilling Camp. Boy the things in this world I never knew existed... Not only is there a grilling camp, there is a McCormick Grilling Camp. And not only is there a McCormick Grilling Camp, JOE MONTANA will be at the McCormick grilling camp. But, if you read the fine print carefully, it isn't clear what function Joe will have in this roast-off. Still, Grilled Beef and Beefcake in one place...it sounds like a party to me.

Guns don't kill people. Kangaroos kill people.

Man raised by chickens. Well, He had better not go to grilling camp, because things could get messy.

Speaking of chickens and grilling -- it's the local Kiwanis Chicken BBQ day. Time to jump in the car and do some drive by consuming. Don't forget 8pm: BB5!

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

We Interrupt This Program

I'm putting a hit out on my local weatherman. Last night, for the second week in a row, my guilty-pleasure viewing of Reality Central was continually interrupted because my weatherman is a camera-hungry fame monger.



Keep in mind, there were no tornados. There were no hurricanes or Tsunamis. No Alberta Clippers or even LA Clippers. There was nothing life-threatening. It was raining.



It wasn't flooding. The dam hadn't burst and the river banks hadn't overflowed. Noah was nowhere in sight and the streets were clear, albeit wet. I have no problem with anybody warning me of IMPENDING CAPS-LOCK DOOM. But people, it was rain, that's all.



But here was my weatherman, in his long-winded interrupting glory. "Welcome to StormTracker6. As you can see, it's raining. Let's blow up this section here so you can see the weather patterns. Wow. Those are some storms....."



......I am reminded of TinyTuna's latest play director who has a line I love. In order to keep the kids quiet, she tells them there should be no talking unless there is Fire, Blood or Dead Bodies. IS THERE FIRE? IS THERE BLOOD? ARE THERE DEAD BODIES?? IF NOT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN (she always calls them ladies and gentlemen, which I also love) THERE SHOULD BE NO TALKING. THANK YOU



".....Those are some storms. If we check the radar we see there is a chance of pea-sized hail. You should take cover from these powerful storms. Let's pull the map back again and you can see the direction this storm is moving. Now, if we check the clock, we can see the storm will hit Blahblah High School at 10:15, DumDum Field at 10:18, and Wow.....The village of LordHaveMercy can expect to see this powerful storm at 10:58pm. Now let's check in with StormChaser Wally...."



Inexplicably, they now move to an interview segment with StormChaser Wally. And it's not enough to have to look at StormChaser Wally talk with his toupee a-flappin in the breeze. Oh no. We get StormChaser Wally ON THE PHONE. StormChaser Wally spends the next several minutes describing what lightning looks like. I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I tell you I'm pretty sure people are clear on the concept of lightning. Bright flash, then dark. Bright flash, then dark. But here's StormChaser Wally anyway, describing the lightning.



"....I'm standing out here by the airport, and let me tell you, the lightning is really something. It's quite a display of fireworks out here. I haven't seen lightning like this in quite some time. Yes, it's quite a display of fireworks....."



Fire. Blood. Dead bodies. This is a good motto. If you're interrupting prime time television, StormChaser Wally had better be in a driving rainstorm with 95mph winds clinging to a telephone pole.



When he finishes with his lecture on lightning, StormChaser Wally returns us to Weather Central, or The Doppler Den, or whatever they call that corner of the newsroom that has the fancy computer. Time for rehash!



Storms. Rain. Stay tuned to StormTracker 6 for all your weather updates.



By the time I'm finally returned to my regularly scheduled program, the drama of the carefully crafted story is over and all the participants are asleep. My poor Amazing Race has so many potholes, I have no idea how people got from point A to point B. Fortunately I was able to see Alison and Donny make their less than graceful exit from the racing circuit. Even better? The Amazing Race is going to be rebroadcast this Saturday night, so I can watch Alison and Donny self destruct all over again. That is, if it doesn't rain.



I return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.

We Interrupt This Program

I'm putting a hit out on my local weatherman. Last night, for the second week in a row, my guilty-pleasure viewing of Reality Central was continually interrupted because my weatherman is a camera-hungry fame monger.

