The Piano Has Been Drinking

Down is the new up

2011-08-24T12:45:00.000-07:00

Douchebags with skateboards are the new assholes with guitars when it comes to bringing pointless shit on an airplane.

I've always been annoyed at the people bringing a guitar on-board an airplane. For every virtuoso crooner, there has to be about 80 Guys-Who-Think-Guitar-Players-Score-the-Hot-Ladies. But recently it appears that most of the people who brought their awesome axe on the plane have switched that out in favor of a long-board skateboard. I have no idea why you'd need to take that on the plane with you, but you look like an asshole.

Greedy Rat Bastard Teachers and Firefighters are the new Illegal Immigrants when it comes to Tea Baggers complaining about the end of 'Merica.

Ever since the Koch Brothers' shill in Wisconsin decided to take away collective bargaining rights for certain state employees, the far-right has determined that public employees are advocating sedition and are likely all Commienazi Socialists. First, it is important to note that, although a teacher gets paid shit, the state also does throw in a roll of toilet paper in terms of health insurance and a pension. However, the Darjeeling drinking masses also called teachers lazy for working only 9 months a year and for (allegedly) leaving work at 3 pm. They did not appear to say when teachers actually get to school, how much time was spent out of school doing work, and also failed to mention the good portion of the summer used for recuperating from the strep throat infection caught from your snotty-nosed brat who you refused to keep home. The distinction between what is taken home and what it actually costs the state per worker (salary plus pension) is important, that fact was routinely glossed over by the folks at Faux News making teachers seem like they were living in the lap of luxury

Arizona is the new South Carolina when it comes to batshit crazy states.

South Carolina used to be the benchmark when it came to crazy. Their stubborn desire to hold on to the Confederacy outweighed the anti-government nutjobs in Michigan and Montana long into the Clinton Administration. When Bush 2.0 came out, the crazy stopped focusing on State's Rights and the Fedral Gubmint and shifted their madness towards people with browner skin than them who have to pray facing east. Then we became the Obamanation. South Carolina tried to regain their status with Jim DeMint and his hatred of the Establishment Clause and Joe Wilson and his love of shout-outs, but Arizona pulled quickly ahead with:

SB1070 - Arizona's response to illegal immigration.
Birther bill
Jon Kyl and his statements not intended to be factual statements.
Shawna Forde, once the leader of the Minutemen, was just convicted of double murder in a vigilante slaying.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio (multiple DOJ investigations ongoing).

Arguably the most important post on this blog. A perfect storm of controversy and anger. Call your bestie with the deets and have a convo about it.

2011-04-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

I know. I have "some nerve" for writing a post about grammar and spelling when this site routinely gets awarded "shittiest editing in the blogoworld" every year. However, this post is a long time coming because it contains words and phrases I never, ever want to see used - EVER AGAIN! For the love of everything holy, please do not use these words around me. Please.

In no particular order:

Arguably: The word arguably is arguably the most over-used term used by people who are arguably douchebags when trying to make their point seem stronger. It is used when they have no evidence to back up their claim; instead, the word arguably is offered as evidence itself. For instance, I have arguably NO evidence that this phrase is overused, but by prefacing my stance with arguably, I have invented...AN ARGUMENT that it is. However, inarguably, there is no doubt that this term annoys the fuck outta me.

Because this term is used by people who arguably are giant assholes, it is used most often by sports-writers and [other] bloggers. Arguably, most sports writing bloggers use arguably arguably more than others. And, while sports writing bloggers are given a little bit of a pass (since they are arguably amateurs), the sports writing blogger professionals, (I'm looking at you, ESPN.com, SI.com) should be roundly beaten. The moment the first arguably pops up I smash my head into the monitor, which is arguably the leading cause of my emergency room and Best Buy visits. Please, save my frontal lobe and stop using ARGUABLY or I will give you a sucking chest wound with my clicky pen. And, as everyone knows, a sucking chest wound is arguably the WORST KIND of chest wound to have!

A Perfect Storm. I hesitate to use this, seeing as it has already been complained about as being overused by these fine people. However, people simply have not listened. Like arguably, a perfect storm is used by people trying to make themselves sound smarter. Just google "a perfect storm" and for every page talking about the book or the movie, there will be 10 pages spouting off about the "perfect storm" of the financial crisis, cell phones, pace maker malfunctions, IT problems, philly cheesesteaks and diapers. NEARLY ANYTHING IS A PERFECT FUCKING STORM. So, please stop it. If you don't stop it. There will be a perfect storm of sucking chest wounds caused by clicky pens.

Unlike those terms that people use to make themselves seem smarter, the following are used by smart people to make themselves appear dumber. Or, at least that's what it has the effect of doing.

Bestie Apparently this means your friend. Your best friend? I guess so. Instead of the perfectly acceptable term BFF, many people simply say "bestie." That's fine but the overall problem is that adding "ie" to anything makes you look like an idiot. Also, arguably one of the most annoying terms to use here in winter after a perfect storm is "freshies." Meaning "fresh snow." It would not be uncommon to hear someone say "I'm going to hit the freshies with my bestie." I'm pretty sure it would be hard to run the powder with a sucking chest wound, though, so please stop.

Convo. This means "conversation." Why you can't just say "conversation" makes me question your intelligence. When I hear "convo" I have to pause and think. 'did she just say "condo?" Or is she talking about a convocation? Why is she talking about a convocation right after talking about skiing fresh powder with her best friend?' Unless I missed the memo about how uncool the word conversation is, please use English as baby Jesus meant you to speak it. Also, although I've never had a sucking chest wound, I feel it would be pretty hard to talk with a hole in your lungs. So, to assure you can have future conversations, please stop saying convo.

Lastly, although the list is nowhere near exhausted, is deets. As in details. As in, "yeah man, I'm totally interested in that job, send me the DEETS." Or, "yes your honor, here are the deets of my client's case." You sound like a moron. Just for reference, here are the deets on how to treat a sucking chest wound caused by a clicky pen.

Tron of the Month

2011-03-23T15:29:00.000-07:00

This month's "Tron of the Month" goes to Casey Heynes, a 15 year old kid from Australia. Heynes deserves this award for showing an annoying little weasel what it is like to poke the bear one too many times. The short fight was filmed and then spread the world wide via you tube. You can find it here.

The short video features Casey (our portly hero) and a boy named Ritchard (the weaselly little fuck). Little Ritchard is dancing around the bigger Casey who is backed against a wall. Two things are immediately obvious: Casey wants to be somewhere else and Ritchard thinks he is quite the shit. If Ritchard hasn't yet made a school career of poking fun of others he seems well on his way.

Ritchard then darts in and punches Casey in the face. Casey stands there. Have you every been punched in the face? Even a little slap? It doesn't hurt so much as it is completely numbing - invasive. But Casey still stands there. Ritchard talks some more shit while his friends laugh at Casey and then punches him in the stomach several times. All along another weaselly, laughing motherfucker off-camera extols the paparazzi to "keep recording, keep recording."

Ritchard then darts in again, but is literally picked up by Casey and then SLAMMED down to the pavement. On his face. He may even bounce a bit. Instead of walking forward and kicking him in the face, (as Ritchard surely would have done), Casey merely walks away - probably into a sunset - while the little bully goes off to lick his wounds.

But there is always aftermath: for instance

the weasel's mother, Ermine, demanded an apology from Casey.
the weasel continues to blame Casey and fails to recognize his part in the mess.
Casey likely isn't going to score with the girl that came into the frame at the end, though she seemed to have his back.
and, most predictably, the school suspended Casey AND the prick. Standing up for himself got him in more trouble than had he just sat there and been beat on by a little asshole.
The world found out about this and in interviews upon interviews it came out that Casey apparently had a history of being bullied, so frequently he contemplated suicide as a result.

Honestly, this is a hard subject to be glib about and I can't figure out a way to close this post without it sounding like the animated PSAs attached to all the G.I. Joe cartoons. I certainly feel a little kinship to the kid, not because I had anywhere near the history of being picked on, but I was a chubby little bear and chubby bears are occasionally the targets for little weasels. I realized much later, after my self-esteem solidified, that I should have stood up for myself far sooner. But now I know better. (And knowing is half the battle).

More on the right

2011-02-07T21:13:00.000-08:00

Ahh - so the demonic Ad-Sense Ads have once again turned against me. What was a humorous poke against the less-educated members of the right has turned my neglected website into an advertisement to Ra_nd Pawll.

Now a board certification that really means something!

2010-10-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

Given the latest gaffs by Tea Party darling, Christine O’Donnell regarding her apparent knowledge of the Constitution, as well as numerous other public mistakes on both sides of the aisle (including those so far on either side that they seem like they are on a desert isle) I’d like to propose a standard-based title of Dude of Infinite Constitutional Knowledge that you can post on your resume. Take a simple test, and, much like a lawyer uses Esq. and a doctor uses MD you can use DICK as a suffix to your name to show your constitutional expertness. Imagine how that would help your campaign for Senate by stating you're a board-certified DICK.

But to truly mean something, the test would have to be graduated - it would have to have levels. I’m thinking like the dan ranking system for martial arts. “You see that red-faced guy with the two toned shirt and ugly tie spouting off about the 10th Amendment over there? He’s a 4th degree DICK!”

Of course to BE a DICK, the test has to be pretty daunting. Given the level of constitutional knowledge that many so called “experts” actually have, the test would really have to be something special. I’ll give you a sneak peek of the test to become a 1st Dude of Infinite Constitutional Knowledge.

Question #60: How many Amendments to the Constitution are there.
A. 28
B. None (only communists amend the Constitution!)
C. 23 (after we get rid of the 14th, 16th, 17th, and 19th)
D 27

Question #79: Who wrote the Constitution?
A. Glenn Beck
B. God
C. A and B are the same
D Members of the Constitutional Convention (held at the Las Vegas Hilton).

Question #442: The distribution of the duties of government separate branches is often called the Separation of __________
A. Laundry
B. Powers
C. Liquids and Solids

Question #488: The branch of government that interprets and applies the laws of the land is called the _______________

A. Judicial Branch
B. The Judicial Activism Branch

Question #1323: Which of the following words appear in the Constitution?

I. Obamacare
II. Taxes
III. Assault Rifle
IV. Bailout

A. II only
B. I, III, IV
C. II and IV
D. II and III (well, III is in there, they just call it “arms”, you see the Supreme Court told us that Assault Rifles are also called “arms” and we have a Right To Defend Ourselves From People Who Act Nasty To Us. It’s not IN the constitution, but it’s what the founders intended so it counts).

