My Come-uppance; Or Cup…pance

I used to mock people who went to Starbucks.

“It’s overpriced,” I’d say.

“Who’d pay $4 for a cup of coffee?” I’d ask.

“Do people realize how stupid they sound ordering a ‘venti half double decaf caramel macchiato no foam?’” I’d inquire.

Says the person who just paid $4 for a grande skim no-foam latte.

What’s happened to me?

I used to be such a normal guy. I barely recognize myself.

Is there group therapy for this?

* * * * *

I celebrated the end of Passover yesterday with a disgusting display of carbohydrates. An Entemann’s cinnamon danish (440 calories), chocolate (one godiva, one almond M&Ms), coffee (just regular ol’ joe), peanuts, and cheez-its. Basically an entire box of cheez-its. Hey, it’s not all bad. It “contains 100% real cheese.” Made with skim milk, even. Of course, on the ingredients, it lists cheese right after “vegetable oil (canola, cottonseed, palm, sunflower, and/or partially hydrogenated soybean oil with TBHQ for freshness).”

I don’t know which is worse, the list of oils, or the “and/or,” which tells me that they’re not even sure which oils are in there.

Oh, and I looked up “TBHQ.” It’s tert-butylhydroquinone.  A preservative for fats. Which probably is as disgusting as it sounds.

And I learned something else. There’s such a thing as too much information.

Because I really wanted to know the chemical composition looked like this:

Actually, no, I didn’t.

Although, there must be a joke to be made somewhere about the “Ho” on the left, and the “Oh” on the right.

But I guess I haven’t had enough of my grande no-foam skim latte to reach for it yet.

Have I mentioned that I really hate all-day, everyday meetings? I’m sure you professionals out there know what I’m talking about. I’m on day 1 of 3 1/2 days of all-day meetings. I have a little break right now, but I have to go back in any minute now.

If my posts are fewer and farther between, now you know why. Meetings kills brain cells faster than any other method I know.

Under Water

I’m so swamped.  So very, very swamped.  Besides work, and home, it’s Passover.  Which means I can’t have real coffee, only the instant crap.

Can you imagine how pissed at the world I am?  No coffee.

Should I say that again?  

No coffee.

Not even a little bit.

Maybe one more time will drive the message home.

No coffee.

So I’m sitting here watching NCIS on my new 24″ iMac.  With the TV writers strike, I’ve had to, how shall we say, branch out in my TV watching.  I’ve gone through 2 1/2 seasons of Prison Break, 1 1/2 seasons of The Loop, 1 1/2 seasons of Brotherhood, and one episode of Forever Knight.  Which was really, really bad.  Forgive me.  But I like vampire stuff, so bite me.  

The pun was intended.

Have I mentioned how tired I am?

I Need Some Advice, Internet

OK, so I need to know what level of gross factor this is:

Suppose someone—who shall remain unnamed—threw away three containers of peanut butter (it’s almost Passover, and peanut butter is verbotten). I This person then went down to the cafeteria and bought lunch.  But unlike past days, in the cafeteria this day were some really delicious-looking Golden Delicious apples.

You have to understand, these apples are best when eaten with peanut butter.  So this person then went back to the trash can and dug out his jar of peanut butter.  The jar was always closed up.  There was nothing else in the trash can when I this person picked it out.

What’s the gross-factor rating on this one?

A Keeper

So I might have mentioned that I’ve been blogsurfing a little, and not finding anything I like, or at least that I’m willing to spend my time reading. I’m turning into an old fogey, I know. Though I recently heard the term “young fogey” which captures me exactly. (I collect old fountain pens and very old maps).

Anyway, all that sifting through crap to find The Art of Overthinking. I like to think I have an eye for talent: I can claim that I found MooCow before just about anyone else (and where the hell is that guy, anyway?), and I recommended Veaj way back in December 2004. Back when she was in the lobby.

And you know that I had to be impressed because her top post, at least right now, is a meme. And you all know me to be meme-phobic. But in the same post is a photo-comparison of her and Kellie Martin, who she calls “prissy pants.” While admitting the resemblance.

Just go take a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, and entertained.

Don’t Get It

Now, you all know I’m a bit of a prude. Or, to be fair, just very, very conservative.

That said, I’m a (relatively) young, heterosexual male, and so I’m a fan of Angelina, Jaclyn Smith, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, and the Super Bowl. And as you can see from my banner, the Red Sox. All masculine pursuits.

