The Lone Yankee

It Wasn't Fun

2006-03-27T21:31:00.000-06:00

So I'm a fan of the Dallas Mavericks in the NBA. I don't get to watch their games on cable TV, so when they're on our local UPN affiliate I try to watch the game. Well, not that long ago I put the game on and for some reason the audio was all in Spanish. I'm sure it was just a problem with the English audio feed, so they put the Spanish feed up (which makes sense in a heavily Hispanic market like Dallas). I have to say it was disorienting.

That's all right, though, I thought. I'll watch the game and kind of just tune out the Spanish. The trouble is, I didn't like it. It sounded downright foreign to me. Yeah, I know, Spanish is foreign, but it was more than that, it sounded kinda alien.

It was so strange that I had to turn off the sound. That's right, the simple act of watching a game on TV (something that you don't even really need sound for) was made unbearable by the foreign language.

I didn't like it at all.

But I learned something from it. I learned that it must be really hard to come to the United States and not speak English. It isn't just intimidating and scary, it's actually uncomfortable. So I'm glad I got a perspective on something I pretty much dismissed in the past.

Oh, and I also learned that Spanish-speaking sportscasters get way more excited about the game than English-speaking sportscasters. I liked that.

I just didn't like it enough to keep the game off of "mute."

G-d Blogger!

2005-10-18T10:04:00.000-05:00

So I finally log on to write this witty and funny post about the Great Pet Migration at our apartment complex. I finish it, edit it, and hit "Publish Post."

Nothing happens.

Okay, so my Internet is down for a bit. No big deal. I reset my router and we're back in business. I go back to the screen, see that the blogger submit screen froze out, so I hit the "Back" button on my brower.

Lo and behold, there's the post form, but it's empty!

I lost the whole damn post.

This pissed me off so much I stopped posting for a while. But now I'm back. I'll re-write the post and add some others.

Don't hate me, hate blogger.

The stinky dinosaurs

2005-09-04T10:55:00.000-05:00

So my daughter comes in and says matter-of-factly, "Daddy, did you know dinosaurs are stink?"

I thought this was kind of funny, in both her comment and her "learning how to use language" mangling of the sentence, so I answered, "Really? I didn't know that dinosaurs stink."

She kind of looked at me with furrowed brow and said, "No, dinosaurs are stink!"

I was not getting it, but I decided to play along. "Ewww, dinosaurs are stinky!"

Now she was getting into that frustrated dad-you-are-such-an-idiot place that all my girls know so well, "No! They don't stink. They are stink."

So I kind of scratch my head and break this down to the very basics: "What does stink mean?"

She replied, "It means they aren't around any more."

Dad's can be plenty stupid some times.

My How The World Has Changed

2005-08-06T11:56:00.000-05:00

So my daughter wanted to call one of her friends today. I hand her the phone, and she starts dialing the number. After a few seconds, she turns to me and says, "Daddy, it's making this weird beep-beep-beep sound."

Oh, that means the line is busy, I told her. She looked at me rather dumbstruck, and then replied that she didn't understand.

"Well," I explained. "When you call someone who is already using the phone, that's the sound it makes."

"You mean you can call someone and the phone won't ring?"

"Yes."

"But why don't they have call waiting?"

"I don't know. Some people don't like call waiting."

She then looked at me like I had just revealed to her that some people like to chew glass and others like to bathe in ketchup. It was part funny/part disturbing in her mind.

Imagine that--in the old days you could call someone, and the phone wouldn't ring. Boy, those were the dark ages.

I'm Fat Because I Can't Run

2005-07-10T23:58:00.000-05:00

Back in college I was disgustingly healthy. I ran indoor track and averaged about six miles a day of intense running. I think I weighed 165 pounds at one point. We also had a weight training program, so I didn't look half bad. From below the neck at least.

Over time, however, I started to get shin splints. The pain got worse and worse until I am positive I finally ended up with stress fractures in both legs. It got so bad that when I would cross my legs it would cause me to scream out in pain. Before I realized how much of an idiot I was being, I had to ice down my legs for an hour before cross country practice and then an additional hour after practice. When the "icing your legs" part of cross country practice takes more than twice the length of time that the actual running does, you start to realize something is seriously wrong. For me, it told me that I was probably running on two broken legs.

After I healed enough to walk with a minimal amount of pain, I went to the trainer, and the first thing he asked me was to see my shoes. I gave him my cross country shoes, and he nodded sagely.

"You have roman foot." Wha???

"That means that your toes are much less aligned that normal people. You don't walk or run on the ball of your foot like most people. Your foot kind of hits on the outside and then rolls in, where you then push off. This rocking motion is creating the stress in your lower leg."

Okay, so do I need surgery?

"Nope, just go down and buy some ten dollar foot inserts that will support your foot and force you to run on the balls of your feet."

Holy shit. That's it?

"Yep, and, if you decide on running a lot at all, that ten dollars will probably add at least ten years of healthy living at the end of your life. Otherwise, you'll have leg problems that will evolve into hip and back problems."

Holy shit.

"So you have two choices: Don't run or buy the ten dollar inserts."

Now, I'm not the kind of guy who is going to ignore a doctor's advice. I also value the thought of being able to walk my daughter down the aisle without the help of a motorized scooter. So, I did the only thing that made sense.

Needless to say I don't run anymore.

She Did It For Her Son, That Bitch

2005-07-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

So this lady here has had a permanent tattoo of a casino placed on her forehead. Her rationale for this rather distinctive facial billboard is that she is receiving 15,000 dollars and that this money will pay for her son's education. Her comment, "It's a small sacrifice to build a better future for my son" just about makes tears well up in your eyes, doesn't it?

Well, not if you're her son.

Let's see what this means for that poor chap:

First of all, the son is now known at school as "The kid with that crazy mom who had a casino tattooed on her face." Knowing kids as we all do, this will subject him to such priceless conversations as, "I'm going to tattoo my fist on your forehead" or "Your mom likes selling her body, how much would it cost for me to have a go at her?"
Secondly, the kid has to live with the knowledge that his mom doesn't have a very bright vision of his future. I mean, 15K won't even pay for one year at Harvard. Telling your son that he has a whopping 15K for his education is tantamount to saying, "Kiddo, I know y'all don't got the brains for those big fancy pants schools, but this here money will pay for you to get your associates degree at Tulsa Community College in basketweaving."
Thirdly, she's practically driving him to a gambling addiction. Think of it this way: Every time his mom talks to him he'll have "goldenpalace.com" staring him in the face. Hell, when she kisses him good night, "goldenpalace.com" will be seared into his retina. Eventually, he'll be sitting at home watching TV and his mind will be overcome with one thought: "Must... log... onto... goldenpalace.com."
Finally, his bright and shiny familial example of how to deal with financial adversity is to... sell his body.

Yes, a career in gay porn is definitely in this kid's future.

The G-d G-d problem

2005-07-09T00:54:00.000-05:00

I was perusing Jamie Dawn's blog, which has a lot of neat anecdotes about things like her husband needing eight Q-tips to clean his skull orifices every morning, when I stumbled upon a comment from someone with the word "G-d" in it. Now, my immediate instinct was that they were using a polite acronym for goddamn, one of those good old-fashioned curse words that still has a bite, unlike these lame modern imposters like assclown or asshat. But, no, I was mistaken. The usage of "G-d" was actually describing "God," as in the almighty creator and the one who will eventually mete out the punishment for my subjecting you all to my thoughts.