Question #1324 Does the term “Separation of Church and State” appear in the Constitution or its Amendments?

A. Not specifically, but how the Court has interpreted the Establishment and Free-Exercise Clauses of the First Amendment, as well as the Fourteenth Amendment and Article VI of the Constitution, indicate that government function and religious function are required to be separate.
B. Yes, it's right there, right THERE. Don't you see it?
C. No, of course not, as Pat Robinson (an honorary, certified DICK) says, the phrase appears nowhere in the United States Constitution, but does appear in the Konstitution of the Soviet Union!

Question #2900. The constitutional principle that allows Congress to pass a law authorizing the Federal Government to mandate health care coverage is:

A. The IIIrd Amendment
B. The Commerce Clause
C. There is none, it was a power grab by Pelosi, Reid and Obama to brainwash our youths into hating America (while being healthy.)
D. The Volstead Act

____________________________________________________________
Answers: D, D, B, A, A, A, B are answers that only an individual who attended public-schools his or her entire life would have answered. You've got a long way to become a DICK. If you answered C,C,C,B,D,C,C. you pass and should take the whole thing to prove you're a Dude of Infinite Constitutional Knowledge. You will also be automatically entered to win a United States Flag signed by Sarah Palin. Please don't let a democrat get a hold of it, or they may desecrate it.

A link to a blog - A blog about trout

2010-08-19T12:49:00.001-07:00

So, more than a year ago I decided to try and chronicle my fishing adventures in addition to my anger and rant based stuff here. Both seem to be heavy on the narcissism :) It hasn't gone spectacularly, simply because I haven't really gone fishing much, but I'll link to the latest entry, anyway.

As a side-note, apparently this site had ads for the Tea Party Manifesto. Awesome. Bloody awesome. Apparently Adsense thinks my readers are right wing, racist, homophobes...

here is the link http://clumsywader.blogspot.com

Just an airport conversation

2010-07-21T13:14:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be in an airport for most of today, so please pull out your Best of Lou Reed and give a listen to New York Telephone Conversation before reading the rest.

Before you start, I really wish you could see the absolute bounty of self-important assholes that populate this tiny little airport.

Enjoy!

I was resting, patiently waiting
when I heard your phone
Beyonce, South Park, Star Trek ringtones
make me want to groan.

Did you hear how important I am
I do business all the time
Just an airport conversation
rattling in my head

Oh, oh, my, and where shall we fly
Oh, oh, my, please fuck off and die.

Just an airport conversation
blabber among us plebs
I have millions, maybe billions
I commit white collar crime

I’m so special listen to me
here in the rows of chairs
Hirings, firings, mergers, breakups
no one really cares

Oh, how sad it is that you are so loud.
Oh, how sad it is for many in this crowd

I am begging, yes I’m begging
you in the ill-fitting suit
I will snap and probably kill you
if you don’t shut the fuck up!

If you don't shut the fuck up!

I b'lieve the children are our future - sell tchotchkes and let them lead the way

2010-06-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

I really wish I could make this shit up - it's sometimes too easy. Like throwing a worm into a tank of starving trout, sooner or later something will grab that bait and tug. Going to the airport (especially the airport on a trip to Las Vegas) is SURE to result in a blog worthy note, especially since I already dread the airport and am cynically expecting the worst

Let me tell you why I dread the airport. The airport is supposed to be one of the most secure place a civilian can go. They have checkpoints and xrays and big signs warning you of all sorts of nasty things that can happen if you bring a pair of tweezers on board. They have their own Federal Law Enforcement Agency (the TSA). They can make your life a living hell if you so much as JOKE that there is a ticking package or something of the like.

Plus the liquid. Oh, the liquid! I sit there before a trip and scrutinize my contact lens solution bottle size - making sure the manufacturer didn't up size and fuck me over. And, I wonder - I wonder far too obsessively on whether gel, toothpaste, shaving cream, etc.. is a liquid or a solid. I weigh the effectiveness of using hand soap as shaving cream (but looking like I lost a battle with a toy helicopter) against risking an international incident caused by an aerosol Colgate Shaving Cream can ( Newman was going to smuggle dino embryos in one in Jurassic Park, so maybe they're on the lookout for shaving cream canisters!). Half the time the faithful TSA agent picks apart my luggage if so much as a trial size bottle of mouthwash gets forgotten and half the time I find a bottle of water that I forgot was in a bag made it through. (Ok, once...but it was glorious!)

The airport also makes you disrobe. Not to a degree where I feel uncomfortable, just to a degree that pisses me off. In my case as I'm usually traveling for work, I'm almost always in a suit - with suspenders. So to go through the detector I have to take the shoes off, suspenders off, coat off, and then waddle through the metal detector holding my pants up with one hand and my boarding pass in another. Then I pick up my two gray bins (one for the laptop...the laptop gets its OWN bin) and waddle over to a bench to get dressed. But they do all of these things - the threats, the machines, the carefully measured liquids, the near nudity - to make things look, SAFE.

But marring this veneer of safety are the employees. Let's face it, nobody wants to work at the airport. Well, nobody that you want working at the airport is working at the airport. I think the TSA is the only federal law enforcement agency that would hire me hands down, no physical examination needed at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm in better shape than most of their entire brigade. Especially the ones they place at the EXIT of the secure area. You know, the area where, if someone really wanted to get something past a metal detector they would sneak past? Yup, they stick the most out of shape people (who find it necessary to gossip loudly about when their next break is, who is screwing who, how bad their back hurts and what they're having for dinner) at the exits of the terminal. At every single airport - without fail! Now maybe their being super clever and anyone that runs past will instantly be vaporized in the hail of bullets fired by the hidden SWAT team - but I somehow doubt it. Instead, what will likely happen is the person will get far enough inside the terminal to cause a major airport to shut down. Oh, wait - that DID happen. My bad.

On this afternoon however my ire wasn't raised by an overzealous TSA agent, it was an underzealous agent. Or a sadly out of date airport policy against solicitation. Either way, it was 3d glasses that brought the red to my face. Not just 3d glasses but 3D FIREWORKS GLASSES!

I found out about the glasses while I was sitting and waiting for my plane to start boarding. Up comes this guy, looking like a fatter, sweatier version of Chuck Liddell, who asks me: "Hey, big guy - you like the Fourth of July, right?"

Ahh, if there is one thing a big guy really really likes, it's being called "big guy." Almost as good as "tiny." Either way I could already smell the bullshit he was peddling. "You want to put these on and look at the lights?" He was holding a "demo" pair (written in large, shaky Sharpi across the top) out to me and motioning to look at the lights.

I politely declined. That's when he started earning the sweat that was dampening his armpits and his brow.

"Wassa matter? Don'tcha support the children's hospital?" He informed me that for the low low price of $2.00, the money he earned would go to the childrens' hospital.

"Which childrens' hospital?" I asked.

He looked at me. "The childrens' hospital."

Ok, well. Maybe he forgot the name of the rather famous childrens' hospital near the University. Or maybe it was a national childrens' hospital foundation. Whatever. I just wasn't interested.

"No thanks." I said and then watched him huff with disappointment before I turned back to my magazine.

A couple minutes later I looked up to see him frantically approach person after person. I smirked (yeah, I'm an asshole) when I saw every impatient passenger rebuff his offer of saving the children through lame glasses.

And that's when he lost it. Well, that's when he lost it for the first time. Someone managed to smile at him and he let loose. "Well that's the first smile I've seen on anybody in this airport. I thought all you people (meaning all the denizens of the state of Tron, I suppose) are supposed to be nice." A sort of uneasy silence fell over the people surrounding him before it was carried away into the general din of an airport terminal.

A woman came around, presumably his travel partner, and spirited him away. That's when I started to get mad. After all of that. The careful rationing of liquids to carry on the plane. The lines. The xray. Having to unpack your shit before the scanner and put it all back after. All of that doesn't matter a goddamn bit. Sure, they got rid of the thousands of family members waiting for their mormon missionary to deplane, the love sick teenagers sneaking in one last sloppy tongue kiss before college, the mom and seven kids waiting for dad to come back from his conference. All of those people are gone from the terminal. But not the crap peddler - no matter where you are, some douche-bag selling some lame product is going to be there to throw their little sob story in your face.

The postscript to this though is rather awesome. Turns out, Mr. SweatyGuy was on my plane. Turns out, Mr. SweatyGuy was trying to sell his bullshit glasses during boarding and had two flight attendants ask him if he even HAD a ticket for the flight and then proceeded to get in a rather loud argument with his seatmate (not his travel partner) about halfway through the flight prompting the THIRD attendant to warn him to cool it or the eff-be-eye would be awaiting for him at McCarren. Turns out Mr. SweatyGuy got into an even BIGGER argument with his travel partner once we de-planed that raised the ire of a couple of blue garbed TSA agents..a couple of blue-garbed TSA agents that managed to both look like they could take care of Mr. SweatyGuy without breaking a sweat themselves. That's the last I saw of Mr. SweatyGuy - red faced, hands full of crappy glasses, frantically gesturing towards my new friends in blue.

Wontcha be mine, wontcha be mine, Won't you be my neighbor (hello, neighbor!)

2010-06-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

The term "bandwagon" comes from one of the worst disasters of the early twentieth century. Little is know exactly what happened, but it involved a marching band and being that they were a marching band, they were all extremely cool and everyone loved them. Word of the band, and how amazing it was to be in a marching band, began to circle like the plague. Everyone wanted to be part of the marching band simply because everyone else did. The band would travel from town to town with the percussion section and the tubas in a large wagon pulled by a team of sixteen, pure white draft mules. Usually the percussionists would have to beat people off the wagon with their mallets, but one hot summer night in Allenville, Ohio a large group of people jumped on the band's wagon. More people jumped simply because they saw everyone else jump until the entire wagon collapsed in a heap of drum sticks, cymbals, broken legs and shattered dreams. 14 of the 16 mules had to be put down, 76 people died and the small Ohio town soon went bankrupt. Since that time, when people join a fad based strictly on word of mouth and desire to be "cool" it's called "jumping on the bandwagon." (And, since that time, marching bands have extreme fail-safes in place to ensure that only the really awesome people are allowed in.)

Unfortunately, people haven't learned the lesson of the bandwagon and, while most bandwagon jumpers don't kill themselves or a mule, it's still not a good idea to consistently jump on a bandwagon.

But don't tell that to ESPN. They are betting you will. And I know you won't disappoint them.