I had a friend who was married to a guy who she caught having cybersex. I don’t even know what that means, really, because the terms are self-contradictory. If it’s “cyber,” then it’s not “sex.” But trying to put the Internet and logic in the same room always leads to a migraine.

I never saw the appeal of sex on the Internet. Of course, I never saw the appeal of watching golf on TV. Playing it, yes. Watching it, no.

I’m getting around, slowly, to my point.

So I was blogsurfing just now. I played a little game with myself: start on a page with a lot of links. In this case, I started with Lisa B in Da City. [And thanks Lisa for putting my blog on your list of daily reads.] Anyway, so start with Lisa B, and click on whatever link strikes your fancy, just from the name. I went somewhere, and on that site, clicked through on another link, and another, andd another.

The thing I don’t like, particularly, is that by the third site, I was reading essentially porn. It was one site after the next with sex stories. Now, Girl with a One Track Mind does it well. Most others just end up sounding classless. Is that judgmental? And I feel a little judgmental, because most of these idiots were young women who were trying to do something, I don’t know what, but they end up sounding overwritten.

Anyway, I’ll write more tomorrow.  I’m wiped.

Too Much

Ever had so much to do that you just can’t motivate?

That’s so where I am right now.  Feeling blah, and enervated.

And I can’t seem to get excited about anything, including the blogsurfing I’ve been doing for the last 45 minutes.

And there were some blogs to get excited about, too: Gooseberried, Michelle & the City. Good stuff. But I have to wonder because they’re getting around 40 comments per post, so it really feels that my linking to them would be superfluous. Thanks, Hank. Thanks for nothin’.

Then I remember (that is, just now, as I wrote that little piece of depression-on-a-stick) that at the battle of Marathon—this is the Athenians against the Persians—in the 5th Century BCE, on the eve of the battle, little Plataea sent aid. In a battle of 10,000 Athenians against 250,000 Persians, Plataea sent 1,000 men. Athens had aided them once before, and this was a thank you. They arrived on the eve of battle.

Can you imagine the morale boost? Athens stood alone. Against Darius, King of Persia. A king who had known only victory, and conquered everything he desired. 10,000 against 250,000 (and that’s a conservative number). Sparta wouldn’t send help (for weirdo reasons), no one else would go against Darius. This was a battle that would decide the fate of Western civilization. If Darius defeated Athens, there would be no stopping a sweep through the Med and Western Europe. No one could stop them. Syracuse wasn’t powerful enough. Sparta wasn’t.  Rome, then, wasn’t.

And on the eve of battle, 1,000 Plataeans show up. Athens wasn’t alone. To the battle itself, the Plataeans didn’t matter. They weren’t as well trained as the Athenians. Nor likely were they as well armed. But the symbolism!

And after Athens won? (n.b. After the battle, the Persians got on their boats and, realizing that with the Athenian army at Marathon, that Athens itself was open to attack, sailed toward Athens. The Athenian army ran from Marathon back to Athens. When the Persians arrived, they found the Athenians guarding the city, and sailed home in defeat. Which is where we get the concept of a marathon race, though Marathon is closer to 20 miles from Athens than 26.2.)

After Athens won, they protected Plataea from then on. No one could challenge Plataea’s independence without Athens rising to protect it.

So go read Michelle & the City. She’s funny. And even if I only send her two visitors, maybe she’ll protect me from rampaging Persians sometime in the future.  And while you’re at it, read Gooseberried, too.

Stranger things have happened.

What Veaj Did To Me Once

So once I had a challenge on my old blog. Basically, I was a little bit of a comment whore. Back in the day. Nothing like now. Now I don’t care. Really.

Really.

So I had this challenge way back when I was on the stroll for comments. If I got fifty comments, then the fiftieth commenter would get to choose a song for me to sing, and I’d have to sing it, and record it, and post it. Ouch.

So as normal I got about 10 comments (which is the most I ever get. How do others do it?), and what does Veaj do? She leaves me 40 comments one after the other. I think the last 20 or so just had the number left to 50. Like my own countdown.

Then she had me sing “What the World Needs Now.” But being the man, and not being a weltcher. I did it.

So why do I bring this up now?

I forget.

Go Screw Yourself, Barack

Don’t you just love this quote from Obama, just reported on Drudge? He’s talking about small-town folk (like me).

And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations…

So I cling to religion because I’m bitter and frustrated, huh?