Now, call me overly sensitive, but using a word for "God" that also means "goddamn" seems a tad disrespectful to the big guy. I mean, we don't call our country's leaders "dick" and "bush" do we? Okay, maybe that wasn't the best example, but you get my point.

I do understand the philosophy behind what the G-d people are trying to do (that's G-d as in "god" smartass), but the trouble is that this eventually leads to chaos. To wit: Presumably the goal in using G-d is to show respect for God by not using his name. Well, "God" isn't really his name is it? It's our representation of his name in the English language.

Now the more pious among you may say that it being a representation of his name is enough that we should respect it by not using it in print. Fair enough, but the moment we start using G-d, that becomes a representation of his name. Soon, we'll be needing to replace G-d with G--, and eventually after that it will have to be ---. Alas, even this homage to the hyphen will need to be replaced since it, too, will be a representation of God's name.

The only real solution is to simply avoid the naming thing entirely. Unfortunately, this leads to us referring to god as "you know who" or "he who shall not be named." And, I don't know about you, but when I hear phrases like that I immediately assume that someone named Hermione or Ron will be involved in the conversation shortly.

Goers & Yellers

2005-06-18T18:52:00.000-05:00

One of my pet peeves occurs when a family member yells through two or more rooms for me. Generally speaking, unless they are drawing my attention to a debilitating injury, something amusing that another family member is doing, or a cat with its head in the fish bowl, I believe they should come to me and discuss it.

Recently I tried to use some forceful parenting to break my three little daughters of this habit. It was during this pursuit that I learned that I was not facing laziness and bad habits; I was facing nothing less than a hardwired element of my daughters' personality. Or so my 3 1/2 year old daughter would have me believe.

She informed me of this while yelling across the house for me. After numerous attempts to get her to come to me, I finally decided to address this head-on with her on her turf. So I walked sternly into her room to find out what she needed and why, by all that is right in the world, she couldn't come to me and ask me directly.

She thought about it for a moment, and then very simply stated, "Because I'm a Yeller, and you're a Goer, Daddy." I then proceeded to be taught by my 42 month old daughter that she, her sister, and my wife were all "Yellers." I, on the other hand, was a Goer. This was how life was, and, as a Goer, I had to "go" when the Yellers called.

There was no room for discussion. This was the way of the world, and if I didn't like my position as a Goer, well, I should have thought of that before I became one. My wife witnessed this conversation and didn't help matters by vigorously nodding in agreement.

I actually tried the opposite tack and became a Yeller myself. Little did I realize that society as we know it breaks down when there are no Goers and all Yellers. Of course, as the Goer, I got blamed. A Goer that no longer "goes" is even worse than a Yeller apparantly.

As it is, I continue to fight the good fight, doing my best to recruit someone--anyone--over to the Goer side. It rarely works, however. Just the other day I told my daughter that if she wanted something, she would have to go get it herself. "Be a Goer!" I enthusiastically told her. She smiled, and replied, "But I'm a Yeller. You're the Goer!"

I nodded slowly. Sometimes acceptance is best.

Don't Be Fooled

2005-06-18T16:08:00.000-05:00

So I recently finished the book The Intelligencer, and I can say now in no uncertain terms: Just because a book has an interview with the author and a "book club" guide in the back doesn't mean it is well-written or worthy of being discussed.

I'm A Quick And Dirty Genius

2005-06-12T20:21:00.000-05:00

So my sister-in-law over at The Cross Chi-hoo-a-hoo-a posted one of those "How evil/sexy/crazy/etc. are you?" test result things, and it was about how smart you are. You may find the results of my earlier forays into this genre--"When Will I Die?"--here. Well, I know I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but it's name gave me some hope: A Quick And Dirty IQ Test. I may not be smart, but I am quick and dirty.

Alas, my instincts were correct, and I did well on this quick and dirty test. To wit:

Your IQ Is 135

Your Logical Intelligence is Genius
Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius
Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius
Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

My Unconscious Mind Betrays Me. That Bastard.

2005-06-11T20:58:00.000-05:00

So my daughter walks up to me and say, "Here's your ring, Daddy," and hands me my wedding ring. Now this completely shocks me, as I didn't remember ever taking my wedding ring off. It is extremely rare that I ever take my wedding ring off, and even then it is generally just so my daughters can play with it for a bit. But here was my three and a half year old daughter walking up to me and handing me my wedding ring, and I had absolutely no memory of taking it off. I certainly did not take if off that day for them to play with.

What was perhaps just as disturbing was the fact that I didn't notice. That would be like losing your middle finger and only realizing it when someone cut in front of you while you were driving to the grocery store. What was going on here?

The mystery was made only slightly less mysterious when my passing wife remarked, "Oh yeah, it was lying on the side of the bed when you woke up this morning." This was good in that I could be sure I wasn't losing my Conscious Mind. However, what the heck was my Unconscious Mind doing to me? I mean I thought we had a good thing going, and here it is somehow making me wiggle off my wedding ring in the middle of the night while I'm sleeping.

Then again, I can only imagine that after some 14 years of marriage to my wife, my Unconscious Mind has finally given in to its simmering jealousy of the daylight and Mr. Conscious Mind. Sure, it gets to be the one that plays in the NBA, is often rich, and I'm sure it even found a cure for cancer and world hunger in there at some point. Heck--let's be honest here--it even gets to have sex with lots of different women. But, it also is the one that has experienced the crash of a plane into a building (before 9/11 no less), a child dying, and countless occasions of running from a monster only to find his feet can't move for some reason.

So it's not all Hugh Hefner and James Bond in there.

Now put yourself in Unconscious Mind's shoes during the day. It has to sit there in the background while Conscious Mind is playing in the pool with my kids, having an amusing conversation with my wife, or taking joy in solving one work problem or another. Even the bad things that happen are a cruel joke. You can almost hear the spite in his voice, "You're upset over a fight with your wife? Well, try fruitlessly searching for that mail you left in your college post office box...for 15 years! Not bad enough? How about showing up somewhere important and realizing you have no clothes on! Still not bad enough, how about watching a plane fly straight toward your eightieth floor office window!"

Damn, maybe having sex with Angelina Jolie doesn't make all those other moments any easier for Unconscious Mind.

So I think my Unconscious Mind has finally had it. It's trying to break up my marriage. It made me remove my wedding ring while I slept. So simple. So brilliant. Imagine facing your wife with this scenario: "Uh, honey. I seem to have lost my wedding ring, and I appear to have blacked out as to when and how I did it." A blackout and lost wedding ring isn't the kind of combination that would be easy to rationalize to a suspicious wife.

Thankfully, my wife trusts me and found the whole thing rather humorous. So... Up yours, Unconscious Mind! It didn't work! I'm still happy during the day, and I will be swimming again with my daughters again tomorrow.

Oh, and just between you and me... James Bond would be nice tonight. Especially if he meets Angelina Jolie.

I Am Not The Nice Guy Hulk

2005-06-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

It's a scene that has been portrayed so many times it's a cliche: A bunch of uncaring brutish young men are rough-housing around the pool and ruining the fun of all the families nearby. Perhaps one chap confronts them, but he is mercilessly knocked down and scurries away with his proverbial tail between his legs. The result is a continuing miserable time for all.