It's already started - the bandwagon jumping. Thousands of people, who ordinarily don't give a damn about anything outside Taco Bell, the latest color of Mountain Dew (the blue stuff rocks!) and when the NASCAR Sprint Series is going to have its own reality show, are now suddenly SOCCER HOOLLIGANS.

These are, of course, same people that REALLY GOT INTO CURLING about four months ago.

Who are the same that really LOVED POKER about 6 years ago.

The same people that embraced the Atkins diet.

Oxygen bars.

Kenny G

The list goes on.

Thousands of young and old American men and women are suddenly SOCCER fans. Never mind that most of the rest of the world has been patiently waiting for the last 4 years for this summer to come, most Americans only found out about it between reruns of the World Series of Lumberjack Dog Tricks and the Toddler Softball Superbowl. But to these newly minted soccer fans it's like they've been waiting all their life for this one particular moment.

I don't care if you actually do like soccer. As much as I'm indifferent to it, I can't help but note that about 80 billion people love it, but that's not my point. My point is that (and this is where I start to sound like an angry version of Fred Rogers) like something for its intrinsic qualities and not because ESPN or Oprah told you it's super cool. There's a team of pure-white mules somewhere, looking down, begging you to do the same.

Karma karma karma karma is a biiiiiaaatch

2010-03-12T19:30:00.000-08:00

Karma is a bitch.

A fickle bitch.

Karma is a fickle bitch who is currently spanking me on my reddened bottom while my muffled "thank you ma'am, may I have another" can barely be heard behind the ball gag.

And she's spanking me while I'm sitting in McCarren Airport waiting for my very-bad-day to end.

I'm sure that nothing is more boring than reading someone talk about their day. But, when the author's day starts at 5:30 am just to fly to a city on time and then end up waiting 2 hrs to see the judge, then get thrown out of a cab because he called the thieving cab driver a thief and then end up having his flight home delayed 4 hours to the point where he'll arrive home 20 hours after he first woke up in the morning, it is a good idea just to humor the author and say "yes, yes it was a horrible day. Gosh how interesting, may I buy you a Talisker and hear it two more times?"

The day really didn't turn until the cab ride. I generally don't mind cab rides; they have to deal with crappy Vegas traffic while I sit in the back and warily watch the meter. And cab rides in Vegas have provided me with extremely amusing stories. But this cab ride started sour because I didn't know where I was going. Well, I did know where I was going. I told the cabbie the right address. Then I said "oh, hold on...lemme check" as he was driving away from the curb which I guess in cabbie speak means, "this guy wants me to drive around the belt loop of the freeway."

When I told him to take a different, quicker, shorter way, that apparently was too much English for this formerly-somewhat-accented-but-still-perfectly-literate man. He continued to drive towards the freeway - exactly (we were on the correct road) 180 degrees in the wrong direction and mumble at me.

So I insisted again.

And he looked blankly at me again.

Which is when words like "rip-off" and "thief" came out of my mouth. Oh, and "scam". And it's really not like I called him a thief....I merely told him I hoped he wasn't one. It was his choice at that point to follow the dark or light path.

These words were apparently some sort of healing prose, because they immediately cured him of his brief aphasia. The downside being suddenly became really, really mad.

"I no rip you off, you no know where you're going." I sort of hate to approximate his difficulty with English, but that is - to the word - what he said. Again, remarkably calm (read: "haven't said the word "fuck" yet") I merely reiterated where we were going, the cross-streets, and the best way to get there. I was still sort of bewildered how taking the freeway was needed when I didn't know the exact address, but I was not about to have to pay this dude another $20.00 just because his cab company tells him he has to use the freeway for every transaction.

He continued to berate me including telling me to get out of his cab. Sort of an empty threat I thought seeing as we were moving 30 mph down the road. It was around this time that he began firing the first in his several volleys of uncool expletives

Which is when I went "uncalm" and said a bad word in adjective form. Not "the worst word," but something that can only be said on HBO or Showtime. Actually two - (word)ing stop this (word)ing cab you smelly (feminine hygiene product) and let me out. (I figure the "smelling" fact was a given seeing as I was in a cab in Las Vegas).

Further angering the man.

To his credit, he complied with what I asked him to do and did, in fact, stop the cab. In the middle of traffic. And so I got out. And then he tried to run me over (read, he tried to get away while I stood in the middle of the road).

So, I'm not sure if it it was the "douche" comment or if it was something I did yesterday or the week before or in another life but karma clearly had it in for me. And that clearly wasn't the end of my very-bad-day.

I'm sure you're anxious to hear me rap about how my experience in the airport has been but I'd rather not tempt the fates about blogging about my patience waiting to see if Delta is going to fly me home tonight just to lose it later (like last time). So I'll bid you all a good night and hope that we can share a Talisker soon. Because I need it.

Just as soon as I get this ball gag out of my mouth.

Said sugar make it slow and we'll come together fine...

2010-02-16T13:28:00.000-08:00

I am an extremely patient person.

People are always saying, "you have the patience of an elephant" or "gosh, you have the patience of Job." And, I always respond. "Yes, yes I do."

I am also a bald-face liar; which is what brings us to the February entry of "As the Tron Churns".

Last Friday I attended the Symphony. In college, going to the symphony was almost a weekly occurrence because we were music majors and the tickets were cheap. Now that I'm a big boy, I must pay big boy prices, which has limited my attendance. Not for Dvorak.

They were playing Dvorak's 9th Symphony and therein lies my beef with the classical music business. They treat almost every composer like a One Hit Wonder. If one makes a request for Beethoven, they play the 5th. If one asks for Soft Cell they play Tainted Love. Want to hear Vivaldi? You get the Four Seasons. Ask for Dexy's Midnight Runners you get Come on Eileen. And, if you want to hear anything by Anton Dvorak, you'll be listening to the 9th Symphony.

There is nothing wrong with the 9th Symphony but it is to his 8th Symphony what Touch of Grey is to Althea. What Blowin' in the Wind is to Desolation Row. What Nothing Else Matters is to Master of Puppets. What Barbie Girl is to Cartoon Heroes. The 9th is good, the 8th is better. But, the good people at the symphony chose to play the 9th and so I was there.

And if that's all I had to complain about the evening, I would be wasting your time.

I'm getting there, just have a little patience.

Everything was going just peachy until about half-way through the 2nd movement. This is the Largo, the Power Ballad of the piece. It is slow. Super slow. And quiet. And the audience was loving it. You could have heard a pin drop. But, I didn't. Instead of a pin I heard Thhhhhhwwappp.

That's right. Thhhhhwwwap

If you want to know what this sounds like. Take a small magazine and quickly thumb through all the pages with your thumbnail. It goes....Thhhhwwwwaap. A small magazine. Or maybe a program printed on glossy paper.

It was someone who was fidgety and messing around with their program, right? I mean I've gotten bored during the symphony. Hell, I've become bored writing this post.

But it wasn't boredom. It was sheer malice. It was sheer malice by a little old lady with gray poof hair. I had looked around after the fourth or fifth time fully expecting a kid who just wasn't quite into it. Instead I see this older woman staring straight ahead. Fingers poised on the edge of her program. And she is still staring forward - like STRAIGHT AHEAD. And I'm staring at her. There is no possible way she couldn't feel my glare. Any normal woman would have turned and at least made eye contact, even if to say "What the fuck, sonny?" So I turn around. And then I hear thhhhwwwaap thhhwaaaaap thhhhwaaaap.

And I'm not the only one bothered by this. People are shushing. That sort of quick sshhh that you make when you're trying hard not to explode. She finally does make eye contact. For a brief moment. And instead of a hint of a smile to indicate humorous intent, or even like an "oh no?! I'm ashually bothering you?" she just looked at me with a smirk of defiance and made one long thwwwwaaaaaap And she kept doing it. Through the 3rd movement.

Through the fourth.

And I am all the while plotting this woman's demise.

She was too far away to grab the program - even during the break between the movements. But don't think I didn't envision my lightening quick reflexes snatching the program out of her hands and whapping her once on the nose like a bad puppy. Any move to pick the program up would surely have resulted in my banishment from the venue for life as well as falling out of my chair and ripping my suit coat and slacks. She was behind me, which threw out any Godfather-esque retribution (picture my Clemenza to her Carlo Rizzi). She was too far away to whisper death threats against her and her children. It was bothering other people, my laser glare, so I was content to just listen to what I could hear of the symphony over the growing echo of her program thwwwiping and thwwwaping. She couldn't have bothered me more if she had sat directly behind me and lightly scratched the nape of my neck with a peacock feather. Or a rusty needle. Or the teeth of a saw.

When the symphony finally ended and the audience shot to their feet (seriously, if you can manage to finish a piece of music here in this state while staying alive and not bleeding over the audience you'll get a standing ovation) I still had no grand plan. I couldn't reach out and pinch her bat wings. Or crush her granny glasses.

So I just talked to her.

Well, not at her. Just about her. Loudly. To my girlfriend. I was complaining to A while staring straight at the old woman who was turning redder and redder. And that made me happier and happier. The culmination of which was my commenting on her lack of manners considering how damn old she was. She nearly fell over the people in front of her trying to get out after that.

If there is any theme to this collection of rants online it is that I have the maturity level of a 12 year old boy. But, I also have the sense of justice of a 5 year old which is: if you make me mad, I'll make you pay. So while I can't scratch, kick or bite you, I'll just publicly humiliate you. And that never leads to my own public humiliation. Never. Ever.

So, to my beautiful girlfriend, I'm sorry. To the patrons around us, I'm sorry. But not to you, you program flipping crone.

Too many puppies....

2010-02-04T13:16:00.000-08:00

Puppies shouldn't be used for live bait. Not only do puppies make horrible noises when you thread a hook through them, they tend to poop all over your boat.

I'm clearly insane, but not as insane as the person that told me I should join a group on Facebook called "Stop The Use Of Puppies For Live Bait" When I saw that, a little cry escaped my lips. It turns out that not only were Puppies being used as bait, they were being used as LIVE bait. FOR SHARKS! Sharks with TEETH. Teeth that EAT PUPPIES!

Then I read up on it and in less than five minutes found out that puppies AREN'T being used for live bait. Or dead bait. At least by a large enough group of people. I mean SOMEWHERE I imagine SOMEONE used a live puppy to catch a shark, I'll grant you that. But that doesn't mean there is a National Live Bait Federation: Puppy and Kitty Chapter that is suddenly saying "Oh shit, now that Facebook knows, the WORLD will know!!!"

