Blogging from a phone?

What will they think of next? Phoning from a blog rushes to mind, but that's probably days away.

If you've got it, flaunt it. If you haven't, flout it.

Look - I know what you want. And while I'd really like to provide you with lists of my favorites in many categories, I simply won't allow myself to commit to any log of superlatives. This is because I know how susceptible I am to the recency effect. Which is to say that any such list that I produce would read like a who's who of the High School Musical trilogy.

Y'know - I'm sick and kinda tired of being penciled in. Just once - and actually once would be more than enough but it's really as low as I'll go - I'd like to be penned in.

Got another injection of the man magick today at the doctor's office. I then went to get the testosterone patches that were called in to the apothecary section of my local convenience store, but was told upon arriving that those patches must be special ordered. Probably from Frederick's of Hollywood. And I was so looking forward to having bright and shining dreams tonite from wearing the patch to bed. You see, I've heard tell that nicotine patches do that very thing when they're worn at night. But since testosterone patches are meant to be worn day and night, the psychedelic effects have probably been boiled out.

And speaking of that doctor's office, I sacked out in the examination room twice today while waiting for the doctor to apparate. Ever since the former head surgeon (look for the dirty knees) took a sabbatical and promptly dropped dead that place has been a comedy of errors. Why, it's just a madhouse -- what with patients getting correct diagnoses the first time, nurses missing opportunities to tell normally-sized people that they're overweight based on the BMI chart, doctors seeing patients punctually - sometimes even before the appointed time, and office workers being pleasant to others. A madhouse, I tell ya.

But I did (finally) get another 200 mg injection of testosterone packed in a hot mustard carrier fluid. My island doctor didn't ask me how much she should give me this time, but she did start out by saying that I was to get 100 and then doubled it for an unknown reason. That's likely one of those situations that require questioning. But alas, I just sat quietly in awe.

I swear I could not feel the needle prick in the least. Which is really a shame since I do actually love acute pain. But y'know - I got the shot even before my current level could be assessed. I know this because I got the shot before they even took any blood.

Gosh, I sure hope it was as low as I told the doctor it sorta seemed to be since I'm pretty sure she really shouldn't believe everything I say.

WWTMD? DMT

Iff TM=Terence McKenna. Say what you may about stoned apes and 12/21/12, I maintain that that McKenna guy was crazy. Though this is a rather convincing testament to the existence of those machine elves that purportedly occupy our same space in another dimension. So maybe it's not such an irrational fear that I have of something out there ... watching...waiting...vomiting living toys.

So what are you reading? Yes, but I mean other than a goofy, half-baked blog. I'm digging me some The Doors of Perception. (Not really, but I'm fresh out of segues based in reality.) In fact, since expanding my mind with red wine at lunch today, I can now remember what I had for dinner last night. And I've always had trouble with that. And no, it's not just because I had the leftovers for lunch. Though I did.

Plus, on the I-can-feel-everything-that's-happening-in-the-cosmos front, I sense the relentless tug of a super massive black hole on V'ger, but that's really nothing new. I've had that feeling for years. I've always assumed it was because my consciousness was uploaded to V'ger when I first watched that overlong Star Trek: The Motion Picture film. I know now that I never should've agreed to the private screening in Leonard Nimoy's TheatreLab 3000.


I really didn't intend to make you feel left out or anything. The only reason I'm so well versed in this human potential crap is because, being the devil and all, Aldous Huxley had a rather prominent place in the teachings of my instructors at Esalen.

So I haven't experienced any horrific sleep paralysis in quite some time. I simply abhor that feeling, don't you? What? You've never had it? No, not even once? Lucky stiff.

The only way to describe it without the use of puppets is to say it's as though you've been folded at the waist and forced into a lime green hamper, completely unable to move. The absolute worst thing I've ever had to suffer through, High School Musical 3 included.


Given the above picture, I guess I shouldn't have reminded those little demons that follow me around of the sleep paralysis thing. Yeah, I've had them underfoot ever since my last brush with a haunted Ouija board. But those retards probably can't even read - they certainly can't spell - so I'm betting I'm safe from their pusillanimous mosquito bite imprecations.

As long as I don't start singing this entry back to myself to the tune of "The Final Countdown" like I'm wont to do.

A real receive charge kinda guy

As I was walking in toting my giant laptop manbag a few minutes ago I said to myself, "Gosh, I sure hope no one thinks I just arrived at work." Of course I had just arrived at work, but I did hope that no one thought so. You see, I was working from home today, but thought better of continuing to do so when I saw that I have a call scheduled with my boss a little later (more on that even sooner).