But suddenly, Mr. Nice Guy Hulk comes by and "politely" tells the miscreants to cut it out. They, then, become the ones scurrying away, proverbial tails and all.

This scene happened to me earlier today, and, with no Nice Guy Hulks in sight, I had to play his part.

It started with a group of twenty-something guys drinking beer and tossing a football across the pool. They were particularly bad, and the ball kept flying off and almost hitting people. No one really paid them any mind because "almost hitting someone" isn't really the same as "hitting someone."

Well, it didn't take too long before the ball veered wildly from its intended target and hit the young boy my eight year old daughter was playing with. It hit him along his cheek, and I could tell that it hurt. The intended target of the errant pass realized that they had crossed over the line from "we're being reckless enough that we might hurt someone" to "shit, we actually hurt someone" and immediately told the boy he was sorry. He then yelled to the passer to come down and apologize, but by then the boy had moved on to commiserate with my daughter. The passer laughed it off and just asked for the ball.

This pissed me off, but I foolishly felt that the group would be more careful. Well, they continued to throw the football, and the passes continued to fly to the left, right, and over the head of the intended target.

Then one of the passes happened to veer off target and smack my daughter square on the side of the head.

She was crying, and I immediately went to her. I absent-mindedly picked up the football as I comforted her. As she settled down, I turned to the guy who passed the ball. He was about ten yards away, so I raised my voice, and, loud enough for the whole pool to hear, said, "Can't you guys find a better place to play football." It wasn't voiced as a question.

The passer just shrugged and stood there. It was then that I realized I had the football, and he was actually waiting for me to pass it back to him. It was at this point that I lost my temper a bit. I don't lose my temper very often, and I'm told that I have a rather scary and intense look when I do. Whatever the case, I then said, rather forcefully, "Can't you find a better fucking place to play football?" I then turned and rather disgustedly tossed the ball to his buddy the intended pass recipient.

The group didn't throw another pass the rest of the afternoon.

I'd like to say that it was my temper-driven intensity that drove them to stop. Or the on-the-verge-of-boiling-over anger in my voice. I'd also like to say that I look like the kind of guy that bullies don't want to mess with. In short, I'd like to say that I fit the Nice Guy Hulk profile, but, to be honest, none of that is true.

I was standing there in loose fitting polyester workout pants masquarading as a swim suit, my belly hanging over the elastic, wearing glasses patched together with white medical tape, and patchy sunscreen smeared on my bald spot. It sure as hell wasn't my intimidating presence that brought peace to the pool. I realize now in hindsight why the men cowered and humbled themselves into stopping. It wasn't me at all; it was the crying 8 year old at my side.

Nobody wants to be known as the guy that hurts little girls. And all I did was make the fact very public to the entire pool. I may be intense, but they weren't intimidated by me or scared of me. I was simply a conduit between my daughter's pain and their consciousness. The poor boy who was hit in the head earlier didn't have a parent at the pool. He was, sadly enough, easy to shrug off.

So I did play the role of the Nice Guy Hulk, although I sure as hell didn't look the part. All I did was speak up.

Sometimes that's enough.

One thought short of a brilliancy

2005-05-28T21:24:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit it: Sometimes I go into something with a smug attitude knowing that my brilliancy will just dazzle others. I do that thing I do and then just sit back and enjoy the adulation. Unfortunately, when you are surrounded by people smarter than you are, these planned moments never turn out the way you hope they will. Case in point: Toilet training my three year old daughter.

So my daughter is sitting on the potty, and I had planned an incredible and, dare I say it, quite brilliant way of getting her to be enthusiastic about pooping on said potty. Up to that point, to put her at ease on the toilet, I had promised her that I would tell her stories, which helped a little bit. Then I had the idea of weaving the process of using the potty into a story that would make my daughter never want to use her diaper again. Brilliant!

What made this better of course was that my wife was sitting in the next room and could hear. Now I could be brilliant with an audience. It doesn't get any better than that.

So I started telling my daughter the story of Roger the poop, who wanted, more than anything in the world, to swim in the ocean with the fish. So Roger the poop really hoped that my daughter would not use a diaper, because then he would never end up in the potty. I then explained that the potty led to pipes under the house, and these pipes led to the river, and the river led to the ocean. If only she would use the potty, Roger would be happy and be able to swim in the ocean with the fish!

Well, it kinda sorta worked. She did use the potty, but it didn't really seem that she was more enthusiastic than before my story. Still, I thought it was the building block of an innovative and creative way of toilet training my daughter.

After my daughter ran out of the bathroom, I rather jauntily walked over to my wife. I was about to say, "Am I not the most brilliant potty trainer ever," when she looked up from her book and stated matter-of-factly, "You know, now she'll never want to swim in the ocean."

Damn.

I thought I was deflated then, but the very next day my daughter came up to me and said, "Daddy, tell me the story about Roger the poop and how he likes being in a diaper!"

Sigh. At least now she'll swim in the ocean.

Five Things I'm Not Good At

2005-05-21T11:22:00.000-05:00

My wife will probably add quite a few more under the comments...

1. Saying "no" to someone I love.
2. Cooking.
3. Managing money.
4. Managing time.
5. Sending out cards on special occasions.

I Haven't Died

2005-05-21T11:20:00.000-05:00

Just been busy with work and kids and assorted other things. Oh, and I lost all my bookmarks upgrading Firefox.

Firefox, I love thee, but you can be a cruel mistress sometimes.

Why My Wife Is Better Than Your Wife

2005-04-24T09:52:00.000-05:00

She is the best mom in the world.

Her favorite car in the world is a Kharmann Ghia, which is cool because it's the car most like her:

Sleek and sporty in a kind of subtle way
Kind of noisy
Very rare
Not very practical
Very cool

Her strengths balance my weaknesses.

She has a lot of strengths.

She is still the sexiest woman I have ever met.

She is just enough smarter than me that I'm not intimidated by her.

She is smarter than me.

She likes the same junk food I like.

She is challenging and will never bore me.

She is interesting and will always intrigue me.

She wins friends easily but is careful in choosing her friends.

She's a night owl.

She puts up with comments like this:

Me: "But I need you to remind me only at the exact time that I can do it. Not the day before or even 15 minutes before, but at the exact time I can do it, that's when you need to remind me."
Her: "So to get anything done in the house, I have to basically be an alarm clock."
Me: "More or less"

She hasn't divorced me yet.

She hates being the one who lays down the law in the house for the kids, but she rarely ever admits it to me.

We can spend the entire day in different rooms of the house, yet I can still feel her close to me. I can spend 15 minutes outside the house without her, and I miss her terribly.

She is a total technophobe, but she has a blog, a damn good blog.

Her favorite radio station is XM Kids.

She has the most beautiful eyes in the world, and I will never get tired of getting lost in them.

She loves herself, her family, and her life, but she strives for more.

She hates injustice in the world, and actually does what she can to change things.

People call her by her middle name.

She has cool tastes in books.

She gave birth to three kids with no C-sections.

She has a high pain threshold.

She likes British comedies.

She is a great cook.

She loves eating out at restaurants.

She married me (and up and moved 1000 miles away) after we had dated for less than a year.

She makes me better.

She makes this list hard because I could go on and on.

So I'll end here by saying that you can leave comments about how cool your wife is, but it won't matter. She is nowhere near as cool as my wife.

