How About This Heat?

Things move a little slower in the summer here in Albany.

And no, I'm not going to talk about the traffic... well, OK. But only for one sentence: (inhale deeply) In Albany there are three seasons-- Winter, Road Construction Season and Next Winter-- Winter stretches until late May/early June (May 13th, 2002: snow... I'm not joking), followed immediately by hordes of construction crews rushing to patch and repave half the state before the inevitable onset of Next Winter, which shows up in September (pause for breath), so suffice to say there are a few delays on your daily commute, whether it be across 30 miles of highway or simply backing out of your driveway (exhale). But anyway.

I've waited through a long Winter (or it could have been a Next Winter, I'm not sure which it was) for this moment. It's summer. It's here. Fucking finally.

Most of the locals take this time to gripe about how hot it is. All summer. Mind you, these are the same people who bitched all winter about how cold it was. I came to the conclusion that the only time these ingrates feel comfortable is the four days immediately surrounding each equinox. In other words, they're happy for a little more than two weeks out of fifty two. I don't get it.

Right now I feel like somebody crawling out of a bomb shelter after a nuclear fallout, seeing the light of day for the first time in who knows when. Winters are long up here, and it's been a gorgeous summer so far. This past weekend, we had a stretch of 95-degree heat with stifling humidity. I loved every second of it. I'm like a kid in this weather, constantly just wanting to be in that great place known simply as "outside."

Of course, my youthful tendencies are only heightened by the fact that I bought a new bike this weekend. First new bike in 15 years for me. And it had to be done. As you know, I had been riding my old mountain bike recently. The first time I rode it, I hurt my back. The second time, I blew the back tire. The third time was on Saturday-- the pedal fell off. Yes, you read that correctly. Not just the plastic part, but the entire metal stem that connects to the frame. Apparently, the nut holding the thing on unscrewed itself sometime during my ride. When this happened, I have no clue, all I know is that I started feeling my left foot getting far more lateral movement than it should, and when I looked down, the piece was gone. Strike three.

So what did you do?

Well, I'm glad you asked. I rode a mile and a half to Home Depot, having to kick the pedal back on with my foot every twenty feet or so (I was in sandals). At the Depot, I grabbed a 15 cent nut (which was English measurement, by the way, and you should know this because the bike used all metric-measured parts), got it about a half-inch onto the bolt before it stopped moving, and rode home (6 miles) on a wobbly pedal. The decision was made sometime during that trek.

So yeah, I got a new bike Sunday. And I love it. So I apologize in advance if I don't get to post every day. If you're looking for me, I'll be outside.

Blog Exchange with Alison

(Host's Note: In keeping with a now-blossoming tradition of communal blogging, Alison and I have decided to write on each other's blogs for today. The shared topic is Reality TV. And hers is better than mine. I found this out as I made the mistake of reading hers before writing mine... you know, the same thing Scott did a few weeks ago. Because I don't learn. So enjoy.)

For those of you who read my blog on a regular basis, you know that I can get a bit personal. I share my political views, my wildest dreams and my biggest regrets. I've recounted my journey from Denver to Toronto, including the difficulties I've had adjusting to my new life here. But I've kept a secret, and a big one at that.

I'm a millionaire.

Not that I've been purposely hiding this; it's just a bit difficult to work into polite conversation. And no, I'm not an heiress like the Hilton sisters. I earned my money the old-fashioned way: I got rich off reality tv.

A few years ago, looking for adventure and a shot at fame and fortune, I auditioned for a reality show. (It never aired because it ran into some 'production difficulties', which I'll explain later. So don't do a Google search looking for it or for me; you won't find anything.) Many of the details of the making of this show are confidential; I had to sign an agreement, otherwise all the reality shows would copy off one another and then where would we be? But I'll share what I can.

First of all, the audition process was easier than one might expect. There was a quick screen test, as well as a questionnaire. Do you have any sort of checkered past that could be uncovered? (No) Will you wear a bikini on tv and/or hook up with another cast member in case the ratings need a boost? (Sure) Do you promise not to make allegations of improper sexual conduct against any of the show's producers or judges? (Ok) Even if it's true? (Ok) That's about it; I was chosen as one of 10 contestants.