You won't be hearing any complaints from me this fine day. In fact, I've been on cloud nine ever since my wife agreed this past weekend to let me be in charge. The king, as it were. That's right, I am head honcho of the household until such time as she sees fit to take control back. And she says she won't do that unless I really mess something up.

I've been using the Powerball on the delightful trip in to the office. I do five minutes per hand per direction, for a total of 20 minutes:

5 mins (left hand clockwise)

5 mins (right hand counter-clockwise)

5 mins (left hand counter-clockwise)

5 mins (right hand clockwise)

The regimen makes much more sense than it probably seems when you actually perform it. While I wholeheartedly recommend using the ball-o-Power, I should warn you that I can't be certain that that's not just because misery loves company. Sure, my grip is rock-crushing, but there're just so many rock-to-sand-to-glass contests you can win before you become a bit disillusioned with the whole game. And I'm talking the goofy game we call life here.

Yes, it is especially miserable at the top.

I have that call with my boss in like 10 seconds during which he's to walk me through inputting my receipts into the expense tracking system. This oughta be great since he's such a funlover. Be with you soon-ish...


Whaddya know - I didn't have a good time at all. Despite his tendency to laugh at his jokes and his jokes only and his insistence on asking all questions accusatorily, he's just not much fun to be around.

Did you know that, even if you counted one every second for 24 hours a day, it would take 32 years to count a trillion statistics that convey the magnitude of large numbers?

Don't forget what entomologist Harry Mills tried in vain to teach earthworms: "The real message isn't what you say, but what the other earthworm remembers." I say this concept could be quite useful to humans with a bit of pencil-whipping. Heck, even I could have it reworked and ready to be applied to domesticated animals in less than a day.

I know what you're thinking. And you're right - my capacity to find patterns and analogies where others see only absurdity is quite uncanny.

And indeed some entomologists do study earthworms. It would seem that the 1.3 million species of insects just wasn't enough for 'em. Or maybe they finished the bugs and moved on.

Now go to your room. What? Well, if your mother said so, then I guess it's okay for you to play video games instead. I mean, I'd hate to mess something up and force her to rescind the supreme authority she conferred upon me.

Why wouldn't bad luck come in thirteens?

I had a dream last night that no one I know (knew?) could come out and play because everyone was busy examining old cigarette butts to find the very small messages that were written on them in heat activated ink. Weird, yes, but weirder still was the feeling I had upon waking that I'd known about this practice for years. Couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity until I awoke more fully and realized how awake I really wasn't previously.

What's more is my shellfish wife wouldn't give me any of her Sugar Frosted Shrimp this morning. Harumph.

Those Half Asleep Evil Geniouss' are up to their old tricks, I'll tell ya. Only this time it's an entirely new bag of tricks they've broken out: It seems they've recently embraced radical incrementalism and have just succeeded in putting it inexorably in place. Ah, we'll never even notice it, say they. And maybe we won't ... until it finally dawns on us one day that, though the entry paperwork was always ironically voluminous, it didn't used to take an actual act of Congress to get approval to go to the ER.

So it's the centennial of the killing of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. But I swear Robert Redford doesn't look that old.

And it's everyone's favorite super-sized hillbilly Jew's 38th birthday today. No, not Shatner - he's like three times older than Morgan Spurlock.

Blogger says I am not currently following any blogs...

...so I'd like to tell it why: I can't find anything to follow on you, Blogspot. Nothing. I don't even know where to look. You've no commons. No student center. No blogrings. And yes, you have no bananas. In fact, I'm fully prepared to announce that you're the craziest blog site I've ever been a part of. And if Xanga weren't the only other one I'd actually ever tried, I would certainly invoke that superlative. Grammar concerns notwithstanding, I find it nearly impossible to believe that one nuttier than you could exist.

I'm rather enjoying Dvorak's "New World" Symphony now that I've downloaded it in movements rather than as one, giant, pirated opus. I don't know what it is about the big chunk o' symphony, but not only can I not enjoy one, but I've also yet to make it through one in its entirety. Upon getting a smashed to bits symphony, however, I'm completely happy to sit through it. I wonder - does that betray a weak or a strong mind?

Oh, can it. I knew you'd say that. You lot are becoming awfully easy to manipulate.

Let's see ... what to bemoan next? Oh, I know. How about how there's no hard disk iPhone? I mean, I download 16 gigs of stuff every time I sit down at the PC. Absolutely valueless, that flash-driven iPhone.


Or is it 16 megs that I download? No matter - it makes for a case that's like a thousand times stronger if I leave it as gigs, so I won't be changing it anytime soon.

I'm taking some training on Wheedling in the Workplace that's quite edifying but even more disturbing because of it. For I now see there's but one reason why anyone would ostensibly take a genuine interest in my needs. I do hope you didn't guess it, and just in case you didn't, it's to ultimately get what they want.