All due respect, Senator, but blow me.

Sorry, I don’t usually get political, this just pissed me off.

I’m Usually Not This Stupid

So I’m eating these delightfully delicious Godiva Chocoiste things.  It’s not a bar, exactly.  Two small bars, about an inch long, that’s just chocolate covered caramel.

Hey, I’m a full service site:

Anyway, that’s just me learning the flashy WordPress image importing.  Sorry.

I’m sitting here with my coffee and chocolate, which really are two great tastes that taste great together.  And I take a sip of my coffee and then a bite of my chocolate.

One other piece of information.  In the lobby store where I work, they sell a couple of different kinds of these Chocoiste things.  Dark chocolate with chocolate caramel, milk chocolate with vanilla caramel, you get the idea.  I like the milk chocolate, but the key is that there are different flavors.

I take a bite of my chocolate, and say to myself, “wow, this doesn’t taste like vanilla.  Maybe I bought the coffee one by mistake.”

He says, as he looks down and sees, right next to the chocolate, his cup of coffee!

I know you won’t believe me now, but I really am an intelligent guy.

Oh Comely.

Here’s the song that I wrote about below. It’s Oh Comely by Neutral Milk Hotel.

Oh Comely

Crying My Eyes Out

When is it OK for a man to cry?  Man law says that men can only cry in very limited circumstances.  If you have a limb cut off, it’s OK.  But only for one of the major limbs.  If it’s a finger, you have to man up and take it.

Or if your ‘53 Corvette is wrecked.  A tear or two—but only one or two—is acceptable.

I’ve watched Miracle I don’t even know how many times.  But I sit here at my computer crying, again, watching us beat the Soviet’s in 1980.  That movie is just so awesome.  I can’t seem to watch the end of that movie without tears.  

“Johnson over to Ramsey.  Bilyaletdinov gets checked by Ramsey.  McClanahan is there.  The puck is still loose.  11 seconds.  You’ve got 10 seconds.  The countdown is going on right now.  Morrow, up to Silk.  5 seconds left in the game.  DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?  YES!

If you were alive in 1980, and above the age of 4, you knew how important that game was to people, how after the end of the ’70s, we were desperate for a morale boost. I think had I been alive in 1942, we would have understood the effect of Jimmy Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo. Carter. Gas lines. The hostages, every night on TV with the days. The “malaise” speech. Desert One. The invasion of Afghanistan. The Red Army menace. Duck and cover drills (like hiding under your desk would protect you from a nuclear explosion.) And then this.

How can you not cry?

Tickled

I don’t know why, but for some reason, this post’s title kind of made me laugh.

I’d Make Fun, But….

I’d really, really laugh at this person, but I’ve done it myself.

With a mouthful of Kix.

Can you, all together now, say “Ouch!”

Tagged

OK, those of you who know me know that I don’t do memes.

Except when I want to.

I just got tagged by Cubicle’s Backporch for a six-word memoire. I already wrote my six-word story:

Happy family life.  Still, he blogs.

I was thinking about writing a new one: “Works too hard, misses his family.”  Or, “works to live, not vice versa.”  Or, “Reformed geek? He loves his iPhone.” Or, “Never cries.  He’s always ‘man up.’”

Normally I don’t continue the tagging madness, but truth be told, I’d love to see

Rezzie and

VJ

write their six-word stories.

Who Has the Time

So I’ve been blogsurfing again.  I started from KJ’s new site (the link on the right goes to her new place, so click away), and went from her comments on blog safari.

I came across a site.  Cool layout, nice large type.  (I have a thing about small type.  And it’s been that way for a long time…those links are from two of my first posts in my second blogging life—and yes, there’s a story there—way back in December 2004.  If you want to know more about me, read that old blogger site.)

Digression: I just spent 20-30 minutes reading through that old site.  Wow, that brings back memories.

Anyway, like I said, nice site an all.  But her posts were like, 10,000 lines long.  Seriously, who has that kind of time?  I’m not advocating Twitter or anything, but damn, mini-novellas every post.  Now, even I can wax poetic sometimes, but my average post is a few paragraphs at most.  I don’t care if you’re Stephen King, if you’re going to write a blog, write a damn blog.

UPDATE: A Few Minutes Later: Man what a grouch am I?  Is it because it’s 1:30am?  Probably.

Worth the Time

I’m sure that everyone knows this band, and that I’m just coming very very late—a decade late—to the party. But let’s just celebrate the fact that I showed up at all rather than focus on my tardiness.