The premise of the show was simple: we were dropped off in a foreign country with the following items:

- A passport
- A work Visa
- A job
- An apartment

(Note: Any logos, text or references that would disclose the identity of the foreign country were blurred out during the taping of the show. But if you pay close attention, you can probably guess the one I'm talking about.)

Like most reality shows, each week there was a challenge; losing the challenge meant getting voted off the show, or "deported". But this show had a twist: after the challenge was revealed, we could accept it or choose to "run". The second option meant turning in your passport and work Visa, leaving your job and apartment, and trying to outplay, outwit and outlast Immigration. Get nabbed by Immigration and get deported. Whoever lasts the longest - in the group or out on their own - wins. The prize: $1,000,000 and permanent residency in the foreign country.

At first, the challenges were easy.

Week 1: Your apartment leaks water from the light fixture on the kitchen ceiling, creating a fire hazard and condemning the building. You must find a new place to live; whoever finishes last is deported. (Accepted the challenge, finished first.)

Week 2: You lose your job, your work Visa, and your eligibility to legally remain in the foreign country. You must find a new job with a company willing to sponsor you and issue you a new work Visa; whoever finishes last is deported. (Accepted the challenge, finished first.)

Then they got harder.

Week 3: Name 10 players in the NHL.

I ran like hell.

Which meant I was on my own in a foreign country with no home, no family or friends, no job, and Immigration on my tail. I thought I was toast, but then a miracle occurred. I never learned the exact nature of the Week 4 challenge, but it cleared out the house - everybody ran.

And here's another secret: reality tv contestants are generally not rocket scientists. These folks got picked off pretty quickly, until I was the sole survivor. Which meant I won the million dollars.

Except for one small problem, which brings us to the 'production difficulties' I alluded to earlier. There had just been 7 deportations in a 12 hour period, all of which made the news, which brought the show more notoriety than the sum of our collective checkered pasts ever could have done. And while Immigration was a good sport about the first 3 or 4, they quickly lost their sense of humor and started cracking down. Which left me running around illegally in a foreign country, entitled to the prize, but afraid to turn myself in to claim it.

This amounted to a pretty unsatisfying ending - for me, for the show's producers, and probably, for the millions would-be viewers. Because of this, the show got scrapped, and - rumor has it - the prize money was used to fund season 2 of Canadian Idol.

So what about my original claim of being a millionaire? Since I obviously didn't win the prize money, did I make that up? And what about my permanent residency in the foreign country - something that I often blog about - did I fabricate that, too? Good lord, am I still running around this place illegally?

Well, here's what happened. A bit annoyed with how things turned out, I took my 'real' reality tv experience, changed enough of the details to get around the signed confidentiality agreement, and sold the idea to a network in the States. They created their own version, aired it, and paid me for my idea.

And while I remain in the foreign country, I can assure you that I'm no longer running around without legal documentation. It's just amazing what you can buy these days with $1,000,000.

Didn't this Happen in Fight Club?

I feel like the Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial.

Two sides of me are constantly battling -- no, not frosted vs non-frosted-- it's the hippie vs the yuppie. I'll illustrate some examples: I'm pro-environment but I think the arguments for global warming are mostly bullshit; I wear sandals to work but I work on computers all day; I'm stoned often but... um... ok I guess the hippie won that round. But you get the picture.

The two sides are constantly at odds. Take yesterday, for example. I decided to take the notacar (read: bike) out for a ride. I was sporting Birkenstocks, a plain white t-shirt and cut off courdoroy shorts, but the bike has a computer that clocks the speed and mileage of the trip. Again, the conflict. I had gone about 5 miles when I hit the State University campus here in Albany (whose mascot is the great danes, by the way. Purple and yellow great danes, no less. Enough said). I was cutting through parking lots and avoiding the occasional student when I decided to hop a curb.

In hindsight, it was a bad idea.

Thirty feet after the curb I noticed my back tire had gone completely flat. I tried pumping it back up (the yuppie packed an air pump), but to no avail. The hose was shot. Ride over.