I just hate looking at things from that perspective. It reduces us to single-minded, opportunistic leeches in my mind and I'd really rather not think about us in that way.

See, I may not know the true meaning of life, but I do know enough to know it's probably not sitting around worrying about who's gonna getcha.

Forgive me, Father, for I have Zenned

So I suddenly have all the formatting buttons in the mighty Blogger editor no matter which PC I decide to blog with. Just when I had become accustomed to not having the same seemingly limitless number of typeface options on the laptop that I enjoy on the desktop they went and doused whatever was on fire in the Blogspot backroom. That's a great example of the kind of "progress" I've had to learn to adapt to throughout this laughable existence of mine.

I really am amazed at the popularity of Facebook. You just can't do much, yet all kinds of former and would-be bloggers are standing in line to not do it. Why, only today I learnt that you can upload pictures, update your current status, get profile information, and post to others' so-called walls from your mobile device. Which is to say that pretty much anything to be done on Facebook can be successfully carried out via the robust interface of a cell phone.

I'm back from the trip I took to Florida. Yeah, I kinda forgot to mention that trip beforehand, didn't I? Unlike most times I go to Florida, I'm actually glad to be back. Maybe it's because I've been in a bad mood ever since I began that trip last Wednesday. Because I'm still not quite out of it, you probably shouldn't tread on me or anything.

It's called the Gadsden Flag and it's just too bad George Washington wasn't able to convince Betsy Ross to run that one through the serger, eh? Just think how much more respect we'd command when burning down foreign villages if we were waving a yellow flag displaying an idle threat that contains a contraction that's missing its apostrophe.

Here's another something I miss from Xanga - Xangazon. It's a little widget-y thing that shows what you're currently doing; be it video gaming, listening to music, reading a book, or watching a movie. Yes, you're completely right that that information should be obvious from the blog entry. And you're also quite right about the omission of blogging from the list of activities as being a pretty egregious oversight on the Xanga braintrust's part.

I say the fact that kids are staying up nights playing guitar peripherals instead of actual guitars is contributing to that future I dreamt of foreseeing. You do remember that one, don't you? You know, the future I saw in the crystal doorknob of the eerie mansion that was haunted by presidential candidates? Oh, come on - the future that was filled with even more electronic music than it was with broken pieces of old packing peanuts. Or maybe I never told you about that dream. Yeah, it was an especially bad one. I woke up in what seemed to be a cold sweat but what turned out to be mime vomit.

I've finally exposed myself to the X-treme degradation of Jackass and will likely never be the same. And while that normally wouldn't be such a bad thing, I was really beginning to come around to my surly disposition of late. Oh, well.

Guess who's gay

It's not what you're likely thinking, for it's not me. Instead, I'm referring to my confusion around identifying the local lesbian. I used to think that any woman who mentioned her "girlfriend" was admitting to just such a sapphic nature, but that would mean the human race is gonna die out even sooner than you could've hoped given the number of times I've heard that term of endearment uttered just today. And it's only 11:30. And all's well, by the way.

And then I think I thought all lesbians were superhot like in those instructional super-8s I recall from my formative years, but I've been assured that's certainly not the case. And I guess I also believed, and probably still do, that the whole idea was simply too far beyond the pale for such a creature to exist at all.

I guess what I'm driving at is that I'll just have to see it to believe it. Tonight's fine and tomorrow night will work. I can make myself available any night either this or next week. Or the week after.

I just love gigayachts. Take this one. Actually, don't - 'cause I want it. I don't know that I'll be able to scrape together the needed $442M by the time it comes out in 2011, but I've gotta try since no one's gonna do it for me. Or so it would seem.

That thing is more cruise ship than cabin cruiser. And it goes a whopping 24 knots. That's 28 mph to you land lubbers. And while I couldn't exactly "pop" over to the South of France at that rate, I still want one. Come to think of it, why would anyone care to actually arrive anywhere in a gigayacht? It's not like you'd ever even consider leaving the sumptuous interior and disembarking into a foreign land of overpriced Nikes and inexpensive-but-unattractive woven baskets and napkin holders.

Today being the first anniversary of the first NFL game played outside the police line surrounding the US, I'm going to celebrate by checking on how the Dolphins are doing this year. Be right back.


Well, they're 3-4, but they did just beat the Bills. And I mean to tell you that was no mean feat for them in years past. Not winning against the Bills specifically, you understand, just winning.

You probably knew all that already, but as they taught us at Juilliard, sports trivia is not trivial. And, unlike even the very shortest selection by Olivier Messiaen, you can never have too much of it.