Keep in mind, there were no tornados. There were no hurricanes or Tsunamis. No Alberta Clippers or even LA Clippers. There was nothing life-threatening. It was raining.

It wasn't flooding. The dam hadn't burst and the river banks hadn't overflowed. Noah was nowhere in sight and the streets were clear, albeit wet. I have no problem with anybody warning me of IMPENDING CAPS-LOCK DOOM. But people, it was rain, that's all.

But here was my weatherman, in his long-winded interrupting glory. "Welcome to StormTracker6. As you can see, it's raining. Let's blow up this section here so you can see the weather patterns. Wow. Those are some storms....."

......I am reminded of TinyTuna's latest play director who has a line I love. In order to keep the kids quiet, she tells them there should be no talking unless there is Fire, Blood or Dead Bodies. IS THERE FIRE? IS THERE BLOOD? ARE THERE DEAD BODIES?? IF NOT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN (she always calls them ladies and gentlemen, which I also love) THERE SHOULD BE NO TALKING. THANK YOU

".....Those are some storms. If we check the radar we see there is a chance of pea-sized hail. You should take cover from these powerful storms. Let's pull the map back again and you can see the direction this storm is moving. Now, if we check the clock, we can see the storm will hit Blahblah High School at 10:15, DumDum Field at 10:18, and Wow.....The village of LordHaveMercy can expect to see this powerful storm at 10:58pm. Now let's check in with StormChaser Wally...."

Inexplicably, they now move to an interview segment with StormChaser Wally. And it's not enough to have to look at StormChaser Wally talk with his toupee a-flappin in the breeze. Oh no. We get StormChaser Wally ON THE PHONE. StormChaser Wally spends the next several minutes describing what lightning looks like. I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I tell you I'm pretty sure people are clear on the concept of lightning. Bright flash, then dark. Bright flash, then dark. But here's StormChaser Wally anyway, describing the lightning.

"....I'm standing out here by the airport, and let me tell you, the lightning is really something. It's quite a display of fireworks out here. I haven't seen lightning like this in quite some time. Yes, it's quite a display of fireworks....."

Fire. Blood. Dead bodies. This is a good motto. If you're interrupting prime time television, StormChaser Wally had better be in a driving rainstorm with 95mph winds clinging to a telephone pole.

When he finishes with his lecture on lightning, StormChaser Wally returns us to Weather Central, or The Doppler Den, or whatever they call that corner of the newsroom that has the fancy computer. Time for rehash!

Storms. Rain. Stay tuned to StormTracker 6 for all your weather updates.

By the time I'm finally returned to my regularly scheduled program, the drama of the carefully crafted story is over and all the participants are asleep. My poor Amazing Race has so many potholes, I have no idea how people got from point A to point B. Fortunately I was able to see Alison and Donny make their less than graceful exit from the racing circuit. Even better? The Amazing Race is going to be rebroadcast this Saturday night, so I can watch Alison and Donny self destruct all over again. That is, if it doesn't rain.

I return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Songs in the Key of Life

If my life were song lyrics, today would go something like this:



- Up on the Roof

- Knock Three Times

- Bang Bang (and)

- The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald



Now, I'm kidding a little bit about both my good friend Edmund The Fitzgerald, but this morning my alarm was an army of roofers directly over my bedroom. There's nothing like a good old fashioned "what the hell??" to start your day.



As the days progress, I'm hoping the saga of the new roof will be an uneventful one. I sure don't want to be living any



- Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head

- Windy (or)

- Stormy Weather



but I wouldn't necessarily mind a quick chorus of



- It's Rainin' Men



I'm just saying....

Songs in the Key of Life

If my life were song lyrics, today would go something like this:

- Up on the Roof
- Knock Three Times
- Bang Bang (and)
- The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Now, I'm kidding a little bit about both my good friend Edmund The Fitzgerald, but this morning my alarm was an army of roofers directly over my bedroom. There's nothing like a good old fashioned "what the hell??" to start your day.