And that's what every single person should do if they care about puppies being used as live bait. They should maybe get a little more information. Why? Because if it sounds too absurd to be true IT PROBABLY IS!

But that's just not as much fun, is it? It's not fun to find out that the situation isn't as bad as you first think it is. Why bother educating yourself when you can just get OUTRAGED over it.

It doesn't just stop at the dead puppies. It keeps going right past the dead puppies, down the hall past the dead horses, dead monkeys and right up to the Death Panels. Yup, the Evil Death Panels that will surely kill grandmother. If one was really worried about Meemaw being sentenced to death by an Obama Death Panel, wouldn't you bother to read up on it a bit? Naw - why read when you can just get outraged!?!

The snarky moral of the day is this. Lern to reed! No puppies are being used as live bait, Ms. Left-Wing-Vegan-Weirdo and no death panel is going to kill gramma, Mr. Right-Wing-Doucher-Alarmist. But you both are going to kill me - which was probably your goal in the first place. You see, someone told me about this conspiracy.....

#2230

2009-12-08T21:40:00.000-08:00

I am still puzzled by my interaction with the checker at the grocery this afternoon. Somewhere in between piling my cart full of sugared soda, snacky cakes, bacon and other salted pig parts, cakey snacks and cheesy poofs, some fruit and vegetables ended up in my cart. At the checkout, the checker paused when he first reached the produce and at first seemed as puzzled to find them amongst the refined sugars. Then he turned to me, eyes swimming behind coke-bottle glasses, and said, "you want the organic fruit in with the non-organic stuff?"

I almost said "no" as my first thought the "non-organic stuff" he meant was the pack of batteries and ant-poison I was buying until I saw he had paused before loading a plastic bag full of organic bananas with apparently gentile grapes.

"Uh, sure...you can put all the produce together," I said.

Mind you, this wasn't Whole Foods or Sunflower Market. I didn't even know I had picked up organic bananas until he sort of wiggled them at me while I puzzled things over.

After he'd resumed his checking and bagging I couldn't let it go, so I asked him why.

"Oh, some people - you know - they want their organic produce away from the other stuff. If the organic stuff touches regular food it isn't organic anymore." He said this with a little shrug like "To each their own" while I sat there dumbfounded.

Isn't organic anymore.

It apparently loses organic status and becomes.....inorganic? The bananas go from Plantae Angiosperms Monocots Commelinids Zingiberales Musaceae Musa (thank you Wikipedia) to something found on the periodic table of elements.

And I had let it happen. I could feel the blood leaving my face just thinking how I had let my bananas, once as pure as the driven snow get trapped in the same plastic bag with a bordello of seedless grapes. The horror.

But then something took a hold of me. I told the checker to hold on and I took off like an excited St. Bernard puppy for the produce section. Grabbing a fistful of non-organic apples, I made my way through the organic produce like the angel of death. I rubbed the waxy, unclean, contaminated apples upon the virginal peels of the organic bananas, the thin skin of the $4.99 ea Organic Heirloom Tomatoes, and the collection of oddly shaped and colored potatoes that sell for the price of a troy ounce of silver. I used the stalks of non-organic green onions like Satan's paintbrush, soiling the organic plums, pears, and weak looking citrus fruit all the while frothing with the pervasive thought that if I my produce was rendered "in-organic"no one can have purity. Spent, and full of weary accomplishment I rejoined the rest of the checkout line to thunderous applause....

Believe it or not, I can understand wanting ones food to be "organic." But, what I don't understand, and frankly find stupid, is the thought that the mere touching of a leaf of conventionally grown spinach to a leaf of spinach grown organically will destroy the sanctity of that product. The effort that needs to be put forth to maintain the purity of a damn banana is astounding. And not only is that effort astounding, it's a simple veneer! Was the organic fruit delivered on an organic truck, powered by organic fuel, driven by a patchouli wearing hippy with dreadlocks? Was the organic fruit unpacked by workers with organic gloves that had touched nothing but the holy skin of the organic idols?

So, this will just be filed under #2230 of "Why the World Is So Fucked Up and No It's Not Obama's Fault". You can read the other 2229 of them in my book, printed on organic paper with organic ink. The books are placed on the organic, non-bleached hemp and bamboo bookshelf right next to the organic rat poison (now only 80% less effective than real poison) in your local grocery store. Oh, and I'd wash the organic apples in 100% organic spring water from 100% organic springs if I were you....I picked through them shortly after I left the bathroom...they didn't have any organic soap in there and I just didn't want to let anything impure touch my skin.

Dear Landlord, please don't put a price on my soul!

2009-09-23T07:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Landlord/Upstairs Neighbor:

Please feel free to ask for help moving that heavy furniture at 5:55 AM. I don't know why you're moving furniture at 5:55 AM, but since I am now up at 5:55 AM due to the insanely loud banging and scraping of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor/ceiling above my head, I would be more than happy to just pick it up and help you out - you obviously are having trouble on your own. Alternatively, should you desire help moving that furniture at a time later than 5:55 AM this would be ideal as it is still SLEEPYTIME at 5:55 AM. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Tronner

All the bad boys are standing in the shadows and all the good girls are home with broken hearts

2009-09-18T21:22:00.000-07:00

You're welcome.

Because I have figured out the cause of, and the solution to, all of our economic and political problems.

No need for anything but your thanks and a comfortable monetary compensation

The cause of this whole mess is the battle against the undead.

I blame it all on the vampires. The silly, emotional, vapid, whiny, "undead" vampires. Or, rather the silly, emotional, vapid, whiny, "undead" fans of vampires that have given the world media carte blanch to print, produce, tape, and projectile vomit upon the world a deluge of vampire crap. From Anne Rice's gothy, pederastic Lestat the Whiny Bitch, to the Twhinelight series, to the pornographic True Blood, vampires have taken over the hearts and minds of millions of people yearing to have their neck sucked while having centuries of life to wax poetically on the meaning of life. The person reading the vampire novel gets lost into a world where money and responsibility are never issues. Where the finest clothes, titles, and power are a given. Where history happens around the vampire instead of involving him. Where day to day stress is ignored and where the only real danger is not making it to bed on time. Sooner or later, the vampire fan will fancy themselves as one of the lounging undead; existing in a world where one can bend others to their will; where every meal is orgasmic pleasure. So, instead of personal responsibility, the vampire fan believes themselves to a special person who need not take part in the lives of the little people. After all, they have millennia to figure things out.

So how does one combat this. How does one avoid the temptation to fall into the vampire's hypnotic gaze? The answer isn't a matter of just putting down the vampire books, turning off the pale and dark film adaptations, casting off the black velvet, and getting a tan. The answer to all of this is also found in the undead.

Zombies

A direct opposite to the brooding, whiny undead; the brainless, hungry undead will save the world. In any zombie movie you see all aspects of society working together to defeat the horde of mindless corpses. No one in a zombie movie WANTS to be a zombie -they save the last bullet for themselves just to avoid becoming one of "them". Zombies aren't attractive or intelligent. They are rotting. They stink. And they have horrible fashion sense. Movies and books about the undead aren't romantic and emotional - they are violent, chaotic and funny. In other words they reflect LIFE. Not how it could be or should have been, but how it IS. A person watching a zombie movie thinks "shit has gone down - what are we going to do about it" instead of the vampire fan who thinks "gosh, isn't immortality dreamy?" After vicariously battling the living dead, a person is left with a feeling of comic accomplishment. It takes human (let's face it, AMERICAN) ingenuity to mow down wave after wave of zombies. And while vampire movies one with a sense of entitlement, zombie movies, though apocalyptic, leave a person with a feeling of hope and that even the last spark of humanity holds something worthwhile.

So, stop dreaming about Bella, Lestat, Louis, Edward and TheChickFromXmenandthePiano. Stop shopping for velvet and coffins. Cease your dreams that a handsome, waxy man will one day suck on your neck. Rent a George A. Romero flick. Be proactive! Sharpen your machete. Stockpile boxes of .45 ACP. and 00 buckshot. Being vigilant to the zombie threat is much more worthwhile than whining about why you haven't been chosen to be the immortal lover of an emotional corpse. And if the end finally comes for you, you'll know you will have done everything possible to avoid becoming part of the living dead, instead of lying there and waiting for that last kiss.

A wee log in which I celebrate minor triumphs.

2009-09-07T12:58:00.001-07:00

Quick!

Look!

They are THERE!

I have DONE IT....I have SUCCEEDED in altering the ADS by mere WILL (well, mostly repeating several words ad nausea). Now you can get as many condoms, STD tests and hemorrhoid creams your little heart will desire with JUST ONE CLICK.

I have also managed to piss off several people (well, two) just based on my calling Educators "Douchebags" for not showing Obama's speech. So, my poor facebook is down two facist, racist, fucktards and it feels so much the lighter and airier already. That, is why I do this.

Join me next week when I talk about events along my maturity level - like how my first month of Jr. High went.

An Open Letter to the Douchebags that call themselves Edumacators

2009-09-03T15:22:00.001-07:00

The state of Utah is apparently so frightened that a black man is going to be talking to their children through a video, that they are requiring all parents sign a waiver and give them the choice to "opt out" of hearing the President speak. Although I'm not a parent, let's just pretend I am.

Dear School District: Attached please find my signature allowing my child to see the video from our President, Barack Obama. I never thought I'd see the day where I must give my child permission to allow him to see the President speak, but apparently you feel this is something as noteworthy as talking about penises and vaginas, AIDS or other squirrly stuff. Perhaps it's because he is liberal (he is), perhaps it is because you think he is a Muslim (he isn't, but who really cares), or because he is black (sort of), who knows. Even President Bush deserved to be heard by the nation.* Despite the fact I strongly oppose having to give it at all, here is my permission nonetheless.

While you're at asking my permission, please do likewise when any Utah Republican Propaganda is brought up. Based on my own experiences in Utah schools at least two of my teachers in Jr. High and two in High School were more than generous in their opinions about how important the Republican party is. I also remember hearing speeches by Ted Wilson (Democrat), Karen Shepherd (Democrat) and Enid Green (a Republican whose congressional campaign was plagued by fraud) without having to bring home anything for mommy and daddy to sign. I also remember hearing a speech by a BYU Football Star (and NFL failure) who spent quite a few minutes talking about his conversion to the LDS Church as part of the public assembly. I don't recall being offered an "alternative activity" for any of these programs.