Today's entry about yesterday

Facebook is the end of the world, sure, but why not be in on all that destruction? I asked myself that very question not a week ago. Not being able to come up with a suitable answer, I'm now on it.

Wow, it's fun on Facebook. You can put up a picture of a hamster, which I did. You can fill out your profile with stupid information, which I know you know I did. You can write sophisms on other people's virtual walls, which of course I did. And then you can log out and never think of it again, which I'm currently working on.

So did you hear that archaeologists finally unearthed Talia Shire's given name in the Turkish portion of the region formerly known as Mesopotamia? Yeah, it's Jennifer.


It took me the better part of all of last night to change the oil in that car I call home. I swear, if it's not 17 things it's 19 others with that rattletrap. I went to the basement to get the oil filter that I distinctly remember moving from our last house. Found only the empty box from the last oil filter I used. (When you use the 15,000 mile synthetic oil you do tend to forget things like buying another filter. And when you're throwing things on the moving van as it's pulling out of the drive you do tend to end up with useless things like empty car part boxes.)

Last time I checked, these were superspecial filters that were stocked only at Volvo dealerships. You know Volvo dealerships, right? Yeah, they're the ones that are closed on Sundays. So I called AutoZone since I like it when they laugh at me over calling a national chain for Swedish parts. But they actually had it.

They didn't, however, stock the crush washer for the oil drain plug, which effectively renders the stocking of oil filters valueless. Kinda like how CVS carries medical marijuana but no Dead albums. Fortunately, however, the empty Volvo oil filter box wasn't completely devoid of everything I needed...it contained one of those magickal crush washers.

Went and got the filter only to arrive back at the house and find that I had tossed both of my oil drain pans prior to the aforementioned move. So I went to Advance this time to get a new pan and to see if maybe they had crush washers. Unexpectedly, they laughed. Wow, it's really quite disturbing to me now how quickly I became acclimated to not being laughed at.

Again arrived back at the house to find that I should've bought the ramps I was nervously fondling at Advance while being mocked and prodded by the help. You see, the jack would no longer fit under the car. Darned supercool low profile 17s. Well, either that or one of 19 other darned things. However, I finally managed to shove the new oil drain pan underneath the engine oil pan without needing to raise the car at all. And I mean I was making hay for the 48 seconds just before I attempted to remove the oil filter housing. Yes, it's one of those strange cartridge types you thought existed only in the abstract or on MGs:


I could not, for the life of me, remember how I got the filter housing out of the tiny access opening whose raison d'etre seems to be only to taunt. I eventually ripped the fresh air intake off and found that doing so worked extremely well. So well, in fact, that I was able to coax it out using every bit of my strength, which is considerable now that I'm high T.

You're likely thinking that I should be able to have this procedure readily available next time since I've now blogged about it, but I probably blogged about it last time, too. Since it's easier and quicker to figure stuff out using thermodynamics equations and the interpretation of ancient runes than to attempt to logon to Xanga, I didn't even bother looking for a post from 15,000 miles ago.

Logon from work, I mean. Not that I was working on a Sunday.

Look, children - that's the diction dolt living in that umbrella

I'm no fan of the Staff Call. In fact, I wouldn't walk across the hall for a free gyro wrap if I had to sit in on someone's Staff Call to get it. For I simply cannot concentrate on blogging with all the urgent-but-probably-not-THAT-important information that gets bandied about during those get-togethers. Loudmouths, the lot of 'em. Especially that guy who swaggers around like I put him in charge or something.

This is chortle-worthy:


I do hope you agree. If not, I'd really rather not have my jackass-like guffawing interrupted just to hear all about your warped sense of humor. So stick that in your rucksack and have a nice hike.

I'm slowly making it through all those old Scorpions albums I made off with from BitTorrent. If anything, their English got worse, their Teutonic-tinged pronunciations more pronounced, and their lyrics even lamer as the years dragged on. I say this proves my view that they're actually from Sheboygan and the whole tortured German rocker thing was but a schtick.

I've been injected with a full 200 mg of farm-grade testosterone. And boy, is my back furry. Not really, but I'm sure that's coming. So my 233 plus that 200 should put me at around 436, well within the normal range of 241-827. I get rechecked in a month. I'm still a bit fuzzy (cf. furry) on the details of how it's supposed to last that long or whether it isn't but is instead intended to prompt whatever it is in me that makes the magickal masculine material to make more. It's not for lack of asking, mind you, just my general lack of understanding of ambiguous answers delivered with a Jamaican accent.

(And yes, I do know what it is that makes testosterone, I'm just far too patrician to utter the word. I'll gladly call Sarah Silverman and have her say it to you if you'd like - she's kinda nuts like that.)