As the days progress, I'm hoping the saga of the new roof will be an uneventful one. I sure don't want to be living any

- Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head
- Windy (or)
- Stormy Weather

but I wouldn't necessarily mind a quick chorus of

- It's Rainin' Men

I'm just saying....

Monday, July 12, 2004

Banner Adsapalooza

Awwwww, Isn't this sweet? My banner ads want to sell me swings because I said I like to swing. But you know what I really REALLY like? Being on a swing with a winning lottery ticket. Thanks, Google!

Banner Adsapalooza

Awwwww, Isn't this sweet? My banner ads want to sell me swings because I said I like to swing. But you know what I really REALLY like? Being on a swing with a winning lottery ticket. Thanks, Google!

Great Expectations

I'd like to register a complaint.



If you visit Amazon -- the literary crack dealer -- you can find this very helpful parenting series. The first book, What to Expect When You're Expecting takes you month-by-month through pregnancy. Even if you've just begun your journey down the road to impending parenthood, you can read ahead and see what's coming. That way, when it happens, you can assume one of those "Oh I knew it all along" kind of attitudes, making you look like the smartest up-and-coming parent on the face of the planet.



Once the bundle of joy arrives, you can pick up the second and third book in the series, What to Expect, The First Year and What to Expect, The Toddler Years. With these volumes, you are set for quite awhile, and you can coordinate your calendar with the book, ensuring you are never caught offguard by any behavior or important milestone.



After that you get

NOTHING.



Just when you think you've got this parenting thing down, The What-To-Expect people abandon you faster than an overloaded diaper on a hot summer day. Gone are the helpful tips. Gone are the scheduled updates of every aspect of childhood. It's sink or swim time, and you, my dear unsuspecting parent just got tossed overboard during a hurricane armed with a pair of leaky water wings.



So, for all you floundering parents of the upper elementary years, I'm here for you.



What to Expect From Your Ten Year Old - Female Edition

What to expect from your ten year old is exactly opposite of what you might think you're expecting. However, once you start expecting the opposite of your original expectations, you're back to where you started in the first place, still not knowing what to expect.



Confused are you? Is your head spinning? Do you wish you could just go back to bed? THAT is what you should expect, because the name of the game is confusion and contradiction.



Some days it will be princesses, dress-up boxes and hand colored pictures of flowers and rainbows. Some days it will be surly attitudes, silent treatments and the ever hated whaaaat that flies from their lips every time you shoot them the straighten-up-or-fly-right look. You'll want to remove the word whaaaat from the dictionary, along with the nasally tone of voice that slides up and down the scale of ten year old indignation.



When your child is ten, they just can't quite decide if they are little or big, and spend most of their time firmly straddling the two. Clothes might be the usual running, jumping, climbing trees clothes of yester year, with no concern for style, whether or not they match, or if they are so dirty they could walk on their own. But turn around, and your ten year old is dressed to the nines, complete with jewelry, sunglasses and a purse. This will be the outfit she chooses to do household chores. A word of caution -- any questioning of the ensemble du jour will most likely result in the dreaded whaaaat?



The ten year old enjoys a variety of things to read, including "Go, Dogs, Go" Nancy Drew and "My Body Journal". It is particularly difficult during this turbulent time to remove certain objects long since outgrown. However, the instant your ten year says, "it's ok to give this away" then RUN, do not walk. Do not ask if they are sure. Do not stop to say thank you. Your next question could possibly make them change their mind.



The ten year old will continue to resist bathing as they did in their younger, less confusing times. However, once in the shower, it will take a crowbar to get them out, and this will only happen after your child has become a prune and the hot water tank is empty. AND THEN, wrinkly and dripping, your ten year old will ask if she can have a foot soak. Oh, and a pedicure and a manicure. With nail polish. And when you give her the "are you kidding me" look because it's 10 minutes until bedtime, you'll get it. Whaaaaat?