That brings me to my next point. Please also ask my permission before you allow my child to hear anything about the LDS Church other than in a forum designed to learn about all religions, cults, and various ways of life. I know my own 4th Grade teacher spent the entire year talking about his mission, so I'd personally like to know if my child's current teacher is expounding on his or her experience converting the Gentiles as well. I also remember church-produced videos being shown in my Mormon History...er...Utah History class in the 8th Grade. Please let me know if and when these LDS productions are going to be shown so I may review them before I give consent. If I do not approve, I will give him an appropriate video to watch in return. Lastly, if my child is going to be asked questions like "why aren't you taking [LDS] Seminary?" despite the fact he isn't Mormon, by the President of the Seminary, while at school, as the President of the Skyline High School Seminary did to me in 1993, I would love an opportunity to give my consent (or lack thereof).

Please ask my permission before you run an assembly on drug and alcohol use. I drink and I really don't want a person who's only knowledge of alcohol is stealing and reading the drink menu from TGI Fridays under their covers late at night while shivering in near orgasmic anticipation on the one day they can sneak away and order a Frozen Mickey's MaiTai Surprise while the rest of the family is riding Space Mountain telling my kid how similar they think snorting a line of coke and putting rum in Coke is. I understand that, for a lot of you people, the mere sight of a margarita is a mortal sin, but for those of us who can actually enjoy a drink now or then without turning into a blubbery mess, we don't want our kids thinking we're alcoholics. Please also be sure to check the opiate levels of all of my kids' teachers as well before they are allowed teach. It seems Utahns have a bit of a problem with the Oxycontin.

Also, it is apparent that many Utah school teachers, men and women alike, view the student body to be their own personal dating pool. No less than 8 teachers in the last 2 years have been convicted of raping their students. So, before Ben Jr. gets raped by his teacher, please take the time to talk about appropriate boundaries with your teachers. That is, if you're not too busy cowing down to the dregs of society like you are now, you spineless weasels.

But let's get back to President Obama. Obama Obama Obama. The more you say it, the more you'll realize that this man is our President and not just the guy that was running against the old dude and Sarah Palin. (I'm surprised that Utah didn't latch on to her as "Utah's Own", she did go to school in North Utah, aka Idaho) Please face the fact that the majority (far more than those that chose Shrub) of Americans voted for him. Despite the divisive politics that are being run right now, he is still allowed, and likely SHOULD give speeches to the youth. Maybe it's to stay in school. Maybe it's to give a message of hope when all they are hearing is doom. Maybe, because of all the way so MANY people (I'd like to say "on both sides" but let's face it, there are some really "special" people on the far right) are acting in this political atmosphere, he wants to talk about respect. Respect for oneself. Respect for one's teachers. And respect for this county. This form to make sure I approve. This form respects none of that. So please. One last time. I allow my child to hear the President of the United States of America. And when you're done reading this letter. Please crumple it up and shove it up your sanctimonious ass.

Publish Post

* Of course he deserved respect. How would we have watched the Daily Show or Colbert without a daily doee of Shrub's antics?

It Didn't Work....or maybe I'm just impatient

2009-08-30T23:04:00.000-07:00

It didn't work.

I went through all that time to type out a Preparation H commercial on my blog and the space age technology of the AdSense didn't have sense enough to pick up even the slightest hint it did what it was supposed to do.

So, I'm sorry that I talked about the painful, burning and itching, and rubbers, and all sorts of things. I'm just sorry.

2009-08-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

One may notice I have ads on this site. Originally, of course, I was lured to place ads by the hope and prayer of money. Then I moved the decimal place over six spots to where my page views per day was and came to the quick realization that I would make about $.01 every seventeen years.

Then I saw that the ads are customized to content.

That is wonderful.

So, much like Gmail looks through your texts to determine what ads to place next to your email, AdSense looks through the blog text to best advertise various links.

For example: if this blog were about fishing, I'm sure that the more I talked about fishing, it would, sooner or later, develop ads consistent with my fishing blog's content. It would see I talked about going fishing, catching fish, gutting fish, filleting fish, making fish gumbo, fish stew, fish creole, fish cocktail, pan fried fish, baked fish, or breaded fish. I would talk about fishing lures, fishing flies, fishing rods, fishing reels, fishing poles, fishing waders, fishing boots, fishing hats....you get the pitcher. ("I sure do, Bubba").

But that also makes me want to use this program for evil. For bad. To mess with the poor system.

I just can't figure out a way to do that.

So instead, let me tell you about the conversation I heard the other day on the bus between two old men.

Old Man #1 "Boy, Virgil, it is so hot out today, my hemorrhoids are acting up. I can't hardly sit down because my hemorrhoids are so painful. They burn and itch. Won't anything relieve the painful burning and itching caused by my hemorrhoids?"

Old Man #2 "Armando, it's OK that you have hemorrhoids. But are you sure that you don't have something more serious? Like an STD? Perhaps the burning and painful itching you think is caused by hemorrhoids is actually caused by Gonorrhea, or Chlamydia, or Syphilis or Herpes. Perhaps you have a STD causing the burning and painful itching and not hemorrhoids."

OM #1. "Goddamnit Virgil! I don't have an STD. I have hemorrhoids! Hemorrhoids! Hemorrhoids! Hemorrhoids! Can't you hear? I have a painful burning and itching that makes it hard to sit down. Don't you know of any creams I can use for my hemorrhoids?"

OM#2: "Oh, Armando! It's OK if you have an STD. You just need to be more careful. You need to use condoms or abstinence. After all, if the State of Utah says abstinence is the best sex education, who am I to disagree. But anyway. you should really use a condom next time. You can use any condom, really. Any brand. Anything like Ramses, or Trojan, or Durex. Any condom will do. I promise."

OM#1 :Virgil, I swear to God I will suffocate you with a box of Trojan Her Pleasure Ribbed and Lubricated condoms if you don't start listening to me. I have a painful burning and itching caused by hemorrhoids. I am embarrassed to talk about it to my wife, and instead confided with you on this crowded bus. Please listen to me complain loudly about my hemorrhoids and stop talking about possible STDs I may have including Gonorrhea, Syphilis, Chlamydia, Molluscum, Herpes etc..."

This conversation went on for quite awhile.

And it really didn't make much sense. Just a lot of talk about hemorrhoids and condoms. Which are not even really related and is sort of an offending topic to be talking about on a bus for hell's sake. I got off before it ended, maybe they tied up the hemorrhoids and STDs before they got off.

Oh well, back to the ads. The AdSense Ads on the left side of the page. They're supposed to reflect the overall content on my blog. So, let me know if you see anything useful. I'm sure they'll want you to follow the link.

Distemper

2009-07-01T17:25:00.000-07:00

I have a temper.

Not a huge surprise there.

The thing about having a temper is that you despise your own temper and somewhat empathize with those that have one themselves. Especially when they're losing it and you can't help but watch them slide into histrionics when everything with you is just peachy.

That doesn't mean I'm making an excuse about having a temper. Nor am I excusing those that do. What I despise though, more than a man or woman with an uncontrollable temper, is those that exploit it in others. Those that goad, poke, prod and cajole (yes, cajole) someone into losing their temper, all the while sitting back and acting innocent. Once that person starts down the (insert phrase that is synonymous with "slippery slope" but much better than that phrase) of losing their temper they are lost to all the exit signs. It's sort of like watching the rapid scene in Deliverance (rapid scene...r-a-p-i-d...not the other scene starting r-a-p). e.g. you think things are a calm river and all of a sudden you end up in rapids and your friend goes T.U..

This seems nowhere more prevalent than the practice of law. (coincidentally the "other scene in Deliverance starting with r-a-p" is also very prevalent in the practice of law).

And it is often the hardest part of what I do (again, we're talking about losing the temper, not Ned Beatty's hindquarters. I don't know why I even brought that up in the first place). It's hard because I often can see the goading coming. I can see Them slowly prodding my client's thin skin waiting for the moment where the temper is lost and They can sit back and look at me and point and say "See?"

It's not like I just sit there. I would be as successful as I am if I didn't have some tricks up my sleeve. But sometimes you can see the train wreck coming and sometimes you can't do anything about it. And sometimes you just have to try to pick up the pieces afterwords.

But it's hard to do. Just ask Jon Voigt

The Sun Also Rises

2009-06-29T15:10:00.000-07:00

What did we find out when the world woke up on the following days?

August 17, 1977
December 9, 1980
April 1, 1994
April 6, 1994
August 10, 1995
September 1, 1997
July 17, 1999
February 9, 2007
January 23, 2008
June 26, 2009

Answer - the sun still rose in the east ,birds still sang, dogs still barked and cats still caused me to sneeze; rain still fell and flowers still bloomed, children were still conceived, people still died, rivers continued to flow into the ocean, the waves continued to crash on sand, apples miraculously still dropped from trees, politicians still lied and the sun still set in the west, as it had for billions of years.

Although the days before these ordinary days were also the same they were different in only one thing. A small (yet large enough to make their histrionic wails rise to the heavens) minority of people believed that day was the last day on earth that anything would remain the same.

And they all went to bed.

And they all got up.

And they all went on, the same as before.

Mea Culpa...Mea Maxima Culpa

2009-06-25T16:53:00.001-07:00

It's been 6 months since my last blog.....

It's not as if I've had nothing to speak about....it's not that I've been lazy. I have just neglected this corner of interwebrealestate for the last little bit.

Rest assured, however.....I made it out of Boise alive.

I made it out of Boise alive and one of the things I was doing while waiting (ultimately in vain) for Skywest to come up with something resembling "customer service" was enjoying the vast knowledge base supplied by Wikipedia.

I love Wikipedia. I know it's wrong. As someone who used to pride himself on his ability to find relevant case law and articles, I should be ashamed that such a website exists.

But I love it nonetheless.

I love it for it's comprehensive (albeit shady) view of anything pop culture. If I want to find out how historically inaccurate Braveheart was I go to Wikipedia. Or, if I want to find out which episodes of Law and Order guest starred Michael Imperioli. Or, if I want to find the trade name of a medication without a billion pop-up ads. Or, in the case of that fateful night.....a comprehensive and shady view of the The People of the State of California v. Michael Joseph Jackson

Don't ask me how I ended up on that topic. But, I ended up learning all about a case that was, in reality, pretty uninteresting. I mean, it was a standard trial. People said this. Other people said "Nuh-uh" The Defendant hired then fired superattorney/mediaprostitute (picture Janice Dickinson with a J.D.), Mark Geragos and then hired the even stranger looking but oddly devoid of ickiness, Thomas Mesereau; he was found Not-Guilty and the crazy people out front released a bunch of doves which ended up circling around and pooping on people everywhere (a fact that, sadly, wasn't included in the latest Wikifraudia entry). You know - typical boring crap!