So there I was, a dirty sweaty hippie on the side of a campus service road. Mother Earth certainly wasn't lending any support. Luckily, yuppie-boy remembered to pack a cell-phone (never leave home without it), so I ended up calling my buddy for a ride. The conversation went like this:
Me: Hey, what are you doing?
Him: Getting baked and watching 'Team America*', wanna stop by?
Me: Yeah but I need a ride.
Him (incredulously): From your house? (I live a half mile away)
Me: From SUNY** (I explain the flat tire)
Him: Fuck, dude. You're fucked (laughs).
(Pause)
Him: Just kidding. I'll get you.

So the hippie went home, got fried and watched movies, oddly in the mood for Frosted Mini Wheats. The yuppie went to the store at lunchtime today and picked up a 5 dollar bike tube... and paid with his credit card.

The battle rages on.

* One of the funniest movies I've ever seen. This deserves its own post. Soon.
** Acronym for State University of New York. Pronounced SOO-nee.
*** Come back Monday for the blog exchange. See next post for details.

Friday's Links - 6/24

FYI: Coming up Monday is a blog-exchange from my new friend (whom I have never actually met or talked to) Alison. If you're not already familiar with her site, please do so, as it is truly great stuff from a friendly northern neighbor.

And now, on with Friday's links.

Article 1 - Interesting article from Snopes.com (great site, by the way) which makes the same observation as a previous post of mine.

Article 2 - Do you get hazard pay in Canada for this job? And did that guy really think "self-defense" was going to work against a giant fuzzy costume? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

Article 3 - I know I shouldn't be laughing at this, but when you ship 168,000 copies of 'The John Singleton Collection' DVD Box Set to the West Bank, things like this are going to happen.

For the last 2 articles, there are a few points I need to argue in a public forum. My blog will have to suffice as an arena for now.

Article 4 - The guy quoted in this article is daft. Here he is, admonishing browser innovation because his ad dollars for free PSPs or I-Pods or music downloads are being lost. Please don't buy into it (no pun intended). This woe-is-me approach is just an excuse by a lazy industry vet who refuses to follow a technology curve. God forbid you actually innovate ahead of the browsers, or think constructively. Give me a break.

Article 5 - This is the quote that gets me: "When you can recapture that chemistry, audiences are going to respond in the same sort of way they did years ago." Um... this coming from the same person who thought casting Will Ferrell with Nicole Kidman was a good idea. It's possibly the worst case of denial since George Lucas said, "I think the fans are really going to like this one," before The Phantom Menace came out. Is there an over/under on the domestic gross for this film? Because I'm going with $34M.

Hitting the Wall

Let's say you were tasked with building a wall in a house. Your boss/spouse/whatever simply told you, 'It has to be solid, and span from point A to point B.'

You could go about this in one of many ways. Most likely, you'd lay out the frame, using studs every few feet. You'd lay out the drywall on both sides, seal it, test it, the whole nine yards. You might watch the DIY channel for tips. You may even find a friend who worked in construction to look it over first. Heck, you could take a page out of the three pigs' book and use brick and mortar. But either way, it would be a pretty good wall.

Of course, if you didn't want to go through all that work, you could just lean a few cheap pieces of plaster, prop it with a 2x4 on one side and use Scotch tape to fill in any cracks. After all, it meets the specs you were given, and who the fuck cares what happens to it after that? You were told to build a wall and you built a wall. Job complete.

So where am I going with this?

Well, this is an allegory into the IT world. As a programmer, you're tasked with building a product using a set of specifications. You could build the first wall, which is solid from all sides, can take some punishment, hold some pictures, and maybe even include a doorway someday (This is called "capability for future enhancements").

Or you could throw together a piece of shit, call it a product and charge people an obscene amount of money for your crappy handywork, since all you cared about was hitting the deadline under budget.

My company tends to purchase from the latter of those groups, for some reason. This is what makes my job so difficult. Without getting into the gory details, I have to write code that works with lousy products. And it sucks. So if I seem to be a little slow with posting, please be patient. It's only a matter of time before the whole damn wall comes crumbling down.

Onions Don't Spoil in 51 Years

This is one of the funniest things I've read in a looooooooong time.
It's from the Onion in the year 2056.