I win a small battle against the ass bastards

2005-04-17T11:14:00.000-05:00

While I have no doubt that I'm going to lose my personal war against the idiots that use the various new ass-phrases ("assclown" and "asshat" chief among them. See this post for more details), I am glad to report that I recently won a small battle on the front lines of effective cursing against these pretenders.

I was in a group of guys chatting about guy things, when, lo and behold, the following flashed on my screen:

lol. Tommy is such an asshat

Okay, my three loyal readers know me well enough by now to know that this is the kind of opening in the ass bastard war that I couldn't pass up. So I immediately typed:

asshat has to be one of the most idiotic insults ever

This response led to the following short exchange:

Idiot: I know. That's why I use it!
Me: You use it because it's stupid?
Idiot: Yes. It's just funny.
Me: So did you want to insult this guy or just make him laugh?
Idiot: Didn't want to necessarily insult him. He was being a dumbass, and I wanted to tell him that.
Me: So why didn't you just call him a dumbass?
Idiot: Asshat is more cool
Me: So let me get this straight. You want to let this guy know he's being an idiot. So you call him a name that isn't insulting but is dumb and goofy and, more than likely, will make him laugh at *you* for being an idiot?
Idiot: Don't be an asshole.

Yes! I converted him, in the space of one conversation, from asshat back to asshole.

So, listen up you ass bastards. I'm out there. I'm paying attention. And I'll be taking every opportunity I can to stop your proliferation. You have been warned.

Sylvana, the one next to the other one

2005-04-16T22:44:00.000-05:00

Read this and this.

Shit. Now I actually have to make the effort to post on this damn blog.

Oh sure, I started out pretty active, and I've had some fun posting the occasional ode to the quirky things that life tosses my way, but until recently I didn't give much thought about getting all serious or anything.

It's kind of like that relationship you had when you were just out of college. Sure, you had to get a job and be all responsible and everything, but did that have to translate to the girl you asked out on Saturday night? I mean, you spent a bunch of time with her at first, but couldn't you just let that turn into the occasional dalliance and then not worry about her for, like, a few weeks?

I guess I should have learned my lesson back then, because the answer then was, "No, you immature egocentric shithead. You actually do have to treat me like a human being."

Who knew blogs were like girlfriends? I'll tell you who knew: Sylvana knew.

Sylvana is like that other girl you meet when you're trying to get in the pants of the girl sitting not quite demurely at the bar. You know: The really cool one sitting next to the slutty one. The one you actually like talking to. The one who knows just what kind of a nightmare of a trainwreck you are heading toward, but the one who is just too amused, too cruel, and too kind to let you know. So after the blog, er, girlfriend gets all hurt that you've been ignoring her, Sylvana is the one who calls and quite succinctly tells you, "You are being an immature egocentric shithead."

Thanks, Sylvana. I guess you're right. I need to either commit or just admit I'm not cut out for a serious relationship.

I'm not sure which way this is going to go at this point. But I guess I kind of do like dallying with writing in this blog. So let's make a temporary commitment. You know, a friendship ring or something. I'm sure if I fuck it all up Sylvana will be there at the end telling all my friends, "Well, I could have predicted that was going to happen."

Tooma hits a snag

2005-04-16T22:28:00.000-05:00

The three loyal readers of this blog are aware of my wonderful and quite accurate method of engaging in a debate: Rely on Tooma and everything will work out in my favor. Tooma, as you may recall, stands for "talking out of my ass," a rather unfortunate nom de plume given by my wife to my method of debating things. While my wife tends to think that I lose every argument between us, the sad reality is that Tooma tends to reign supreme.

Unfortunately, Tooma took a bit of a brusing recently thanks to an argument over Scooby Doo.

While the circumstances of this witty exchange escape me, the basic point of contention was whether Mystery Inc. had ever skydived and used a hang-glider to escape to safety. Well, I've seen a lot of Scooby Doo in my day, and I didn't ever recall them skydiving, so in my finest Tooma fashion, I basically told my wife that she was flat out wrong. Mystery Inc. never sky dived or hang-glided or anything similar. Clearly she was thinking of Josie And The Pussycats or HR Puf'n'stuf.

Well, Tooma took a hit I'm here to tell you. It turns out the damn Scooby Doo gang did glide or skydive or something to safety in one of their episodes. Much to the glee of my wife, I had to admit that, at least in this instance, I must have been really truly talking out of my ass.

Dammit. Who knew? How could have I missed this one episode? It must have been one of those episodes that my mom dragged me away from to do the dishes or something. Damn her.

Wait, I can't blame mom. I would have been able to sustain the perfection of Tooma if only this specific debate hadn't occured. So I know exactly to where to lay the blame.

I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling kids!

Making Sure I Get The Message

2005-03-29T21:20:00.001-06:00

So my wonderful three year old daughter is in the process of being potty trained. She's doing quite well. She's got the steps down, and she actually does them in the correct order. The only hang up at the moment is that she can't quite reach the faucet in mommy and daddy's bathroom. Unfortunately, this is the bathroom of choice for our family, so she tends to require quite a bit of lifting to reach the sink so she can clean her hands.

But, hey, at least she knows she has to wash her hands.

The trouble is, I don't think she quite grasps the concept as to why it is so important to wash her hands, as demonstrated earlier today.

I was sitting on my bed working on my laptop, when my daughter walks up to me and presses her palm against my face. I kiss it, smile, and ask her, "What do you need honey?"

Her response was to say, "I need help washing my hands after using the potty."

Needless to say we both used the faucet moments later.

I've Found My Dream Job

2005-03-27T00:58:00.000-06:00

I don't know many people who can say that that have found their dream job. You all know the saying: If you enjoy your work, you'll never work another day in your life. I feel like that. It makes me wonder how I got here.

When I was in high school, my dream was to be a writer. In fact, in my high school yearbook, I wrote that my goal was to be "a Pulitzer prize winning author." So I went off to college and studied English.

However, after I gradutated college, I started spending time at a radio station in Pittsburgh while going to graduate school to further my writing aspirations. When my time in radio started to outweigh my time writing, I decided I had to make a decision. I chose radio.

I wish I could give you a brilliant explanation as to how this critical decision was made, but the bottom line is that I really just enjoyed radio more. Radio is challenging, but it is also a lot of fun. Challenging and fun? I'm there.

Of course I chucked radio two years later when a record company quadrupled my salary (yes, quadrupled) to do record company promotion in Dallas. This was an interesting decision for me. I just basically chased the cash and put everything else aside. Hell, my expense account alone was more than anyone I knew was making in a year. Luckily, my girlfriend decided to follow me to Dallas in the new role as my wife.

So I was having fun doing record promotion, but it was a total drag on my life: I was traveling a lot, and my job really was my life. It wasn't fair to my wife, and it wasn't really fair to me. Luckily enough, my company crashed and burned, and I was laid off from my job, a job that was most certainly not a dream job. Talk about good luck. Well, I consider it good luck now. Back then it was something between despair and terror. I mean, you kinda get used to weekly dinners at the Palm.

Typically for my wife and I, when confronted with a challenge, we just throw caution to the wind and follow our hearts. In this instance, I started my own business, publishing a fax publication for Alternative radio. My timing was good, and it went pretty well. In the spectrum of job satisfaction, this was a great job: I worked from home, I had my own hours, and I had a ton of flexibility. The financial end was rather dicey, but we roughly made it work.