And because it was relatively boring, the entire action of me looking up all that information had escaped my mind. It had escaped my mind until now - when the King of Pop died and what had been a relatively exciting political news week suddenly became a mass amount of hysterical pop culture vomit.

So, goodbye Michael Jackson. You kept me busy and sane for at least one hour of my life.

Airport Woes

2009-01-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

I should really rename this blog "the road to my first heart attack: an intimate journey between reader and writer down the path to congestive heart failure" because everything I write about has a tendency to raise my blood pressure. Right now, my ire is focused to the small man sitting about seventy-five feet away from me.

My dislike of this man is compounded by the fact that I should have arrived in Salt Lake City about twenty minutes ago. Instead, I'm sitting in BOI, no end in sight to me in Idaho. And, because I'm rather miserable - I feel much better by letting you know all about it.

The man - the little man - is talking loudly. Loud enough that I can hear his entire conversation. His entire CELL phone conversation. I'm pretty sure his loudness is the goal. Apparently he is a VERY IMPORTANT PERSON. Apparently, he has CLIENTS. Apparently his clients want to DEDUCT things. They want to ITEMIZE things. He just loudly SCOFFED at the idea of an AUDIT. He just had a lengthy diatribe about the KETCHUM property, just to show that not only is HE a VIP, but his CLIENT is too. BRUCE WILLIS? HARRISON FORD? KATHY GRIFFIN? Who KNOWS who could be on the other end of the phone.

I'm pretty sure he's actually making this up. I'm pretty sure this person he's loudly talking to does not exist. He just wants us to know HOW important he IS while being stuck because HE is inconvenienced. He is IMPORTANT and the PLANE should take off JUST FOR HIM.

This brings me back to my brief love affair with Social Psychology. How people interact with others when they are either STRESSED, PISSED or just want to be NOTICED. Case in point is the Ringtone. The more obnoxious the ring-tone the more obnoxious the person. The more obnoxious the person, the longer they will wait to answer their phone when it is ringing. For example: Douchie McDouchington, twenty five feet to my left, has Speedy Gonzolez as his ring-tone "Andale Andale - Arriba Arriba (vrooooom).....Andale Andale, Arriba Arriba (vrooooom)" His phone has rang anywhere between four and seventy-six times in the last twenty minutes. Contrast that to Hottie in the Green Pea Coat (not Pea Green Coat) who has the meek and mild Cingular Ring Tone.

People are frantically trying to re-book flights. I'm personally just sitting here because I'm pretty confident my flight is going to take off sometime before 9am tomorrow morning. But I've heard almost everyone's personal story - just by sitting here and type type typing on my comptuer. We have VIP Accountant Man; we have Angry Lawyer One and Angry Lawyer Two (I am just Cynical Lawyer Sixteen) they have clients too, but they either don't speak about them or don't talk loudly enough that I can hear. This is probably a good thing: even Angry Lawyers (especially Angry Lawyers) can get in trouble with the bar); we have I Have To Get To Vegas Now; (followed by I Have to Get To (insert city here). No one is visibly crying...yet. Just me...a little...on the inside.

Argument:

2008-10-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

I have been maligned as being unpatriotic for mocking young "patriots" for crapping up the National Anthem (and thereby turning the singing of the Star Spangled Banner in a competition for who is the most mediocre). While I'm not conceding the point in any respect, I'll drop it. I'll drop it, and, for the sake of openness, will share the recent argument that arose between myself and EP about this matter. It is only at EPs request I share this, and I don't mind. I'm right and that's all that matters.

Names have been redacted, of course.

Eustice says: So I agree about your rant for the most part, but picking on the 10 year olds and six year olds...really?

Reason replies: I'll absolutely pick on the six and ten year olds. If they're going to massacre the piece of music with their youth it's no different than anyone else doing it. They can sing "my little buttercup" in their quavering voice at half-time for all I care. If they can sing the piece right and correct (it's really not that hard of a piece) then fine - let them sing/play it. But, if they're horrible they are horrible. I don't see any flags sewn by four years olds flying over the ballpark; because it would look like crap. The same applies for the national anthem. If we as a society have to respect the trappings of patriotism or risk being called unpatriotic then we might as well not have such a double standard.

Illogic says: So, just a sweet 6 year old trying in earnest to sing our national anthem should be criticized because its not done perfectly[?] I totally disagree. I don't think that patriotism should be so elitist.

Logic, reason and hope states: OK then, take away patriotism. I don't want to hear a crappy rendition of any song I actually like. It is, after all, all about me.

Faultyreasoning replies: Well see then your whole argument crumbles if its not about the patriotism. I mean, if your argument is that any song period shouldn't be reworked or performed badly, you are entirely contradicting your own argument.....so, mr. all about you, you'll just have to suffer through the six year olds and stop bitching and admit that [for the first time] I am right and [somewhat smart].

Honesty says:if a person can bother to memorize the WORDS of a song, they can memorize the MUSIC of the song. Why should we expect one and not the other? there are plenty of 10 year olds that have the talent ot perform the song, it's just the ones that suck that bother me. It's almost the 10 year olds that suck that bother me more than the older ones. It's like we're saying "it's ok to be mediocre as long as you give it your best." It's not like there is a shortage of people that know how to play the national anthem, but should we let the ones that suck open an event with it just because they give it there all? I bet you're voting for Sarah Palin just on the principle that "she's jus like tha res' of us.

And, it's not about ANY song period. Clearly I believe some songs should be written and performed AS IS and others messed with. I don't give a rat's ass if All Along the Watchtower is made into a polka, but God Bless America shouldn't be performed on a turn table mixed with "My Humps". Why? Maybe it is patriotism, although I'm not about to back down from what I said. But, there are songs that make me happy to listen to them. Songs that give me a nerdy, warm fuzzy feeling. And when that feeling is destroyed by mediocrity or arrogance, I get angry.

GettingAngrier states: [S]arah [P]alin isn't "giving it her best." she is relying on her looks to get her through life[,] and by god it caught up with her. and she deserves to look stupid. if we have somebody sing the national anthem at an event just because they are "cute" then by all means, bitch to your heart's content. but if they are earnestly singing and showing their patriotism--- and maybe messing up a bit because they are fucking SIX or TEN and have never performed in front of such a large crowed, and maybe maybe just an eensy bit nervous, then by all means, shut the hell up and clap at their efforts.

and maybe god bless america should be mixed up with my humps. afterall (sic) isn't that what makes america great? our fantastic fucking humps and our ability to sing and rejoice about them? i think so. and i think you lose. and i think maybe if you felt joy at the effort[,] if it is in fact sincere[,] instead of holding it up to some random marker that only you know[,] you'd be alot (sic) happier and maybe would be inspired to in fact bless america and shake your humps a bit.

Awesomeness writes back: I'm pretty confident I know the difference between what is making someone "nervous' and just over all mediocrity. like I said, plenty of people that age are fantastic at the song. Assuming you're right, I'm looking forward to the Ballet West Nutcracker where they let any kid just dance off across the stage just so long as they do it "eanestly" and show their "holiday spirit." But, alas, some kids just don't get to be part of the Nutcracker in this horrible, elitist world where talent, practice AND earnest spirit are encouraged.

and, why are you so focused on winning? I'm not out to win anything by ranting, I'm just out to rant. I know for the most part my rants will fall on deaf ears. Do you think I thought I was gaining friends by telling the world how much I hate their 'talented" little children? But, it's your own addiction to this feeling of, dare I say "superiority" that pretty much makes the rest of your argument about my own elitism pathetically moot. sing a different tune, EP (just practice it first).

Shortly after this, my argument companion cited "health reasons" as why she could not continue to argue this point any further. The only thing less surprising would have been her stopping her argument "because she needed to spend more time with her family." a/k/a The Mitt Romney Excuse. And, since it is my post I get the last word.

Having our "wittle angels" sing the National Anthem IS IDENTICAL to the Sarah Palin phenomenon. We are letting people who "look cute" set the benchmark for what is "talent" and for what is "right." Sadly, life is not all about looking good. Life is about practice, dedication and hard work. A perty mouth and a twinkle in your eye isn't always going to cut it.

taaaaaaaaeeeoooaaaake me ouuuuuueeeeuuueuuuuuute to the baaaaaallllllllgame.

2008-10-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

For those that care, I love baseball. I love it in all it's forms. I'll even watch the little league World Series when ESPN plays it. Which is actually a real "World Series" as opposed to the World Series that is currently playing that involves a bunch of American teams and the Toronto Blue Jays. The last time the Blue Jays were in the World Series, some jingoistic American made the mistake of hanging the Canadian flag upside down. That was about the last time a non-USA team was anywhere near the series.

But this post isn't about baseball. This post is about singing. Well, this post is about singing AND baseball, but mainly about singing.

Get to the point, right?

The point of this post is "I don't want to hear your crappy rendition of the Star Spangled Banner."

I'm an odd patriot. I don't mind if you burn the flag in protest, but wearing the American flag on an Old Navy shirt is disgusting.

In the same vein, I don't mind the Jimmy Hendrix version of the Star Spangled Banner, but I absolutely detest the blasphemous mangling of the Star Spangled Banner that was done at tonight's Game Four of the World Series. It was disgusting. It was like someone took a prime-grade New York Strip and turned it into meatloaf all the while saying "but this is my own recipe." It was like someone took the Mona Lisa and sprayed graffiti all over it claiming "artistic license." It is like a pink New York Yankees hat. It is blasphemous and disgusting.

I've played the Star Spangled Banner probably over 200 times for various geeky band events. For the most part, I've played what is written on the page note by note. But, say I want to get creative, I'll play, well, just about anything else to be creative. The Star Spangled Banner just isn't something I feel the need to improvise on. Or even embellish.

But I'm apparently in the small minority on this one. Apparently if you're to sing or perform the national anthem at an event, it is your civic duty to rape a beautiful piece of music. Want to stick a modulation where there isn't one written? Go for it, baby! Want to sing every pitch on the keyboard for a single word? Sure, why not, you're a talented singer. Destroy that song to show how "talented" you are. Want to end the song on a high note? Sure - sing it darlin'! Who cares if that note is an octave outside your normal register, I'm sure in the heat of the moment nothing will go wrong and you'll hit the note, on pitch and in time.