Spade or Neutered

In case you missed it, David Spade is hosting an upcoming Hollywood spoof show. The article says he's taking on Jon Stewart, although that's setting your sights a little high. Stewart's a master at his trade, and that's severely understating it.

Spade got his break doing a short bit on SNL's Weekend Update in the early 90's (the "Hollywood Minute"), and now seems to be returning to form. I'm not so sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, it could be a good half hour of comedy. Spade's done some good work in his career (him and Teri Hatcher switching roles is up there in the SNL pantheon of classic performances), but... well...

I'm just afraid that this is going to be a half hour version of a Jay Leno monologue. You know, sarcastic pop-shots at the most obvious level, constantly afraid to take a risk (Really, Jay? Michael Jackson is a pedophile? Go on! Oh good, now you're talking about how high gas prices are! You're so edgy!!). I'm afraid he'll be making cracks about Russel Crowe's rage problem (the article even references him) instead of how Renee Zellweger never deflated properly after ballooning up for Bridget Jones (not enough people mention this-- Bill Simmons did once, but this really needs to be put more out in the mainstream).

I know that's an unfair comparison. Leno is so watered down he bleeds Aquafina. Spade hasn't reached that level. He's smart about his career (realizing he can't really carry a sitcom so he takes a perfect sidekick role on Just Shoot Me). But I'd hate to see him there.

Vanity Plates

Driving at lunch today I pulled a stereotypical male move by checking out the girl in the car next to me. Around my age, blonde, you know the deal. Your head turns. It's instinct. So I played it cool, since all of us know how easy and effective it is to pick up girls on a busy four-lane road at 1PM. When the light turned, she sped ahead and that's when the brakes came on. Figuratively, of course. For as she slowly gained distance on me, I noticed her car had vanity plates. "MISS----" (last 4 characters left blank to protect the innocent).

At this point, I don't need any more information. She's off the list. Princess, daddy's girl, whatever you want to call it, it spells high maintenance. And that's not my style.

I look for girls that have learned lessons in life other than how to forge their parents' signatures on credit applications. I look for ones that tried to save up for a car rather than kiss ass to get one. More grounded, I guess is the term I'm looking for.

And lucky for me, I already have one.

Nowhere was this more apparent than my visits to my girlfriend's home town in Long Island, NY, where her family stands out as the most honest and down-to-Earth people within 100 miles. They're really a great bunch, but I'm not sure I can say as much for most of their neighbors. For those of you who aren't that familiar with the location, it's an incredibly upscale snotty place to live, where the rite of passage of high school graduation often involves rhinoplasty or some other inventive cosmetic surgery. Long Island is also home to many of the nouveau riche, which means 'new rich' if you're a little rusty on your German.

I'm not saying these are bad people. In fact, many of them are very genuine and nice people who grew up in less-than-desirable circumstances and developed a great deal of character because of it. Unfortunately, due to some beneficial monetary windfall, they often forget that their children haven't gained the years of wisdom and experience that should precede ownership of a showroom floor BMW.

My prime example stems from an experience I had just three weeks ago while visiting the unpoverished community of LI. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, we had walked to the end of the block to pick up my girlfriend's 7 year-old sibling from the bus stop. I was informed that the mother of one of the students on a different bus waits each day to drive her daughter back to the house. Shocked, I watched it all unfold in horror. Mind you, this is a tiny suburban cul-de-sac (which I believe is French for "scrotum," although the bastardized English translation is now, "small, circular dead-end street"). It's a drive of roughly 200 yards. Oh yeah, and the girl is 16. I wish I were kidding.

Bringing you back to the point, that kind of pampering is a little beyond me. I believe more in a relationship that involves equality instead of servitude. I'm the type that believes that smiles should derive from each other's company, not from the three Jaguars parked in the garage. Call me old fashioned.

In college, I'm not sure a vanity plate would have bothered me much, but through the years I've begun to think differently. I cringe when I see a "princess" bumper sticker. I look away when a Lexus is blasting the Backstreet Boys. But like I said, that's just me. I'm sure someday Miss Pandered-To will find a nice CPA to settle down with, cheat on and eventually divorce with half the earnings.