The list of wants and desires a ten year old possesses becomes longer and more complicated. Candy is no longer the sole desire. Now there are shoes, purses, necklaces, bracelets, ChapStick, MORE ChapStick (because 97 variations of Wild Watermelon Strawberry Candy Apple Berry Zing aren't enough) and any liquid that contains glitter.



In addition to the nail-grating Whaaaaat? be prepared to hear "I can do it MYSELF" with increased frequency. There are, however, exceptions to this rule, including being too tired, too lazy, or being asked to do a task that involves pets and/or poop. Then they ask for help. Then they ask for favors for "just this one time". There are also times when you will wish the "I can do it MYSELF" phrase did not kick in, especially when dealing with hair. Although any self-made hair style generally exceeds the best efforts of the father, it will take considerable skill do undo askew ponytails or remove several of the dozen and a half hair doodads the ten-year old has deemed to be "perfect" and "beautiful".



The best advice which can be offered is to lay loose and roll with the punches. Give your ten-year old the room to grow and explore. Just be sure to have the favorite stuffed friend nearby for those moments when she really needs them. And when you go to the movies to see a Disney Cartoon, and your ten year old becomes apoplectic because she sees a preview and it's HILLARY DUFF! MOM, IT'S HILLARY DUFF! HILLARY DUFF! Just look at her and give her that perfectly timed, "Whaaaaat?"

Great Expectations

I'd like to register a complaint.

If you visit Amazon -- the literary crack dealer -- you can find this very helpful parenting series. The first book, What to Expect When You're Expecting takes you month-by-month through pregnancy. Even if you've just begun your journey down the road to impending parenthood, you can read ahead and see what's coming. That way, when it happens, you can assume one of those "Oh I knew it all along" kind of attitudes, making you look like the smartest up-and-coming parent on the face of the planet.

Once the bundle of joy arrives, you can pick up the second and third book in the series, What to Expect, The First Year and What to Expect, The Toddler Years. With these volumes, you are set for quite awhile, and you can coordinate your calendar with the book, ensuring you are never caught offguard by any behavior or important milestone.

After that you get
NOTHING.

Just when you think you've got this parenting thing down, The What-To-Expect people abandon you faster than an overloaded diaper on a hot summer day. Gone are the helpful tips. Gone are the scheduled updates of every aspect of childhood. It's sink or swim time, and you, my dear unsuspecting parent just got tossed overboard during a hurricane armed with a pair of leaky water wings.

So, for all you floundering parents of the upper elementary years, I'm here for you.

What to Expect From Your Ten Year Old - Female Edition
What to expect from your ten year old is exactly opposite of what you might think you're expecting. However, once you start expecting the opposite of your original expectations, you're back to where you started in the first place, still not knowing what to expect.

Confused are you? Is your head spinning? Do you wish you could just go back to bed? THAT is what you should expect, because the name of the game is confusion and contradiction.

Some days it will be princesses, dress-up boxes and hand colored pictures of flowers and rainbows. Some days it will be surly attitudes, silent treatments and the ever hated whaaaat that flies from their lips every time you shoot them the straighten-up-or-fly-right look. You'll want to remove the word whaaaat from the dictionary, along with the nasally tone of voice that slides up and down the scale of ten year old indignation.

When your child is ten, they just can't quite decide if they are little or big, and spend most of their time firmly straddling the two. Clothes might be the usual running, jumping, climbing trees clothes of yester year, with no concern for style, whether or not they match, or if they are so dirty they could walk on their own. But turn around, and your ten year old is dressed to the nines, complete with jewelry, sunglasses and a purse. This will be the outfit she chooses to do household chores. A word of caution -- any questioning of the ensemble du jour will most likely result in the dreaded whaaaat?

The ten year old enjoys a variety of things to read, including "Go, Dogs, Go" Nancy Drew and "My Body Journal". It is particularly difficult during this turbulent time to remove certain objects long since outgrown. However, the instant your ten year says, "it's ok to give this away" then RUN, do not walk. Do not ask if they are sure. Do not stop to say thank you. Your next question could possibly make them change their mind.