It's a matter of honoring what a person wrote. We don't encourage people to change the WORDS of the national anthem, why do we encourage them to change the music? We don't allow any idiot to sew an American Flag and put it up just for shits and giggles. We don't encourage people to just reword the Pledge of Allegiance. We don't encourage an eight year old executive administration in re-writing the Bill of Rights (oh, wait...) Why do you feel the national anthem is there for your improvisation?

Maybe it's not a matter of patriotism. It's a matter of music. You sound HORRIBLE. The person who belted it out tonight sounded just as horrible as the 10 year old kid that craps it up at the Jazz games who sounds just as awful as the 6 year old violin player at the Salt Lake Bees game. If it don't sound good, don't play it. How hard is that to understand? If you want to show the world what a horrible singer you are - go on American Idol. If you want to show the country what a patriotic person you are, sing the song like it was written. My ears and sanity depend on it.

On the baseball note, is anyone actually watching this crap? Did they forget how to field, bat and pitch the baseball in between the LCS race and the championship?

Fun in Vegas, Chapter XII

2008-10-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

I stayed at the Planet Hollywood Resort Hotel Casino and Pennyslot Palace for my recent Vegas stay. I love this hotel. Mainly because they love to tell you how many cool celebrities flock to their hotel. Pictures of every celebrity you want to see is there. I've missed Hillary Clinton by minutes in Spring, but this time, I apparently missed the arrival and departure of one David Hasslehoff by mere hours. Also, each room comes with its very own supply of People, US Weekly, some British tabloid called Hello!

The hotel is also very purple,: purple towels, purple bed spread, purple drapes, purple carpet, purple purple purple. I'm not a huge fan of purple.

But, I really do like this hotel. It's a Starwood property, so in my vain attempt at getting more Starwood points I always try to stay there. So far, with three Planet Hollywood stays and 4 nights at a Sheraton in Hawai'i I have about 34 points. Only 10866 to go before I get a free bottle of water with my stay.

I was told by Atty M that they have Hollywood themed rooms. Perhaps they saved those rooms for good attorneys because I hadn't stayed in one, but this time I have apparently arrived because I, Attorney B, a/k/a Tronner, Esq., stayed in the Dr. Zhivago room.

Yep - in my room, behind 7mm of glass was this dress.

This dress had a little plaque that stated it was worn in the movie by Charlie Chaplin's daughter. She apparently was very small with tiiiiiiny little boobs. I thought "oh, this is nice" and didn't really think about it anymore.

I didn't think about it, that is, until it was time to go to bed.

I dislike hotels because they never, ever have enough light. Oh, they'll have a ton of lights, but never enough illumination. Consequently, I turn on every light in the room just to be able to see. Maybe it's my very very very bad eye condition, who knows.

So, when it was time for bed I turned out every light. Every light but the light in the dress's case. I didn't turn this light off because I couldn't find the switch. I got on my hands and knees and stood on my tip toes to find the switch. I opened the closet door to see if it was hiding in there. I put in my contacts again to find the switch. I unplugged every light in the room just to make sure. No good. The light would not turn off. My dark dark room was now lit by a ghostly white dress floating about 4 feet off the ground. Wonderful.

I managed to get to sleep with a pillow over my face, but woke up about 3 am. Even though I knew where I was, looking at the dress still was rather creepy. So, I got up, hunt my suit coat over the cabinet and managed to go to sleep without the ghost of Tonya Gromeko haunting me.

The next morning the light was still on. So, I wrote on a sticky note "Please turn light off. This dress is creeeeeepy." and double underlined "creeeepy." When I returned, all was well; the light was off and I was able to sleep soundly.

Vegas fun, Chapter XI

2008-10-25T18:10:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been to Vegas since July for the bar. Quite the trip, this one - I had seven hearings all in one day! Both Attorney H and Attorney D told me my manhood depended on this. Who knows what would have happened to me had I made it through four hearings and then collapsed in a quivering mass of jelly. Perhaps they would have just used the giant pair of rusty scissors that Attorney H keeps in her desk. Perhaps D would have offered to drive me to an emergency hearing in Monroe, Utah and left me on the side of the road. But, I made it through.

Seven hearings aside, Vegas never seems to disappoint. The airport itself is an adventure, running the gauntlet of departers who have that thousand yard stare (see Vegas Fun Chapter, VIII) and the throng of arrivals. One of the girls on my flight literally shed her clothing on the walk from the plane to baggage claim and was already looking like a skank ready for the clubs by the time she reached the cab line.

I managed to wait twenty minutes for a cab, which put me in a superfantastichappy mood. I wanted to sit in the bar and watch the beisbol before I had to organize my hearings for the next day and this was cutting into valuable Seven and Seven time. My mood immediately improved when my cab driver opened his mouth.

Let me back up by saying I love to mess with cab drivers - especially the ones in Vegas. As long as I don’t piss them off, I love to pick their heads and see what they have to say. I’ve had fat racist cabbies, skinny racist cabbies, smelly racist cabbies, smelly talkative cabbies, bitter smelly cabbies, arrogant cabbies, cabbies that want to rip you off, cabbies that want free legal advice, cabbies that don’t know where they’re going and nice, happy cabbies in clean cabs (once) etc.... As far as smelly cabs go, this one took the top five at least. It was one of those smells where you just sort of surreptitiously smell your own armpits to make sure it isn’t you. I did this at least twice before I just accepted that this cab was used to transport live sheep shortly before I entered.

This guy started to disappoint me. He wasn’t too talkative. Just asked me where I was going and where I was from. Then silence. No, “is it cold up there?” No, “are you Mormon?” Nothing.
Then, casually, almost furtively, he turned down the squawking radio and said:

“So, uh...do you, uh...like to gamble?” He clearly didn’t grow up speaking English, which only contributes to how completely awesome this encounter was.

“Yeah, I like it ok, I guess.”

“Do you like the clubs?”

“Well, not so much anymore. They’re ok. Sure.”

“What about the strip clubs.” He said this as if the lady from the Deer Hunter and The River Wild had a line of clubs named after her.

“Um. Sure, yeah - I’m not planning on going though.” I said. “too expensive.”

“What about massage parlor?”

“No.” No use really explaining any further why I didn’t want to go to a “massage parlor” chosen by this gentleman.

“You know, this girls...this girls can come to your room...no?”

“Yeah - yeah I know” He seemed to accept this for a second.

“You know I could have a vedy vedy beaudiful voman to your room tonight?” He half turned around in his seat while asking me. Prior to this I could just feel his eyes staring at me from the rear view mirror. He was still supposed to be driving at this point.

Sometimes I just say crap that gets me in trouble. This was close. “Yeah, you say that, but the last time my buddies and I tried to get a young blond chick from those free magazines to come to our room we got a forty year old brunette with jaundice and a smokers hack.”

“No no NO.” He was vehement about it. “If you want young girl, I get you young girl.” I wasn’t too sure about this, thinking maybe I’m on some version of “To Catch a Taxicab Predator” or something.

“No, I don’t want any girl.”

He wouldn’t really quit. “No, you just tell them what you want, you get beaudiful voman....any shape or size.” I sort of wondered what kind of harem he had, but quickly put that out of my head, considering I wasn’t about to find out.

We got to the hotel and he said “vat is your room number, I have girl there tonight, just for you.” I thought this was rather odd seeing as he picked me up from the airport and I’m pretty sure most people don’t know their room number before they arrive. I told him no thanks and asked for a cab receipt. He gave me one (I hate those little fucking things) and also a nice little pamphlet with his ladies’ numbers on it. Even in the internet age when you can have anything and everything at your fingertips, I still find it odd to be handed a glossy pamphlet with nekid wimin on it.

Thus ended my cab driving affair. This is already two pages so I’ll not bore you with the three other cab rides I had, just to say that the second one completely drove by the Federal Building despite my frantic “Stop STOP STOP” from the back seat and dropped me three blocks away, the third was the fourth or fifth sweaty racist cabbies that I spoke about above and the last was a nice guy that didn’t overcharge me or go the wrong way on purpose or anything.

What a man

2008-10-19T17:32:00.000-07:00

It was the Most Important Day of the Year for a large group of Utahns on Friday. It was the start of the Rifle Deer hunt. Thousands of overweight people riding ATVs were crawling over the hills of Utah shooting copper-jacketed lead slugs into trees, bushes, hills, lakes, rivers, dirt, mud, each other, dogs, trucks and occasionally a male Mule Deer.

The LDS-Church owned news channel did a great story about all the hunters by focusing, in these trying financial times, about the need for hunting in Utah. Most people they interviewed weren't hunting for trophy (although there was plenty of people measuring antlers in the story) but adamantly stressed there were hunting for meat.

Wow - my hat is off to you mountain men and women. Truly a noble thing, hunting for your own food. Very thrifty. Way to save money in these trying, trying times.

The only problem is that if you want me to believe you're "doing your part" by hunting your own meat, you've got a long way to go.

Let's do a quick price check, shall we?

To be a big time Utah deer hunter you need yerself a gun. So, let's go to Cabelas, shall we? Now, I dunno anything about huntin' deers, but I know enough about guns to know that the thirty-ought six is a perty good gun. You kin buy a Remington Model 770 .30-06 for $432, and that comes with its very own 3-9x40mm scope! Wow - truly a thrifty rifle there. But, hell - you're in Utah - you don't buy the minimum in Utah - so let's see what Cabelas has that would make your neighbor envious. How about this and, you'll need a decent scope, so let's buy a 3.5-10 x 30mm Leupold scope to go with it ($469.00).

We've got our gun and scope. We'll need ammunition! $43.99 for 20 rounds of the .30-06 VitalShok ammunition. Good stuff, lead free, etc.. (avg rating 4.8/5 by those Cabelas shoppers!) or, if you want to poison yourself and the environment with lead, choose the Remington Express for $21.99.

So, if we're cheap bastards we're already at $453.99. That's just for the rifle, scope and ammunition! If we're not cheap bastards, we could be up around $4100.

Now we need our license. $26.00 for Utah Big Game license, plus $35.00 for the deer tag.
Hunting in October is COLD. So, we need to buy insulated pants, parka, gloves, etc... I'm getting sick of hyperlinking, so let's figure about $250 for clothing.