Someday.

But right now she's just in training.

Off the Beaten Path

The links I usually post up here are in some way amusing, but today's is a little different.
It fits in a little with the post I'm planning for later today or tomorrow, and it's definitely worth reading, if only because it's an angle we haven't seen before regarding a major world event.
Read it here.

Don't worry, I haven't gone completely serious on you. I'll return to form shortly.

Friday's Links

Article 1 - So I guess those incredibly awkward teenage years weren't all for nothing.

Article 2 - Probably my number one fear when sleeping with a girl.

Article 3 - This is Franz at register 6. I need a price check on extra large condoms. That's right, I said extra large, Brenda. You hear that, Shoe Department? EXTRA LARGE!

Article 4 - I'm sure we can all agree when we say, 'Congratulations you greedy bitch.'

Article 5 - Clearly, being the first person to ever poke fun at an HMO has ruffled some feathers.

New Classics: Airheads

Airheads
Released: 1994
Lead Cast: Brendan Fraser, Steve Buscemi, Adam Sandler
Supporting: Michael McKean, Joe Montegna, Chris Farley, Judd Nelson, Michael Richards, David Arquette, Ernie Hudson (yeah, you don't know him by his name, but the guy's been in 89 movies)
Cameos by: Harold Ramis, Stuttering John, Lemmy, Mike Judge (voice of Beavis & Butthead), Allen Covert (aka the guy who's in EVERY Adam Sandler movie)

A ton of big names despite a limited production budget, this movie didn't generate a lot of box office dollars. And it's too bad, this was a gem of a film for several reasons. Especially now, with the benefit of hindsight, the significance of this film in its time cannot be understated. If it was a 5 out of 10 when it came out, it's a 9 now.


"OK, who are you guys?"
"My name's Pip"
"The band. The band name."
"Sorry about that."
Like I said, the cast they got for this movie was pretty good for its time. Fraser hadn't busted into the complete sellout yet (he was still doing movies like School Ties and With Honors mixed in with appearances in such classics as Encino Man). Buscemi makes every movie better (can you think of a bad role for him? I can't), a toned-down Sandler didn't try to steal every scene with his goofiness, and actually played a decent second banana. Montegna was dead-on as an aging radio DJ, sedated by his role in the corporate world but with the fire of rock still burning. Farley was, as usual, perfect in comic relief. And, for a goofy comedy, it didn't have any of the glaring logic flaws that tend to mar an otherwise good flick (where you find yourself asking, "Why would he do that?").

More importantly, the main characters, especially Fraser, Montegna and McKean, play their parts without becoming self-parodic. They feel real. It's clearly spoofing the culture, but by paying homage to it rather than beating you over the head with it.

"I figure I could write one song that will live on forever. After that, it just don't matter."
This movie doesn't get nearly enough credit for defining such a transitional period in music. The early to mid-90's were the death of Rock & Roll as we know it. If the 60's started it, the 90's ended it. Gone was the mindset of "I just wanna rock," and in came the mantra of "I just wanna make money." This is when you had the entrance of rock's all-time lowlifes like Blink 182 and Creed and Godsmack and just about everything else that's come along since. To a lesser extent, the 80's had their garbage, as we witnessed with some of the more glamorous of the hair bands-- Motley Crue comes to mind-- but you still had the underground metal, the hunger for music that drove the amplifiers in garages across the country. By the mid-90's, you just had a bunch of whining. The creators of the movie saw this, saw that rock was being taken over by pop, saw that despite the efforts of a few dedicated guitarists, there was a larger movement of pre-packaged bubblegum 'rock,' the Ronnie James Dios of the world being replaced by the Jon Bon Jovis.

The film hits on this several times, and they weren't being subtle about it. The opening scene at the record company shows a band of 17 year-olds wearing Dr Seuss striped top-hats with their manager reminding them not to talk. There's also a discussion between the bassist Rex (Buscemi) and station manager Milo (McKean), where Rex asks why they never play any of the good discs laying around the studio.
Milo asks him, "Well if they're so good, how come they're not tearing up the charts?"
To which Rex replies, "Because you never play 'em."
It's a simple exchange but a complex discussion. If a band never gets air time, who's going to listen to them? Who's going to call up and request a band they've never heard of? This should get its own blog topic, but that's for another day.