The ten year old will continue to resist bathing as they did in their younger, less confusing times. However, once in the shower, it will take a crowbar to get them out, and this will only happen after your child has become a prune and the hot water tank is empty. AND THEN, wrinkly and dripping, your ten year old will ask if she can have a foot soak. Oh, and a pedicure and a manicure. With nail polish. And when you give her the "are you kidding me" look because it's 10 minutes until bedtime, you'll get it. Whaaaaat?

The list of wants and desires a ten year old possesses becomes longer and more complicated. Candy is no longer the sole desire. Now there are shoes, purses, necklaces, bracelets, ChapStick, MORE ChapStick (because 97 variations of Wild Watermelon Strawberry Candy Apple Berry Zing aren't enough) and any liquid that contains glitter.

In addition to the nail-grating Whaaaaat? be prepared to hear "I can do it MYSELF" with increased frequency. There are, however, exceptions to this rule, including being too tired, too lazy, or being asked to do a task that involves pets and/or poop. Then they ask for help. Then they ask for favors for "just this one time". There are also times when you will wish the "I can do it MYSELF" phrase did not kick in, especially when dealing with hair. Although any self-made hair style generally exceeds the best efforts of the father, it will take considerable skill do undo askew ponytails or remove several of the dozen and a half hair doodads the ten-year old has deemed to be "perfect" and "beautiful".

The best advice which can be offered is to lay loose and roll with the punches. Give your ten-year old the room to grow and explore. Just be sure to have the favorite stuffed friend nearby for those moments when she really needs them. And when you go to the movies to see a Disney Cartoon, and your ten year old becomes apoplectic because she sees a preview and it's HILLARY DUFF! MOM, IT'S HILLARY DUFF! HILLARY DUFF! Just look at her and give her that perfectly timed, "Whaaaaat?"

Friday, July 09, 2004

Spamalot!

Words could not possibly describe how badly I want to see this, and I hope and pray that it doesn't totally suck. At least, not more than, let's say, a flesh wound.

Spamalot!

Words could not possibly describe how badly I want to see this, and I hope and pray that it doesn't totally suck. At least, not more than, let's say, a flesh wound.

Poetry Corner

John Scalzi, from AOL's By The Way has proposed an awesome Friday blogging assignment. The task this week is to write a Haiku about your most cherished snack food or carbonated beverage.



Dear Bugle Corn Chips

Tiny cone-shaped snacks just right

For Five Fingered Fun.



When I was little

Giant Sweet-Tarts were the best

Buh-bye roof of mouth!



Yummy Krispy Kremes

"Red Light District" not so bad!

Doughnuts of the Gods.



Classic for all times:

Who cares if the movie stinks?

Milk Duds cure all woes.



I don't understand

Cotton Candy. Why not eat

Plain sugar instead?



Tough choices ahead.

The Debate? "Pop" or "Soda."

I pretend I care.



Diet -- Brown -- Fizzy.

My drink needs are very few.

Just no gross Rootbeer.



Weekly Friday Task:

Haikus on Food. But like Lays

I can't write just one.

Poetry Corner

John Scalzi, from AOL's By The Way has proposed an awesome Friday blogging assignment. The task this week is to write a Haiku about your most cherished snack food or carbonated beverage.

Dear Bugle Corn Chips
Tiny cone-shaped snacks just right
For Five Fingered Fun.

When I was little
Giant Sweet-Tarts were the best
Buh-bye roof of mouth!

Yummy Krispy Kremes
"Red Light District" not so bad!
Doughnuts of the Gods.

Classic for all times:
Who cares if the movie stinks?
Milk Duds cure all woes.

I don't understand
Cotton Candy. Why not eat
Plain sugar instead?

Tough choices ahead.
The Debate? "Pop" or "Soda."
I pretend I care.

Diet -- Brown -- Fizzy.
My drink needs are very few.
Just no gross Rootbeer.

Weekly Friday Task:
Haikus on Food. But like Lays
I can't write just one.