I also faced a new job at this time: Dad. My first daughter was born right in the middle of this new self-employment kick. I did a lot of diaper changing, feeding, playing, and coaxing, soothing, and patting a little girl to sleep.

So I had two cool jobs, self-employment where I was a writer (wasn't that my high school dream job?) and a new baby. Life was good.

Then a company called Radio & Records called. They wanted me to move to LA for double my old record company salary. You remember that job, right--the cash grab that was quadruple my radio salary? Well, this job was triple the pay of the record company job and I'd be a writer for a big-time trade publication. Talk about a short conversation: "Honey, would you like to make a six figure salary and live on the beach in Los Angeles?" I don't even think my wife answered me. She was already packing her suitcase.

So we moved to Santa Monica. It was nice, but expensive. The job was good, but the company wasn't. So we moved back to Dallas, somehow with me keeping the cushy salary and the job. Life was good again. Nice big house. Nice big salary. I worked from home again, and--surprise--we were blessed with another little girl.

So now I was kind of back to my previous Dallas spot: Cool writing job working from home and a new baby. There were two differences: Baby #1 was older and a bit more high maintenance, and the job wasn't as fun. Actually, the job was fine, not great but fine, but the politics and everything really sucked. That said, it was nice to receive a big fat bi-weekly paycheck. So life was good. I also really liked spending time with two girls. Honestly, what's better than one daughter? Two.

But then I got laid off again, and this time things weren't as good. I started my publication over again but the business had changed and I was faced with a dramatic reduction in salary. I didn't go all the way back to my radio salary from 1991...but it was close. The funny thing is, though, that I really had fun on this job. Daughter #3 was born at this time, and I got to have a blast with my wife and three girls, and--oh yeah--I worked a bit. If our financial situation wasn't quickly slipping into oblivion, life would have been great.

Luckly, I got a new job and it was kind of like the culmination of all my other jobs: I am a radio consultant. I write a lot of reports, but they aren't theoretical. They are hands on things that directly affect what people hear on the radio. In a sense, that job I abandoned my writing career for back in 1989 is the job I have now...only it has all of the positives and none of the negatives: I get to work from home, my bosses love me, they appreciate my creativity, and they pay me pretty well, to boot. This is the best of all possible worlds.

At the same time, I get to spend all my time with my three daughters, too. And this is where it all comes together. Talk about a dream job. What could be better than that?

So it's funny. When I gradutated from high school I thought my dream job was to be a writer, sitting alone in the act of creation, and here it is almost twenty years later, and I've discovered what my real dream job is, and without realizing it, I've shoehorned all my career choices down a path that leads to this job choice, a choice that has nothing to do with being alone and everything to do with being a critical part of a developing group, a choice, by-the-way, which in the end wasn't a choice at all.

So, here I am. Living my dream job, and it is awesome.

I wouldn't trade the job of being the dad to three girls for anything in the world.

I Pet Things

2005-03-11T21:59:00.000-06:00

I remember once walking through a room and my sister-in-law saying, "You know, you can't walk past a cat without petting it." I realized immediately she was right. I had just walked past her cat, Simone, and, without thinking, just pet it on the head.

This hit me the other day when I was outside with my kids taking a walk, and a huge Great Dane was walking past. The kids had their fun playing with the horse-like dog, while I held our little rat-sized quivering poodle in my arms. After the kids finished and we separated in different directions, instead of following my kids I immediately turned around and ran over to pet the Great Dane before it could leave.

I just had to pet it. I think it is a pathological tendency, because I started tracking my behavior in rooms with pets.

Immediately after the Great Dane scenario, I was walking through the living room of our apartment, and I took a detour around the coffee table simply pet our cat, Akira. There was no reason to. I had something to do and somewhere to go, but I had to pet .... that .... cat.

It also struck me that when my daughter cries at night, and I get up to take care of her, I can't crawl out of bed without petting the cat at the base of the bed first.

When I'm visiting others, and they have a dog or cat. The poor thing is guaranteed to have my mitts on it at least once that night.

Lest you think this is limited to dogs and cats. I remember making the rounds of one of the buildings with fun and exotic animals at the Texas State Fair. Yes, I believe I petted every single one of the damn things. Even the one that said, "Please do not touch the Emu. It bites." Well, to hell with that. I'm going to pet the damn thing even if it costs me a finger.

So I pet things. I guess there are worse things you can have as a mania.

Just keep me out of strip clubs.

The Purple State by Doctor Seuss

2005-03-03T00:34:00.000-06:00

Red state
Blue state
George state
John state

Why can't we have a we all get along state?

Blue Red

Purple!

We would be conserveral!

Liberative would also be good.

Or republicrat or demoblican...

All would be welcome in our land!

Politics and spin control
Would have no place

Within our nice little purple state.

We would vote for being nice.
Petting dogs, and flying kites.

We like this place, and we like you, too!

For there is no purple, without red and blue.

Are You A Snapshot Person Or A Movie Person?

2005-02-27T21:29:00.000-06:00

Some people look at life as a snapshot, while others look at life as a movie.

If you look at life as a snapshot, you examine and judge your life as it is right now. You don't really look at the future. You don't examine the past very much. All that really informs your life can be summarized in your life situation as you are currently living it. If things are great, you are very happy. If things aren't that great, you are unhappy. You are experiencing life and all the attendant ups and downs as they happen.

The biggest trouble with this worldview is that there are long-term changes that occur in everyone's life, and when those changes are excluded from your perspective, your current feelings become amplified. For a snapshot person, a long-term upside almost doesn't matter. You discount it as you can only really grasp your current unhappiness. The likewise is true, as well. If things are slowly deteriorating, but your short-term decisions and life are bringing you happiness, you will be walloped by a dramatic change in your fortune, a change that should have realistically been softened by a more longitudinal worldview.

The good part of a snapshot person is that they are certainly living life in the moment. Their emotions are not dulled by optimism or pessimism. In fact, they are often wrongly called pessimists when things are going bad, simply because they can't fathom long-term positive change around them. Conversely, they can be considered ostrich-like optimists when things start to go bad. They won't ignore the bad signs that face them daily, after all they are snapshot people, but they will dramatically underestimate long-term problems simply because they lack the ability to understand that perspective.

Movie people look at life as an ever-changing timeline, a movie if you will. Daily misfortune is sad and windfalls are nice, but they are placed within the framework of where their life is in the big picture. A movie person may be having a bad day, but he or she will understand that it is either a momentary setback or part of a larger problem. If it is a good day, a similar view will occur. The relevance of a movie person's immediate feelings are always framed within how their life is flowing in the big picture.

This creates a context for feelings, good and bad, which tempers a movie person's emotions. Movie people will often be considered dispassionate when responding calmly to incredibly good news or unfeeling when responding the same way to incredibly bad news. To themselves, however, they are viewing life through a much bigger lens. This inability to truly lose one's self in the moment is the biggest drawback to a movie person. In a sense, there are no moments, there is only life, and these moments are simply small parts of it.

When you think of the greatest moments in one's life, be it a wedding, a birth, or a death, a movie person will almost always be looked at as the dispassionate participant. You don't want a room full of movie people at a wedding or a funeral. They are out of place at either event.