So that island doctor o' mine asked me whether I wanted the 100 or the 200 mg shot. She was planning to give me the 100, said she, but really wanted to know my preference. Strange, thought I. After jumping at the chance to get more, of course. I mean, I am a greedy, conniving, lemon-scented American with a heart of gold after all.

Aw, this is my very last piece of Bubble Yum. No, I'm not going into that diatribe again, but I did want you to know what I am actively and somewhat arduously saving you from.

I felt vindicated the other day but couldn't think of the word. All I could come up with was redeemed or exonerated. I knew they weren't exactly what I was looking for, so I didn't say anything. But now that I have the word I have no recollection of why I needed to use it. And since I didn't say anything for fear of thereafter being known as the diction dolt, neither does anyone else.

Don't you hate when you've forgotten something that no one else knew about and so there's no one to compensate for your poor memory? Don't recall, do ya? Well, just go ask your significant other.

Me? I use this petrified wireless mouse that I've yet to find a suitable replacement for. It's the best pointing device on the market, except that it's no longer on the market. It's a Logitech Cordless Click. And I want another one, sniffle.


Ain't it a beaut? The side-scroller is what's so amazing. I've yet to find another with even an inkling of the tactile pleasure that the Click delivers in spades. Here's hoping it never gets thrown from a 14-story office building or eaten by a cat.

Kick 'er out o' bed

I really thought I wasn't going to make it to an actual entry today, what with all the clean-up I've been performing on my previous posts. That's right, it takes time for me to get these thingies to my liking. So while it may very well seem as though my contributions to the blog-o-sphere just kinda spontaneously combust from the end of my virtual pen, I can assure you that each word is carefully crafted and lovingly placed in its position proper.

I found a quite humorous concept in picture form today:


It's the prancing moose. Get it? Okay, I'll try to keep this under a thousand words, although I shouldn't proverbially be able to. Ferrari S.p.A., you see, has a prancing horse symbol. So now Swedish offerings such as Volvos and Koenigseggs and Saabs and ABBA have their own version of this iconic, um, well...icon.

Went to a going away party today for a girl who worked for me in '98. It really doesn't seem like 10 years ago, but then I've proved time and again not to be the best one to ask when someone needs to keep track of a decade. I'm always a year or two late for everything.

Y'know, it's amazing how differently people respond to me now that I am not fishing for their approval. I don't know (nor should I much care, I suppose) whether I come across as having more confidence or just a shorter fuse, but there's a definite decrease in the gibes and aspersions cast my way of late. This even holds for jerks I've known for years and who've always had nothing but active enmity for me.

All I know for sure, and I suspect this is really little more than a hunch, is that it's awfully ironic how accepting people are of you when you don't care whether or not they accept you.

It's also ironic how much time you find you have for that ironing you don't need to do when you take your clothes to the cleaners and don't have to worry about all that laundry. But then iron-y stuff is always pretty ironic, wouldn't you agree?

I've been debating telling you this, but since I've finally come to grips with the fact that there really isn't anyone out there anyway, here goes. I have low T. So low that it's off the scale. Sure, that's troubling, but the more urgent issue is which restroom to use.

I go tomorrow to my LSD PCP to see about getting my testosterone raised to a level that should have hair sprouting from my fingertips within a week. I don't know exactly why I thought to have it checked other than my tendency to associate more with the woman's side on Cosmo quizzes. That and my lack of body hair. Oh, and the fact that I can hit soprano C. Not really, but I am a tad concerned about how my upper register will react when I start taking those sexy hormones.

I mean, I don't want to just squeak by as Jesus in "Godspell" next February.

Now I've gone and done it. Gummed up the works with saucy vitriol, I have.

I just don't get it. Yeah, yeah, I know - "I keep it copacetic and I learn to accept it; you know it's so pathetic" and all - but I really don't understand this one. What, pray tell, could possibly be on bubbleyum.com that I would want to see?

Well, I had to know for sure so I looked and found, as suspected, a total of nothing of interest. Maybe that's not entirely true, for I did learn that I shouldn't be chewing Bubble Yum at all since not a single one of the eight known flavors is kosher. It should be noted that the Website directs you to the package for Watermelon's nutrition information, but I really don't expect to find a picture of a smiling Jew giving the thumbs up next to a large "Kosher O.K." stamp anywhere on that package.


I also saw that Bubble Yum was introduced in 1975, but anyone with access to a World Book Encyclopedia already knew that the much-respected but ca. 1976 Bubblicious missed the maiden voyage of the soft bubble gum boat that sailed out of LifeSavers Co. Harbor by a full year. I shouldn't think that I even need mention Hubba Bubba, which was about four years behind the leader of the "big bubbles, no troubles" ... dare I say it? ... pack.