I’m talking about Neutral Milk Hotel.

I bought this song on iTunes, Oh Comely, because I thought it sounded cool. It’s 8 minutes long. But the sound is unique. And I have to admit it grows on you. At least, it grew on me.

I’m going to try to find a way tonight to post the actual song here. Until then, here are the lyrics.

I’m still trying to figure out what the hell the lyrics mean.

Oh comely
I will be with you when you lose your breath
Chasing the only meaningful memory you thought you had left
With some pretty bright and bubbly terrible scene
That was doing her thing on your chest
But oh comely
It isn’t as pretty as you’d like to guess
In your memory you’re drunk on your automy
It doesn’t mean anything at all
Oh comely
All of your friends are all letting you blow
Bristling and ugly
Bursting with fruits falling out from the holes
Of some pretty bright and bubbly friend
You could need to say comforting things in your ear
But oh comely
There isn’t such one friend that you could find here
Standing next to me
He’s only my enemy
I’ll crush him with everything I own
Say what you want to say
Hang for your hollow ways
Moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles aimed for me

Your father made fetuses
With flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother
Were asleep in the trailer park
Thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums
The music and medicine you needed for comforting
So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving
And pluck all your silly strings
And bend all your notes for me
Soft silly music is meaningful magical
The movements were beautiful
All in your ovaries
All of them milking with green fleshy flowers
While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines
Smelling of semen all under the garden
Was all you were needing when you still believed in me
Say what your want to say
Hang for your hollow ways
Moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles aimed for me

And I know they buried her body with others
Her sister and mother and 500 families
And will she remember me 50 years later
I wished I could save her in some sort of time machine
Know all your enemies
We know who our enemies are

Goldaline my dear
We will fold and freeze together
Far away from here
There is sun and spring and green forever
But now we move to feel
For ourselves inside some stranger’s stomach
Place your body here
Let your skin begin to blend itself with mine

For those of you who read to the bottom, first congratulations. Second, here’s a grammar tip for free. “Try and” is correct only if using “try” along with other similar verb such as “try and fail,” “try and try again.” When talking about making efforts, always use “try to.” Such as, “I will try to fix the drain,” versus, “I will try and fix the drain.” Who’s better than me?

She Cracks Me Up

I love this woman, and I want to bear her children.

I’ve mentioned her before, but it’s been a while—too long, in fact.

Go right now and read Valancy Jane. She’s funny and sweet. And sometimes I find myself trying to arrange the kinds of conversations that she has on an apparently regular basis.

Like this one.

What are you still doing here? Go read her.

More Hilarity

For what I do, this is very, very appropriate.

And I think it’s simply hilarious.

Digging Up New Blogs For You

Once again, I’m doing the pinball blogging thing, where I go from comment to blog to comment to new blog until I find something I like.

And boy, did I find it.  Here’s a great post, and a funny story, and free stuff, all rolled into one.  And, by the way, a great photo.

Go read Diary of Why.  I mean, anyone that can balance a big purple ball on her nose can’t be all bad, can she?  Even if she does use Blogger.  Oh, and by the way, I’ve rediscovered my loathing of blogger.  A toblerone for anyone who remembers that.  Another one for anyone who remembers why I give out Toblerones.

Too Funny

This was just too funny not to re-post.  What’s your most dreaded, funny date story?  After reading Stephanie’s, I’m frankly tempted to start a new blog called “Licking Up the Jello.”

Mine funniest is a girl saying, about how she’s intuitive: “you know, I just have a fifth sense about that sort of thing.”

I’m still wonder which sense she’s missing.

When I Was Eight….

I have a crappy memory. It’s not that I forget things. Once something is in the memory, it’s there. But I just don’t transfer a lot of experiences into my memory. So other than the fact that my third grade teacher’s name was Ms. Gilbert, and a couple of other things, I don’t really remember a whole lot about the third grade.

But I’m fairly sure that I didn’t engage in a conspiracy with other third graders to kill or maim my teacher.

I weep for the future.

My favorite part—if that’s the right word—is this:

Police say the students were hatching a plan to harm their teacher Friday morning. They even brought items from home to carry out the plan.

“They had a broken steak knife, a crystal paper weight, toy handcuffs, several items and tape and stuff,” says Lt. Caswell.

A steak knife and a paper weight? Who was this teacher? Rasputin?