It is for this reason that a movie person often regrets his or her inability to experience life the way a snapshot person does. A movie person is always looking for some way to lose one's self in the moment. It never happens, and the movie person will continue to experience life with a certain steadiness, not letting the highs get them too high or the lows get them too low.

Snapshot people, on the other hand, wish they had to center of a movie person. The cosmic changes of life seem interminable. This is fine when a snapshot person is spending months at a time enjoying the fruits of his or her labor. But if life throws you a curve and you are heading to or are at rock bottom, the day-to-day problems create a darkness that appears to have no end. It is here where a snapshot person wishes they could see the light at the end of the tunnel that the movie person sees. To them they are simply in a dark room.

I think I'm a movie person, and I married a snapshot person. And the more I think about it the more I think there couldn't be a better combination. My wife clings to my hope when things are bad and does her best to drag me up when things are good. My steadfastness in the moment alters her snapshot, while her passion forces my movie director's attention to the current scene.

We are still movie people and snapshot people, but we have allowed ourselves a glimpse of a middle world, which can at once make our lives more full and drive us both crazy.

Speaking of crazy, kids are nothing but snapshot people. If you don't make them happy now, their life sucks and it always will. Movie people parents to be: You have been warned.

A Short Sports/Culture Quiz

2005-02-20T02:32:00.000-06:00

I asked my 8 year old daughter if she could name one participant in various entertainment/sports industry positions. Here are her responses:

Q: Name a football player.
A: I don't know any.

Q: Name a baseball player.
A: I don't know any.

Q: Name a basketball player.
A: Shaquille O'Neal.

Q: Name a soccer player.
A: I don't know any.

Q: Name another sports player.
A: Wilma Rudolph.

Q: Name a comedian.
A: Eddie Murphy.

Q: Name an actor.
A: Raven Simone

Q: Name a singer.
A: Jessica Simpson.

That Thing Over There

2005-02-19T23:36:00.000-06:00

My wife has a lot of neat personality quirks. One of them is that she thinks I can read her mind. I guess it's charming in a way, but it sure can drive you crazy. The trouble is--and I don't think she's grasped this yet--I can't read her mind.

This annoys her to no end. It's actually a double annoyance. I annoy her when I guess and get it wrong, and I annoy her when I refuse to guess and ask her a bunch of questions to get at what it is that she wants.

My most common dereliction of mind-reading duty comes when I grasp the general concept but wrongly assume that it is a simple request of a general nature:

Her: Honey, my feet are cold. Would you mind getting me some socks?
Me: Of course not! [I trudge across the house, up the stairs, across the second floor, retrieve socks, cross second floor, descend stairs, cross first floor, and anticipate triumphantly handing said pair of socks to adoring wife]
Her: These aren't the socks I wanted. I wanted my big fluffy warm socks!
Me: Sorry! I'll go get those.
Her: [Annoyed] No, these will do, I guess.

Sometimes I don't realize that this game is afoot until its too late:

Me: I'm heading to the kitchen. Do you want anything?
Her: Can you get my book from my nightstand in the bedroom?
Me: Sure. [I dutifully head to the bedroom, whereupon I find a nightstand with six books on it.]

This scenario has actually evolved over numerous repetitions. I started by guessing which book she wanted. But it quickly became apparant that 6/1 odds don't exactly work in your favor. So then I went to the "can't lose" strategy of bringing all the books. This left her, you guessed it, annoyed.

There's also the "it's so obvious you shouldn't even have to read my mind" scenario:

Me: I'm going to the kitchen to get a sandwich. Do you want anything?
Her: [Brightly] Oh, yes! Would you make me one, too?
Me: Sure. [You can't really get this one wrong, I think. I make myself a sandwich, make her one, and then dutifully return to the bedroom]
Me: Here's your sandwich.
Her: You didn't get me a drink?
Me: [Exasperated] You didn't say you wanted a drink.
Her: [You guessed it--annoyed] You know I always want something to drink with a sandwich!

There's also this scenario:

Me: [Entering bedroom with a piece of chocolate cake]
Her: [Frowning] You went to the kitchen and didn't bring me a piece of cake?
Me: [Deer in the headlights look on my face] Well, I didn't know you wanted a piece of cake.

Oh, yeah. She was annoyed in the last scenario, too.

Most often, my fictional mind-reading abilities are needed when I'm asked to get something generic, like a shirt or coat, when my wife wants something specific. For example:

Her: Honey, would you mind getting my black shirt from the closet?
Me: Sure. [I head to the closet and grab a black shirt and return in anticipated triumph]
Me: Here you go.
Her: Not this shirt. Why in God's name would you think I wanted this shirt?
Me: Uh uh uh. [The response, "Because it's black" isn't an option]

The sad part is that this scene can actually go several rounds:

Me: Okay, let me get you the one you want. [I head to closet, put first black shirt away, and grab a new black shirt. I return with the second black shirt]
Her: Gawd. That's not the shirt I want.
Me: Well, which one do you want? [Turning around and heading back to closet]
Her: Never mind. I'll get it myself.

The annoyed "never mind, I'll get it myself" response has also become more frequent now that I've pretty much given up trying to actually read my wife's mind. To wit:

Her: Would you mind getting my book from the bedroom?
Me: Which book?
Her: One Hundred Years Of Solitude.
Me: Where is it?
Her: In the bedroom. I just told you that.
Me: Yeah, but where in the bedroom? On the nightstand? On the bed? Next to the TV?
Her: [Rolling eyes] I'll get it myself.

Still, I love my wife for her continuing confidence in my ability to read her mind. Not that long ago she was working on a project in bed while I was watching TV. She looked up and...

Her: Honey, can you get that thing over there?
Me: [Looking up and then frantically looking around the room, pretending I didn't hear her] What's that?
Her: [Pointing in the general vicinity of the door] You know, that thing. I need it to finish this. It's over there.
Me: Uh, uh, okay.

Wouldn't you know, after one step I saw the thing that was over there. I handed it to my wife, after which she smiled sweetly and said, "Thank you."

To this day, I don't think she realized the incredible feat of mind reading I had just achieved.

Aarrrgghhhhh The Glare The Glare!

2005-02-19T02:28:00.000-06:00

So my family is having a nice educational trip to the Science Place, a kind of playground of science for kids here in Dallas. In one room, my daughter runs up to a remote control video camera, complete with video screen. She fiddles around with it, and called me over.

Now, she just wanted to show me how cool the thing was, I'm sure. But the moment I walked over, I looked at the screen, and the entire damn thing was filled with the top of this poor sap's head. He had long hair slicked back over an obviously balding head. I mean seriously balding. Heh, I thought: My daughter's focusing on bald heads and bums and other funny things with this camera. She's a bit of a smartass.

Anyway, I was reaching out to move the camera to focus on something somewhat more respectable when the the poor bastard on the video screen moved his hand at the same time. I slowly looked straight up, and there staring me in the face was the damn camera.

You know, in hindsight, the guy on the screen really didn't look that bald. In fact, I think he looked downright noble in an aging with dignity kind of way. Actually, he was kind of cool, with that long hair making the statement that you can be balding and still be daring.

Bah, who am I kidding? The first thought I had when I looked at the screen was, "The glare! The glare!"

The Ass Bastards Strike Again

2005-02-12T18:15:00.000-06:00

It is getting worse. Much worse.