Maybe you'd like to discuss Freshen Up - I know I would - but it is not bubble gum hence doing so would be a bit like comparing Savage Sour Apples and Orange Outbreaks, if you will.

I went to the dentist today. After blithely scraping off all the coffee-stained tartar I've been working so hard to build and maintain, he went on to tell me that my TMD mouth guard is ready and has been since just after my last visit six months ago. So I proceeded to tell him that I was still awaiting his call to that effect. And further, I continued, until I get said call, I will not be picking any guards - mouth or otherwise - up. Since I wouldn't let him call me on my cell phone from his office while I was there because that would've been just a little ridiculous, that's probably him now. Hold, please.


That was my dentist. It seems my mouth guard is ready, so I must drive the 40 miles back to his office to get it. I mean I was just there this morning! What a jerk. Small wonder I'm a practicing anti-Dentite.

You can't very well peer to peer if you're peerless. Neither can you if you're clueless.

Show me a man who's got all his eggs in one basket, and I'll show you a dork carrying eggs around in a basket. What a dweeb that would be.

Whew! I am to be congratulated, for I downloaded every single one of the 107 symphonies of Joseph Haydn from BitTorrent Junkie. What a boring person. No, not me - him. He's the one that sat around and wrote all those symphonies. But since they all sound exactly the same, it might not have taken him much longer to compose 'em than it took me to download 'em.

That was all to say sure, okay, I guess I am a boring person.

So my son has gotten me into Air Soft. And while I don't exactly have a whole lotta love for guns, I did buy one to practice with. I'm just not sure what I'm practicing for. I've got a reproduction of the classic Pietra Beretta and he's got a Smith & Wesson that's way more accurate. And more powerful. And just plain mo' better. But fear of reprisal isn't the only reason I'm not planning to shoot my child with plastic BBs in an Air Soft war.

Let's see, since determining that BitTorrent is the way to go for classical, opera, or complete albums, I've also swiped Puccini's Tosca and La Boheme, Grieg's Peer Gynt Incidental Music (cf. Peer Gynt Suites), all of Nielsen's symphonies, all the Scorpions albums, Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique, and a three-CD collection of America's folksy and well-loved California rock of yore.

Don't you just love how all discussions now turn to politics? I certainly do. I can't get enough of discussing things that stress me out to no end but that I have little to no direct control over. I have one word that those of you who wish to discuss politics with me need to familiarize yourselves with. And that word is shut up. Actually it's tradeoff.

Cogitate on that for a while and please do get back to me if you still have something politically charged to say.

No, THAT was the life

There's nothing wrong with me that a little goofy, ghostly classical referencing deriding the clerisy can't solve. So, here goes: I predict that in 10 minutes Hector Berlioz will once again rise from the grave and compose a second so-called symphony that no one likes but that everyone feels they should say they appreciate.

Nope, I was wrong. For something's still wrong with me. Or maybe that was just too little goofy, ghostly classical referencing deriding the clerisy.

I'm listening to "The Symphony," just one of The Great Courses from The Teaching Company's extensive selection of Fine Arts & Music audio courses. Wow, all the talking Prof. Greenberg's doing and I can't think of anything other than marketing drivel to say about the course? It's not my fault, however, for I'm but an unwitting product of Italian public schools, capice?

I need that book known in some circles as "Attacking Faulty Reasoning." I guess it's known in all literate circles as that since that's the title. See, I've done my level best to refute the logical fallacies that keep turning up on these oh-so-obnoxious conference calls I hold with some regularity, but I'm fresh out of ideas.

There really is something wrong with me, y'know. And I say it's all due to the premature removal of Wellbutrin from my diet. But I'm off to the shrink tomorrow to look at glossy yacht mags and whine about side effects. Ah, this is the life.

Please help me to decide which show was the gearer

Since our last one-sided discussion, I've been both to the Atlanta Symphony and to a post-punk show. And I can't decide which was more way-out, to borrow a bit of the vernacular of yesteryear's youth.

The symphony was big time fun in that I learned that true long-hairs don't tap their feet to the music. At least not to music with no beat. And I also got to eat some cute bunny before the show since the Rabbit Ragout was the cheapest selection on the outlandish menu at the in-house bistro. But the post-punk was a veritable blast since I got to see a lady who looked to be an irascible middle school French teacher play heavy guitar. And I got to meet the members of some band called Wire. Though I somehow ended up with a tattoo of an elf chasing a pickle. And I mean no one at the old age home thinks that's very cool or funny.


