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.

I probably wasn't always so inflexible. I couldn't have been or I couldn't have changed. Which is to say that I might have been. I think.

So now I've decided to add lyrics to familiar classical works in the interest of helping me to remember which tune goes with what piece. And just what will those lyrics comprise? Why, nothing short of the movement's name and composer. I can't decide whether this is a stroke of genius or just one of those ideas that won't really work.

There should be a guy whose job it is to answer not only a phone but also questions relating to songs that you know only the general tune of. Questions along the lines of, "doo dee oo doot doo doo doo" and "budda budda bump bah buh dah." On the off chance you're interested, the first is "Something" and the second is "Keep on Smilin'."

I do so miss lunchtime eavesdropping. I used to love to listen in on people at restaurants while they talked and I sobbed, all alone, into my stewed tomatoes. Silly me; I didn't realize how good I had it. Though I'm sure that to you lot it probably seems like I could easily take the practice up again, I really must wonder just where you think they serve stewed tomatoes.

I hate that I can't listen to the iPod in the car without a whole lot of extraneous noise. And no, I'm not referring to the sound of my teeth scraping along the window. Although that is kind of annoying, as well. However, I speak of static. You see, my car is the only one in existence that has an all fiber optic stereo into which a provision was not incorporated for an auxiliary input. Why, yes. Yes, it is a Volvo. However did you know?


Ooh, but you were so close. It's actually black.

So anyway, I'm left with only one option: FM transmission or FM modulation. And while that may read like two, each is worth only a half. If only there were such a thing as an AM modulator, then I could get even more static. Maybe.

...might as well be listening to Genesis

Who told all the other drivers that I just love to be followed too closely? I thought that that was supposed to be a little secret among us hard-line Leo Sayer fans. C'mon, someone must have told, for since I started commuting again yesterday I've had someone on my bumper most of the way here and back and here again. And I simply adore it.

I've been arriving at 7 so that I can clear out by 4. I actually should be able to leave by 3 since I take no lunch, but I've yet to broach the subject of those hours with my boss. I've had to wait until 8 to get coffee since, while coffee does exist on every floor but mine, cups are nowhere to be found. And the nominal Starbucks downstairs opens at 8.

Why does coffee not exist on my floor? I've no idea. It seems exactly the same as the other floors save requiring a different number in the elevator. (In all actuality these elevators require that you input your number before entering. This is along the lines of the sky lobby elevator, though you don't exactly need a sky lobby for a 14-story building.) So I guess I should've said "...using a different number on the elevator call pad." I'm too lazy to go back and change it, however.

Living with this new-fangled elevator has the possibly unintended consequence of causing me to stand around in a regular elevator until I'm satisfied that it really isn't going anywhere until I push the appropriate button in the elevator car.

I dared to bring the box of granola bars to work that I bought at Kroger last night while waiting for my eyes to dilate. Yes, that story makes many assumptions. And it is quite boring, at that. But not half as much so as the backstories that, while every bit as boring as stated, should clear the story up:

eyes to dilate backstory:
I got LASIK last September as a 40th birthday present from my some of my many benefactors, and, while the intial results were astounding, I've been regressing lately. And my eyes aren't doing so well, either. I'm now to the point at which one eye is noticeably better than the other for distance, with the other eye being much better for reading. Since this has the effect of making me cranky about anything that happens either close up or far away (or really anyplace in-between), I decided to invoke the one year warranty and get an enhancement in the left eye. That's the one that's good for reading but bad for distance (myopic, for those schooled in the ancient ways of the eye care professional).

So I'm now to the point in the process at which those ancient eye care professionals actually start trying to figure out what's going on. Now that I'm out of the warranty period, don'tcha know. The next step was to test my eyes with the focusing mechanism effectively disabled. This had the additional benefit of dilating my pupils and causing nothing but laughs and general chaotic mirth while attempting to read music later on at choir practice.

box of granola bars backstory:
The ophthamologist has an optometrist that does all his so-called data mining for him, so I was at said optometrist's office last night waiting for the drops to take effect when I decided to run to Kroger. I really can't believe what a boring story I'm telling you, but you do seem to be enjoying it. Half-way through the store it hit me that I could see nothing. I ended up buying some things that I hoped were what I thought they were, but that remains to be seen, so to speak. This because my pupils are still huge.

So I have this box on my desk of what I believe are granola bars.

I dared to bring the granola bars backstory:
I've always been nervous around food, especially of the junk ilk. We did have an ongoing war in my parents' household to hide and later enjoy orange sodas and the like, but I just can't believe it affected me as profoundly as everything else that was ever done to me, by me, with me, for me, or without me in my childhood. Ever. But alas, here seems to be the proof. I would've thought that by now I would've finished off the box of - oh, I don't know, it kinda looks like 67 - bars, but I've yet to even open it.

So, as can be seen from the above statement taken in concert with the original statement before all the backstories began ... I deserve a cookie. Or at least a granola bar. Think I will - be right back.


Oh. Guess that was a six, not a 67.

I was actually down to 175 lbs. this morning. That from a high of 187 just a couple months ago. And all I really had to do was to quit going to the gym. Very strange, I know, so I'll go into more depth later.

And for those still in the dark about what a Kroger is, it's that grocery store that people have a tendency to go to just after saying, "I'm going to Kroger."

Might you have any opera-tunities?

I'd sure like to be a famous tenor. My acne should keep me from being very famous, though. Just as my squeaky voice keeps me from being very tenor.

I've actually been practicing with Christina Branz's new "Vocal Warm Ups and Exercises" 8-track. But I honestly can't tell that it's any clearer.

I've been into classical music for about a month now with no end in sight. And I'll tell you why I say that. I had a recidivistic '70s hits pilfering episode yesterday and ended up with the same sinking feeling I'm apt to get upon doing that very thing. I also get a similar feeling either when browsing a record store or just after eating a giant can of soup, but I really don't think those germane. However, the icky feeling - I'll call it Georges - has yet to occur when stealing classical from LimeWire.

Georges is as though I feel guilty about something. Since it's apparently neither the digital rights licensing nor the unconscionable behavior that's doing it, it must be the type of music.

Did you happen to notice how I put logic to work for me just above? Had it bent over busting blocks, I did.

Happiness is but a goofy blog away

So I came in to work today. I really felt I had to since the home office sent out a new telecommuting policy yesterday to my home office that stated anyone working from home was already in violation of it. For it was effective yesterday and happily mentioned that you must have both William Katt's and Sen. Orrin Hatch's approvals to work from home.

No, you don't know me. I'm new here. I used to tear it up over at Xanga until the mighty AT&T firewall closed in around us.

I'm just some guy who's trying to be himself and be happy about it. That may very well sound platitudinous to you. I know statements like that always did to me before I realized how much I was living to impress others. And I'm talking to the exclusion of my own desires here. You see, I thought I understood that statement and felt genuinely sorry for those schmoes who didn't. I now know this was because I felt others expected me to understand it.

Pretty sad, really. And it's really sad that it took some crazed cognitive behavioral therapist with a surly disposition to recognize it. Or is he more accurately characterized as churly? Ah, you wouldn't know anything about it. And you likely care even less. And just why is that so sad? Because I'd really like to hate this guy, yet I'm afraid I owe him my very existence.

See what I have to put up with?