Montegna's character, Ian "the Shark," was a perfect metaphor of the whole movement. Here's an aging guy, a still hip DJ, a symbol of the rock of old, being forcibly shoved out by the almighty dollar when Milo agrees to switch the station's format to "the mellow sounds of the rain." The movie's creators knew where they were going with that character and Montegna nailed it.

"Wrong, dickhead. Trick question. Lemmy is God."
At least four distinct Motorhead references in this movie, if you're paying attention. The opening sequence was set to the tune, "Born to Raise Hell" (sung by Motorhead). There's a Motorhead poster in the Pallatine Records building. There's the quote listed above, and Lemmy himself makes a cameo in the scene where Chazz (Fraser) comes clean about being a high school dork (Lemmy's the one in the crowd who yells out, "I was editor of the school magazine!"). I like the fact that they chose Motorhead, the seminal metal band of the 70's, instead of a more mainstream choice like Led Zeppelin or KISS. If nothing else, it brings another element of realism to the movie. You'd be hard pressed to find any serious metal band from that era who didn't derive their motivation from the movement created by Motorhead.
There's also an appearance by White Zombie in the club scene at the Whisky, and the Galactic Cowboys make an appearance as the fictional "Sons of Thunder," if you're keeping score.

"You expect him to make a speech? What does he look like, Sting?"
The movie isn't preachy. It's fun. It's not supposed to be a head scratcher, it's supposed to be a head banger. They weren't trying to do too much with the film, and that's why it's effective. For a genre as devoid of intellect as heavy metal is, they didn't try to weigh it down with complex characters and twisted emotions. Things feel more raw, as they should with rock and roll. Chazz's girlfriend Kayla has an incendiary temper, as does Rex, which create two of the main points in the plot. Normally this works against a movie, but with music it doesn't have to. Look at two recent music movies that tried to tug your heartstrings: Almost Famous and Rock Star. One soared while the other fell flat on its face.

"...And he wipes his ass with the record contract!"
Very underrated quotability in this movie. Had this reached cult classic status as it should have, you'd hear more people yelling out, "I'm gonna stab their heads off... with MY DICK!"
I'm not going to go into any of the finer utterances, I'll just let you all watch the movie and figure it out.

"You're gonna scream 'Rock and Roll'? You're gonna go to jail for that?"
In its true historical context, this movie stands out as a subject that hasn't been tackled nearly enough. And although its silliness stands above its poignance, it's still a great film. It has only gotten better through time, and since it's a period piece, will continue to age well. You can pick it up midway through and still enjoy it (as you flip around Ted Turner's channels on a Saturday). You can always quote it, you can always watch it, and that makes for a fine movie in my book.

I'm aware that I'll be agreed with very little on this, but that's OK. As a music fan, I've been nothing but disgusted for the last 10 years with very few exceptions, and this movie's all you need to explain why.
Final Score: 8.5 out of 10.

Back to the Furniture

A little back pain never hurt anybody. At least, that's what would have been the prevailing theory until this morning.

It all started Monday afternoon as I was giving “the hog” a tune-up (hog = my 11 year old bicycle). I had been leaning over the rear wheel for the better part of an hour, when I realized I could no longer stand up straight. Great, I thought, just great. This sort of thing has been happening all too frequently over the past couple months. If I spend too much time in a hunched over position, the lower portion of my spinal column stiffens to a near-titanium like state. Up until the other night, it was just an inconvenience.

Not anymore.

I decided to try to sleep it off (after I took a 15-mile bike ride), since that usually does the trick. I definitely didn't expect to wake up in the morning feeling like a quadriplegic. Very slowly I made my way to the bathroom for a fistful of Tylenol. Didn't help. I tried icing it. Didn't help. I tried cursing at it. Still didn't help. I laid back down on the bed, picked up the phone and informed my boss that there was no way I was making it out of my house that day without a stretcher. She didn't argue.

The doctor diagnosed it as a lower lumbar strain, but left open the option that I could have done some disc damage. Super. Thanks, doc. However she did prescribe some heavy painkillers and heavier muscle relaxers, in the process becoming my new best friend.