My psychologist has cured me far too quickly for me to possibly have paid for much of anything that he wants at the yacht shop. And I think he might realize it after today's session. Actually, it's my psychiatrist who has the yachting magazines littering his waiting room but, as you may not know for sure but probably suspect, there's little place in blogs for the full truth. Anyway, he was pulling out all his imperiousness's stops this morning, yet I pwned him at every turn. I simply took his guff in the same measure that he's taught me to take others'.

I'll tell ya - that creep's good.

What's up with all you people that have yet to converge on my blog as your latest virtual Starbucks? Please do wake me when you get here for I'm saving something really juicy and probably totally untrue for just such an occasion.

Some gruff-but-lovable Germanic nitwit on the Swede Speed Volvo forum has figured out where on the printed circuit board of the S40 to tap for an auxiliary input. I've been wanting to do something very similar to that myself, but just didn't have the mettle. I actually wanted to tap into the input from one of the six CDs, but his method works in a pinch (read: is a better idea). Only thing is that he did it on the base stereo and I have the premium. I don't know what, if anything, this says about the practicability of performing the same suckectomy on my stereo, but I'm almost willing to find out.

Can you believe I had absolutely no Billy Idol on my iPod? None. Well, I personally oversaw the rectification of that oversight last night. Next I'll probably find that there's no Taco on there! And yes, that's a funny joke. For there's no way I'd run around without the benefit of Taco's seemingly limitless entertainment value. In fact, purely psychologically speaking, there's probably no way I could even if I wanted to, which I certainly would never.

ASO bound

Ready or not, local cultural event venues and all your supersilly denizens, here I come. That's right - like it or not, I'm going to the Atlanta Symphony tomorrow night. The band will be performing, by my calculations, about an hour-and-a-half of lesser-known Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 1, which is top-drawer; the Violin Concerto, which is a bit soloist-indulgent but still quite good; Francesca da Rimini, which just barely qualifies as music in my book. But FdR might really shine when performed live with a laser show and Marshall stacks, y'know?

So there's a behind the scenes tour before the show, then the actual jam session, and finally a meet and greet of the group afterward. Plus a free beverage. Y'know, your jealousy is not becoming.

This book I'm reading, 50 Psychology Classics, despite its abbreviated (at times to a somewhat ludicrous degree) treatment of several masterworks, is very instructive. It's a great way to find books that interest you. Or just to gain a little knowledge that you can then leverage into know-it-all status for yourself, which is how I'm planning on using it.

Me

Of particular note is a volume from '04 entitled The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less by Barry Schwartz. Bear states that all the choices we have nowadays do not make us any happier; in fact, they make us more miserable. I'm down with that noise, for all I do is stress out about all the entertainment options there are. And then end up watching reruns of "House" while worrying about what the opportunity cost is.

But I'm not the only one, it would seem. And that's good news in my book. Why all these references to my book? Because I do actually have one. And it's based on my Xanga blog of old. I might tell you more about it later if you'd quit sneezing and let me get a word in.

Anyone who happened to be sneezing while reading this entry should be sufficiently creeped out now, I'd say. And, as always, that was my sole intent.

I can't wait 'til the teens to complain about how bad blog interfaces were "back in aught-eight"

So I've just returned from the first time ever of brushing my teeth at the office. And boy, are my puns tired. No, you shouldn't bother looking, for I didn't really throw in a pun. I've already told you they're tired. So tired, in fact, that they've sacked out on the fluoride wake 'em but I fear they'd immediately bristle.

This is an idiot time to eat my afternoon snack, huh? I actually thought of that before traipsing off to the bathroom swinging my dental instruments, but I just didn't act on it. Ever do something you just couldn't account for later? There are worse things I could've done, I suppose. I just can't think of any off hand.

I don't understand this lack of blogrings on Blogger. I mean Blogspot. I think. Gosh, there seems to be a lot I don't understand about whatever this one blogging site I can access from work is.

I used to like to go to the Xanga blogrings to look for like-minded bloggers. And while I never actually found any, it was nice to know there was a place to look. Now my only option is to twiddle my thumbs, awaiting a visit by someone, anyone with a like mind. Or at least something like a mind.

What a stupid time to eat a snack. Actually, as was likely tacit above, it was a dumb time to brush. Despite the way I ultimately decide to couch it, I do have crud in my teeth and could really use another brushing.

I swear, 15 years without doing it once, and now I feel as though I need a second one not five minutes after the first.

Hmm. I'm not sure I'm still talking about brushing.