50 gallons of gas at $3.50/gallon to get to and from the hunting site by truck and gas for the ATV. $175.00

1 case beer plus food for the weekend. $75.00

We'll also need our ATV for $3,849

I don't have a calculator right now, but I think we're at $A,lot.00

But, hey - you're doing your part, right? After all, you are hunting for your FAMILY To put FOOD ON YOUR TABLE. How much food will there be, actually?

A study found here states that the average weight of a field dressed male mule deer was 113.7 pounds. Field dressing means you take all the guts out and cut off the legs at the knees and hocks. From there one gets only about 54.6 pounds of actual meat. 55 pounds of meat per deer. That's it, folks. That giant, beautiful animal gets you 55 pounds of meat. The rest, the bones, the head, the hide, the fur, the gristle - you're going to put that down the drain, in the garbage - you're not going to use it.

This study also found that, to avoid spoiling the meat, to avoid the "strong" flavor that venison has and to basically make sure that your hunt does what it is supposed to do, you need to get your deer to a butcher within 4 hours of execution. It's a wee ways away from the middle of the Henry mountains to the nearest fridge. And, be careful of the metatarsal glands and all other taste spoiling stuff that Bambi has in him.

(you apparently get about 48% of the field dressed poundage in usable meat - so if you're carcass is bigger, you'll get more meat.....duh).

I dislike hunting for trophies, but I can understand it. Ultimately we need thinning of the herds and blah blah blah. But don't make yourself out to be a hero when you're going to eat about half of a roast and throw the rest away.

Own up

2008-10-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

Well, your CD collection looks shiny and costly.
How much did you pay for your bad Moto Guzi?
And how much did you spend on your black leather jacket?
Is it you or your parents in this income tax bracket?

Now tickets to concerts and drinking at clubs,
Sometimes for music that you haven't even heard of.
And how much did you pay for your rock'n'roll t-shirt
That proves you were there,
That you heard of them first?

Thanks a lot, asshole - this mess is all YOUR fault.

Well, it's also my fault.

This whole fucking mess is the fault of EVERYONE.

This is OUR fault. It is our fault because of YouTube.

I loved the Muppet Show growing up. Back when they didn't have three seperate Muppet Channels on Dish Network, they used to play reruns of the Muppet show on Channel 13. (this was before it was called "FAUX") I saw this skit when I was about fourteen years old and it made me laugh. It made me laugh because I had just learned what "modulate" meant and when the sock shouts that and the key changed, for some reason I thought this was the funniest thing in the world. But that was the last time I saw it.

But now if I want to watch it, I can just find it on YouTube. Or Google. Or anywhere, really.

And this is why we're in The Great Depression version 2.0.

Because we can get what we want whenever we want it.

If we want a funny skit from the 1970s we just Google it.

If we want a Grateful Dead song from the June 10, 1973 concert at RFK Stadium? Go here. http://www.archive.org/details/GratefulDead.

Your desire to see Estelle Getty naked? Go to http://www.GoldenGirls.com/archives/Estelle/naughty/ggilf.jpeg.

Want a brand new Glock 22? Give the clerk your credit card with the $22K limit.

Want a boat, a jet ski, a snowmobile, and an ATV? Sure - for a 29.95% interest rate.

Want a Mercedes? Why not! It'll be basically an overpriced Ford with a fancier paint job, but hey, it's yours.

Want a house despite your shitty credit and shitty job? You Betcha!

Oh, a brand new house? Well.....ok.

Or, better yet, want to buy a POS house then spend the next forty months fixing it up and annoying the hell out of your friends with your stories about mahagony and annoying the hell out of your neighbors with your giant trash bin out front? Sure - why not. Now, you're not only a HOMEOWNER but a GENERAL CONTRACTOR and ARCHITECT as well! (I could do an entire PSA about how much I detest you people that buy a perfectly good house in a perfectly good neighborhood just to gut the shit out of it or tear it down just to build your "dream home" thereby eclipsing the view and peace of those around. I hope it collapses on top of you, you arrogant brat)

It's the same entitlement that we fell in getting whatver we want off the internet that led this generation in thinking they were entitled to a house and the accompanying toys. In fact we have a sense of entitlement in just about EVERYTHING. This includes jobs Don't like your job? Quit! Don't get paid enough? Quit? No experience? Hell - you OWE me a job!

So we do it. And, we get in over our heads because we think we are owed a job, a house a car and toys. We think that since we live in an age where even the most trivial things are at our fingertips that the big things, the things that mean the most to us should be there too.

We compound this problem with the fact that we don't have ANY compassion for those that do fail. It's their fault they couldn't keep up. Or, better yet, we blame the big business, or the government. ANYONE really. Anyone that gave us enough rope for us to loop it over that oak branch. We blame them for allowing us to climb up the ladder. WE blame anyone but ourselves for allowing us to step off that ladder and slowly choke. It's not our fault. It's THEM.

And, now we're screwed.

It's your fault.

It's my fault.

Maybe we're not entitled to it all.

Just don't take away my Muppets.

Border Patrol

2008-09-04T15:04:00.000-07:00

I went to El Paso for a hearing last week. It turned out to be the forty-eight hours from hell, including mistaking the "arrival" and "departure" time from El Paso to Phoenix and wandering from one end of Sky Harbor Airport to the other wondering why: a.) it smelled like urine and b.) everything was closed at 8:45 at night.

I tend to travel a lot for work. I travel far more now than I did a year ago which is fine Either way - I had time to play before I headed back. Normally I'd just sit in the airport - or in Vegas at a Roulette table, but Att'y H made me an itinerary of things to do in El Paso.

1.) Visit a giant Christian store. Apparently, this store was in an old Walmart. That's a lot of judgment, bigotry, sanctimony and "love" in one place.
2.) Visit the greyhound race track -unique but boring unless I could bet.
3.) Visit the Unites States Border Patrol Museum (and Gift Shop).
4.) Visit a Wild West Shootout and Wedding Reception Hall

I chose option 3.

It was AWESOME.

I didn't know what to expect. Actually, I knew exactly what to expect, but the fact that my imagination of this place was identical to WHAT this place was like was priceless. It was like getting an X-Wing Fighter AND the Millennium Falcon PLUS a Nintendo on Christmas Day. It was like peeing-in-your-wetsuit good. Truly beautiful.

There are signs directing you to the museum EVERYWHERE in El Paso. It's about 15 miles north of downtown and you actually travel through a QueenCreek-esque (Draper-esque) suburb just to get there. You get off the freeway and go up a little hill and THERE IT IS. Sitting gloriously in the El Paso hills in the middle of an Army Gunnery Range (signs say everywhere NOT to go off a path due to unexploded ordinance). The parking lot is laid out to accompany tour buses and vans and RVs. Entire football teams could each park an individual car there and there would be space. I parked my rented Subaru Impreza about halfway back in the deserted parking lot and entered the building.

The first thing you notice is that every sign is both in English and in Spanish. This is rather odd considering I don't foresee a lot of Mexican nationals going to the border patrol museum. I could very well be wrong.

I then met "Louisiana", my tour guide for the afternoon. I can't remember her name, but she told me that she's from northern Louisiana. She's a "web foot"; not to be confused apparently with someone who isn't.

She was bored. She followed me around. This is where I got in trouble.

I was very enthusiastic about the museum. Too enthusiastic. In fact, I'm pretty sure she's never seen someone so enthusiastic about the border patrol museum. So, she asked why.

And I told her.

T'was a harmless little lie.

But it grew. And grew. And grew and grew and grew.

I told her my grandpa wanted me to go to the border patrol museum. I told her he was very excited that I was going to El Paso because "that's where the border patrol museum is."

That satisfied her for a bit.

Then she said something else. I can't remember what, I just know that the next thing out of my mouth was. "Oh, well, my grandpa's brother was in the Border Patrol in the '30s."

Bigger oops.

"Where?"

"Oh, near Niagara, New York." (thinking, hell...we're in Texas, New York is far from Texas).

"Well then - what was his name? We have rosters from the field offices and that field office was a big one!"

So, we went over to a large, locked cabinet and she pulled out a bunch of books. Names, pictures, years in service. "What was your uncle's name?" she asked as she was flipping back to the appropriate time period.

"Uh, well...he's not really my uncle, he's my grandpa's half-brother, because my great grandmother was married to a guy that died before she met my great grandfather and I can't remember his last name." (bigger and bigger and bigger).

"Any idea?"

"Pandano, Pandanowski...something like that." Again, no idea where any of this shit is coming from.

She looked through the P section. Nothing. "Are you sure?"

"Well, no, but I think that's his name. I never actually met him, he died in Mexico in 1955." Yeah - now I'm bringing nearly ALL of North America in to this. "But, I'm pretty sure that's his name, maybe he just worked for the police or something?" I said. At this point I'm wondering if I've broken any sort of federal statute by claiming relationship to a member of a federal agency.

"Oh, that's ok, this happens all the time. These records are woefully inadequate." The lady said "woefully" which, up until now, was something I'd never heard said with a northern-Louisiana accent. If she only knew how adequate they were.

She put the books away and walked with me around the exhibits. For the most part they looked like something that a bunch of Eagle Scouts or High School students had put together over a weekend. The posterboard still had stains of the Little Ceaser's pizza and Kiwi-Strawberry Shasta.

Then we got to the mannequins. Two mannequins. One dressed in the uniform of a U.S. Border Patrol Agent and one in the uniform of a RCMP. That's Royal Canadian Mounted Police for those of you who didn't have a snowback roommate.

"Oh, here, take a look at this. I bet your grandpa would be interested in this because his brother probably dealt with the mounties a lot being near Niagara."

I dutifully snapped pictures. A lot of pictures. But, none of Louisiana. She didn't want her pic taken. Too bad.

Then came the shopping. Att'y H, you see, had demanded proof I went to the BPM. So, I bought Att'y H the following.

An Official U.S. Border Patrol Museum and Gift Shop COLORING BOOK (sans coloring utensils)
Two (2) official calendars of the U.S. Border Patrol Museum and Gift Shop years 1994 and 2005. (the years 2001-04 and 2006-07 "went like hotcakes, especially 2001, you know, because of Osama")
An Official U.S. Border Patrol Museum and Gift Shop BOOKMARK

I bought me an Official U.S. Border Patrol Museum and Gift Shop SHOT GLASS.

Pics will follow shortly. ENJOY!

New Spot

2008-09-04T14:36:00.001-07:00

I have had a falling out (as lovers often do) with the Myspace. Thus, I'm moving my blog - basically the only thing keeping me tied to Myspace - here to blogspot. Hopefully I can recreate the awesomeness that is my constant bitching.