I've previously written about the alarming trend of creating new ass-related words, such as assclown, asshat, and assdick. I've just stumbled upon a new variation, and this one is just as bad as those. Perhaps what makes this one even worse is that some sick bastard has actually decided to post a definition of the damn thing on the Internet.

This new variation is "asswich." The sadly misguided but quite appropriately named dickumbrage has defined asswhich on his blog thusly:

ass.wich(ass' wich)
n. Vulgar Slang pl. ass.wich

1. A mock sandwich assembled using the buttocks and rectum.
"I thought the trick with the ping pong balls was neat, but then my Thai hooker showed me asswich."

2. Any culinary object bearing a resemblence to (1.) above.
"I went to new employee orientation for Southern Private University, and they served bagels. Put the right kind of cream cheese on those shits, and you've made yourself asswich."

3. Insult. A person whose company recalls the aroma or flavor of (1.) above.

As if this weren't bad enough, this fellow is quite proud of the fact that if you do a Google search on "asswich," his site comes up first. Now I'm not going to discuss how low your self-opinion must be to actually preen over being known for the home of asswich, but I will once again let it be known that these ass-conjoined words need to be snuffed out once and for all.

I hate to break it to you asswichites, but you're not really blazing any new trails here. I can recite a whole litany of curse words that perfectly cover the insult spectrum and have been around for quite some time. There is also the fact that asswich doesn't come close to meeting the Hell's Angel beating test: If calling a biker the word doesn't get you beaten mercilessly, it's not very good.

You could call a Hell's Angel an asswich, but he'd probably just shake his head and roll his eyes. Just like I'm doing now.

The Insidious Classics

2005-02-09T23:03:00.000-06:00

So my precocious eight year old daughter piped up from the back seat of the car yesterday, "I finished Aesop's Fables!" This delighted me to no end because she was reading a hardbound version featuring a reprint of one of the older collections from the 1800s. Smart kid. She's doing her papa proud.

But then, while I was basking in my daughter's brilliance, she continued, "But I don't follow all the lessons of the fables."

Not following the lessons from Aesop's Fables? How can this be? Has my daughter taken our carefully nurtured disrespect for authority a tad too far? Is she trying to shock us? What is going on?

"What lessons don't you follow," I tentatively asked.

"Well, sometimes my friends are mean to me at school, but I still do nice things for them."

Not quite understanding her, I asked, "But how is that not following the lessons from Aesop's Fables?"

She replied, clearly exasporated with her dense father, "The wolf and the crane, dad. The wolf and the crane!"

Still not getting it, I asked the obvious follow-up. "Well, what's the lesson of the wolf and the crane?"

"That some people don't deserve to be treated nice," she answered simply.

What the hell? There's a lesson in there that some people don't deserve to be treated nice? What the heck kind of book is this? When was this damn thing written? In the dark ages?

Well, okay, that was kind of a dumb question. The book was actually written before the dark ages.

Anyway, lesson learned. I'm going to have to monitor these insidious classics more closely. Next thing you know she'll want to read the bible, which features such things as murder, adultery, betrayal, genocide, and some pretty risque sexual content.

Boy, it's getting to where you can't trust anything with your kids anymore. Wait, that's not true. You can always trust Noggin.

Little Bear rocks.

Why Couldn't She Be A Porn Star?

2005-02-08T01:00:00.000-06:00

Here's my latest crush. She's got that wholesome cute look that I've gone for since, well, since I discovered that girls are actually kinda neat. The trouble is that she hosts a knitting show.

Let's say that again: A knitting show.

My only hope of remaining cool is if she somehow has a home porn tape released on the Internet.

Pieces Of Ass

2005-02-06T01:45:00.000-06:00

I don't know who started it. I don't know when it started. I don't know why it started. But for the love of God people, please stop trying to create new curse words. Just stop.

The absolute worst offenders are those who have decided that the word "asshole" is too crass and the word "ass" isn't strong enough. The result is a parade of ass-related words that are just plain embarassing.

Who in their right mind thought that the word "asshat" was clever? Rule of thumb folks: If it's an insult that would only generate a snicker from a Hell's Angel when used on them, it's not really very good. To really count, you need to inspire a good sound beating, preferably with an improvised weapon like a tire iron or motorcycle helmet.

And "assclown?" Who was the genius that came up with that? It's like the person couldn't decide whether to call the person a clown or an ass and in a state of indecision just spat out assclown.

One variation I heard this week was "assdick." This at least has good old-fashioned homophobic connotations, but it's still lame. It's like the person is too scared to out himself as a bigot by using "fag," so he tries to halfway hide his true nature by creating another ass word. Hey, you can't seriously call someone a homophobic bigot when they're working in the tradition of "asshat" and "assclown."

I'm not sure what the next unfortunate "ass" word is going to be, but I'm dreading it. It won't be good. It won't be clever, and it really won't be very insulting. But it will happen.

Assbastards.

This Isn't Good

2005-02-05T22:10:00.000-06:00

From The Department Of Clueless Parenting

2005-02-05T21:18:00.000-06:00

My daughter was at a friend's birthday party today, and I was once again confronted with the simple ineptitude that is all too common in parents today.

This party was a particularly good one, with inflated slides and bouncing rooms and an inflated obstacle course. The kids just couldn't get enough of bouncing all over the place. Toward the end of the party, the parents were asked to round up the kids and bring them into another room to sing happy birthday. At this point, I was witness to the following conversation right next to me:

Dad: C'mon, son. We have to stop now.
Son: I don't want to stop!
Dad: I know, but they have pizza in the other room!
Son: I don't like pizza!
Dad: You do so like pizza. Let's go get some pizza.
Son: I don't want pizza!
Dad: They also have lemonade.
Son: (you guessed it) I don't like lemonade!
Dad: Well, I'll see about getting you a soda.
Son: I'm not thirsty. I want to play some more.
Dad: Now I've had enough of this. You are going to put your shoes on and come with me to the other room.
Son: I don't want to leave!

At this point I leaned over and said:

Me: Hey, you know they are going to sing happy birthday and have cake and ice cream.
Boy: Cake and ice cream! (turning to his father) Daddy, can you help me get my shoes on?

I rule.

Tooma: Love It, Embrace it, Accept It

2005-02-05T14:04:00.000-06:00

I recently had a disagreement with my wife over the etymology of the "GI" used in the name of GI Joe action figures (I'm a guy. I refuse to call it a doll). She was adamant it rererred to "general infantry," while I stated that it referred to "governement issue." We were in the car, but I could see the fire in my wife's eyes, and I knew the moment we were home, she would be googling and yahooing and alta vistaing and whatever the hell elsing in a mad attempt to prove me wrong.

Unlike my wife, I have no such need for objective reinforcement. Nor do I have the tenacity to hunt through obscure websites to find that one answer. This annoys my wife to no end, and she never hesitates to tell me that I'm "talking out of my ass." Truth be told, I much prefer the tried and true "talking out of my ass" method of argument bolsterization (is "bolsterization" a word? Don't ask me, I'm talking out of my ass). I've even coined a cute acronym for it: tooma. As in, "Where'd you find that information out?" "Oh, tooma." Call it my own cutting edge search engine. Other people google; I tooma.