French expressions are de rigueur today

It would seem those darn Chiefly British evil geniouss' are at it again. Only this time they've created a joke that supposedly won't go away until someone laughs at it. And then, once someone does acquiesce, it will immediately catch on and should cause each person who hears it to throw out hisorher back. Since laughing is such an amazing mid-section exercise, it is thought that the incredible development of sufferers' six-packs will cause unnatural imbalances, prompting several disks in each affected person's spine to herniate into the surrounding nerve endings.

Seeing this action as a risk to their projected superiority by this time next year, Spooky Noise Downstairs evil geniouss' are busy developing a necktie that does not respond to any of the known 85 knots other than the Cavendish, which most people misconstrue not as a knot at all, but as the type of music that the early Beatles (a/k/a The Quarrymen) dug. This is of course wrong since the genre of music being referenced is actually known as Skiffle or, colloquially and possibly more appropriately, crap.

There. That's the kind of trash I used to write on Xanga. And I do so miss it. I'm really gonna have to try my hand at it again some day.

What's all the buzz about? About to drive me bonkers, that's what.

You see, there are at least four forms of iPod integration in cars. There's the Volvo version, which amounts to playing your iPod through your headphones. Then there's the old-car-with-a-tape-deck version, which involves one of those cassette adapters that you last used to play your portable CD player through your car stereo. And there's the auxiliary input version, which has a magical plug on the dash to which you connect the output of the iPod for pretty great albeit analog sound.

What I wouldn't give to wake up
in traffic to this on my dash
And finally there's the way uptown dock connector version, which integrates the iPod so seamlessly that you might just forget you're driving and instead spend your time watching the stereo's head unit flash the track information from the iPod ... almost as though it weren't so unnatural to desire such control over one's music.

I'll bet you've already surmised the one I must suffer with. But other than that tiny complaint I've been completely satisfied with my car stereo. Until now.

Quite some time ago I decided that I would simply have to make CDs from my iTunes playlists in order to be able to stand listening to anything in the car that I swipe via LimeWire. This is due to the constant static that attends any attempt to play an iPod through an FM transmitter or modulator. Although I can't imagine that you would, if you'd like more information on this phenomenon, please check out this prior post. Okay, it's admittedly less an informational post and more a jeremiad, but it's not as though I coerced you to follow the link. If you'll recall, I didn't even give it much of a recommendation.

But yes, there's a place in Hel for the improvident creator of my stereo system: the guy who thought it unimportant to add an auxiliary input to a stereo with a six-disc, in-dash changer but who did see fit to slap one on the cheaper, single-disc version. "No, Sven, I don't need to add a six-disc changer in the trunk, but that won't keep you from being wedged right between the guy who invented dentotape and Miss Carol Channing ... forever!"

As fun as it is to speculate on who's doomed to spend eternity bored and peppered with food flecks, the point of this rant is that I'm not completely satisfied with the performance of my car stereo--even with the iPod removed from the equation. For you see, although math rock CDs sound great on it, the myriad noises of that genre are but masking the equally innumerable noises emanating from the builtloose speaker panels in my Swedish rattletrap. Upon playing classical music on it, this deficiency immediately reared its ugly, buzzing head.

And those noisy buzzings have got to stop. Unfortunately, the only way I've yet found to shut them up is to turn off the stereo. But then there are all the other Nordic rattles, blips, beeps, and whirs that I use the stereo to drown out in the first place.

And yes, there's a place in Hel for Sweden. Right between Norway and Finland.

Thankful for that degree in Tough Life Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Let's see, what to bellyache about first. Hmm. Just so many annoyances to choose from. What's a body to do?

I hope you don't get the impression that I'm upset with the world or anything from that statement. But then how could you possibly?

Fact of the matter is, I actually had been quite upset with this very world until just recently. It's amazing how much better I feel now that I'm coming in to work early. I hate to say it, but I think I feel better not having to stress out over working at home or arriving late. I can now see that I constantly struggled with those before. And then, when I did make it in to the office, there was the whole effort to maintain the lie that I actually arrived on time.

I'm sure you're aware of how one tiny falsehood can beget an entire lie lineage. But if you're not, please be assured it's all too true. In anticipation of needing to cover for myself in this regard, I had a whole web of mendacity worked out in my feeble mind that any contingency (read: some jerk asking when I came dragging in this morning/afternoon) could be addressed with. That's far too much baggage to run around with all day long. And just not worth the extra time I was able to gain from it. Especially since that extra time, like all my time, turned out to be made up of little more than sitting around worrying about what a liar I was. The irony is no longer lost on me.

This is yet another in the increasingly long line of counter-intuitive life lessons that I'm always either learning or relearning. However, this is the very first time for this particular one. Here's hoping it's also the last.

So is it just me, or do I also sound to you like someone who really needs to learn to embrace gifts such as the ability to work from home? You know, more like a normal person might.