So in this issue of google versus tooma, I am proud to note that tooma was once again victorious. My wife did the research on GI Joe and it does, indeed, refer to "government issue." You can even read her grudging and not nearly sincere enough admission of my eternal rightness here.

So, with that out of the way, let me add some background to the story of GI Joe:

The crux of the question is why are army grunts called GIs? And who first started calling them that? The answer, using the tooma method, centers around who called them GIs. The term "GI" was originated by the civilians in France and Germany. They called them this because every piece of equipment and clothing used and worn by US soldiers was stamped with the letters "G" and "I." The ubiquitous "GI" stood for "government issue" and could be considered a rather less in-your-face way of saying "Property of the US Government."

Imagine you had hundreds of guys running around with the letters "GI" stamped all over them. What would you call them? Yeah, you'd probably call them GIs, too. Similarly, what do we call those guys running around with the letters "MP" stamped on their armbands? Yeah, we call them MPs. Imagine that.

As you might expect, it didn't take long for GI to become synonymous with "soldier." And from there, the alliterative "GI Joe" was born.

You can, of course, disagree with this etymological analysis, but you would be working against tooma.

You have been warned.

Too Much Of A Good Thing: NOT!

2005-02-04T21:46:00.000-06:00

I was watching ESPN tonight when a commercial for Cialis came on. This Johnny-come-lately on the erectile dysfunction scene has a rather compelling selling point: 36 hours! Now I have to admit that the moment the narrator rather smugly voiced the words "Relax and take your time with 36 hour Cialis" it made me pay attention. How can you not pay attention to 36 freakin' hours?

I mean, whenever the Viagra commercials started to run I would smirk to myself with the knowledge that, well, those Viagra guys don't got nothin' on me, even with their chemical assistance. I felt like a US athlete in the eighties after beating some East German: "Ha! Ain't no lab going to get you a gold medal with me in the house." So, with thoughts of poor chemically-enhanced men just trying to keep up with stallions like me, I would go back to waiting for my show to start.

But I can't be quite so cavalier now. 36 hours?? I mean, I'm not too proud to admit that 36 hours is a little beyond my sexual event horizon. Not to mention that I just recently posted about one of my goals being 6 hour tantric sex. 6 hours? Those Cialis guys are probably reading that with the same smirk I had waching the Viagra commercials: "Ha! Have fun with your six hours. You'll be done and had three square meals before we're ready to stop." Bastards.

My next plan of attack was to ask my wife what she would do with a 36 hour hard-on. I figured an open-ended question like that would lead to some fairly scathing remark about the impracticality and silliness of such an idea. But as I was preparing to do that, I realized what exactly her response would be:

Me: Honey, what would you do with a 36 hour hard-on?

Wife: 36 hours? [pointing at my crotch] Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

You see? The sheer momentousness of 36 hours makes any sense of comparison just pointless. Damn, I hate having the tables turned.

I was at a bit of a loss when I decided to check out the Cialis web page. Maybe there was some horrible side effect that caused something kick-ass like numbness of the groin. How cool would that be? "Well, the good news is that you're wife is going to be very very very happy. The bad news is that, well, let's just say that faking an orgasm is no longer just for women."

Of course, the damn website has no such thing. The last straw came when I saw this on the front page:

Curse me! I couldn't resist. I just HAD to look at what the benefits of 36 hours are. Wouldn't you? I felt like Brad Pitt at the end of Seven. I don't want to look. I know I don't want to look. I have a vague idea what I'm going to see when I look. BUT I STILL HAD TO LOOK.

Just as I expected. This is what I saw:

Bastards.

Little Strokes, Great Oaks

2005-02-03T22:07:00.000-06:00

The wonderful Poor Richard first discussed the current self-help rage in my immediate and not-so-immediate family in his Almanack (his spelling, don't blame me) back in the 1700's, that being setting small goals to achieve big things. I'm not sure how "Littls strokes fell great oaks" would go over when discussing weight loss, but it's clearly an ancestor of sorts.

Anyway, with it being such the hip trend and also being of impeccable pedigree, I thought I would set up a list of my big goals along with the first step to achieve them.

Goal: Climb Mt. Everest
First step: Walk the dog without getting short of breath

Goal: Bench press 200 pounds
First step: Arm curl more than 12 ounces at a time

Goal: Be a millionaire
First step: Go a month without bouncing a check

Goal: Learn to play the piano
First step: Learn to play the triangle

Goal: Visit Australia
First step: Visit Outback Steakhouse

Goal: Learn a new language
First step: Learn me to speak English

Goal: Six hour tantric sex
First step: Finding a babysitter

Goal: Visit the Louvre
First step: Visit the loo

Goal: Write a computer program
First step: Program my VCR

Goal: Own and take care of horses without professional help
First step: Own and take care of a guinea pig without professional help

Goal: Become a chess master
First step: Eventually beat my 8 year old daughter at checkers

I'll stop here. I have many more majestic and impressive goals with equally modest first steps, but I think you get the idea of just how brilliant the Poor Richard theory of self improvement is. Wish me luck. And if you don't mind babysitting for six hours, please e-mail me ASAP.

The Looney Ankle

2005-02-03T11:24:00.000-06:00

I was stumbling through trying to type in the web address for my sister-in-law's blog yesterday, when I realized just how important it is to have a nice and simple address. I mean, do you really expect people to know how to spell ~~chihouhou~~, ~~chiwowwow~~, ~~chihuahou~~, chihuahua (I got the last one right because I slogged through dictionary.com for it). You get the point.

So I'm creating my blog, and I, with a rightfully holier-than-thou smug look on my face, create theloneyankee.blogspot.com. I then move on and post my first brilliancy, promptly forget about my blog, and then go to bed.

I wake up this morning, and in a fit of self-absorbtion, decide to read my blog. Imagine my surprise when, as I'm typing in the web address, I notice that "The Lone Yankee," when all run together and in lowercase, looks more like "The Looney Ankle" than "The Lone Yankee." It's that damn "loney" in there. Your mind just doesn't instinctively separate an "L" from a following "Y" due to all those annoying adverbs we run across on a daily basis.

So my fit of annoyance at my sister-in-law gave way to a fit of annoyance at the web standards people that removed spaces from web addresses. (Note: A fit of annoyance at myself for not thinking of this ahead of time is not on the docket).

So for you future bloggers out there, note that you can title your blog with something different than the address of your blog.

I think my next blog will be entitled something like, "The mad ramblings of someone who is strangely always too busy to get everything done, but also somehow has too much time on his hands."

The web address will be "123.blogspot.com."

A Wicked Ugly Word

2005-02-03T01:42:00.000-06:00

Okay, maybe not wicked, but the word "blog" sure as hell is ugly. It's like they took the word "blah" and tried to make it even worse than it already was. Beyond that it has no poetic qualities at all. Think of the similar sounding words: Glug, slog, plug, snog. Not a pretty one among them. Well, snog is kind of cool, but only because you can vaguely imagine a big wet kiss sounding exactly like the word meant to describe it. Anyway, onwards.

Imagine if Alexander Pope were writing today. To be topical at all, he'd have to create a couplet with the word "blog." Then, rather than being treated to:

O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

We would be treated to:

O write it not, my hand upon this blog
Already written - delete the word, mine eyes agog!
In vain lost Eloisa desires a snog,
But alas, that path is long and a total slog.

As I said, a wicked wicked word.

But, what the hell, I'll fill one up anyway.