That afternoon, I had nothing to do but muscularly relax and watch TV, since any sort of movement other than my thumb on the remote was out of the question. And since I had zero priorities besides rest (doctor's orders, can't argue), I decided to take some additional medicine for my (ahem) glaucoma. Straight from the Ricky Williams School of Holistic Healing.

I popped in a classic film (review forthcoming) that I hadn't seen in a while, and generally just let the chemicals run their course. It was a fairly pleasant afternoon.

By the evening, I could walk around more easily, but it still didn't stop me from feeling 60 years above my age. All I had to do was grab a cane and wear knee-socks with my sandals and I would have fit right in at the retirement center.

In the morning I'll head back to the office, although it might not be the best idea given the arsenal of pills I'm taking. I might be pulling a Costanza by taking a nap under the desk. I might start drooling on the keyboard. Who knows, I might even get some work done. I'll keep you posted.

Stupid bike.

No More Training Wheels

It's been a while.

It's got layers of dust that are thicker than the tires. It was probably last used when I was 15 years and 364 days old. Truthfully, I can't remember. All I know is that it's been a while.

My trusty bicycle. Last used in the days before gasoline became a living expense. Last ridden about 60 pounds ago.

About a month back, I took up an interest in running. I wasn't out of shape, but I wasn't in the 4 percent body fat shape I was in entering college. Since then, my lanky frame has filled out a bit (as a point of reference: I stopped growing upwards at around age 14 -- I was about 5'10 then, and I'm 6'0 now. Around 130 then, around 190 now), and even though I've had a gym membership (and used it) for the last year or so, the pesky beginnings of a beer gut are still hanging around. I'm not sure I've felt more feminine than as I did writing that last sentence. But anyway.

I live in a moderately sized city, and 90% of the driving I do when I'm not commuting to work can be done very easily on a bike. Saves money, burns calories, I figured why not. Running never interested me, since I always ended up in the same place I started. It felt pointless. Running in circles. Sure I got out of breath and broke a sweat, but it always seemed like an exercise in frustration more than anything else since you weren't actually getting anywhere.

Enter the bicycle. Or rather, re-enter the bicycle. Seems like the obvious solution to both problems -- being too cheap for gas and too out of shape for the beach.

Of course, as with all my plans, there is a drawback. And that drawback is biking attire. Now, I don't consider myself the height of fashion. In fact, far from it. I'm more Wired Magazine than GQ. But come on. Nevermind the neon spandex, those are just out of the question. Spandex is reserved for professional cyclists and middle-aged European men. Although the latter might want to rethink that strategy.

Where was I?

Oh, right, the biking attire. No, besides the spandex there is the hideous feature of the biking helmet. The bike helmet might just be the most fashion-backward and ridiculous looking piece of equipment this side of a Monty Python film. There is nobody on planet Earth who can wear one without looking like a race of plastic-afro-wearing humanoids from the future. In spandex. But, since I plan on riding my notacar to the pubs, I caved. For the sake of not becoming a vegetable, if nothing else. So quit laughing. I mean it.

We'll see how this experiment goes. It may last until the fall, it may last until the next time it rains. We'll find out then. In the meantime, I'm serious-- stop laughing.

The New 20

There have been a few articles, most recently this one, which stated that 40 is the new 30. I have no problem with that. I figured Americans were living longer, it would only be natural that the 'middle-age' would be increasing. Vitamins, supplements, weenie pills, it's all in the cards.

It wasn't until Michelle's comment on yesterday's post when something hit me. It was, as far as I can tell, an epiphany. In a nutshell, she observed that my GTA post sounded like a stereotypical American teenager. When I read it, I thought to myself, No, this sounds more like an American twentysomething. That's when the light bulb turned on (GE bulb. 60-watt).

If 40 is the new 30, then there's got to be a new 20. Mathmatically, logically, it makes sense. If middle age is occurring later in life, why can't maturity stretch out another 7 or 8 years?

I am one of the fortunate students who graduated college under the reign of George II. If you haven't been following the job market very closely, there are roughly three jobs as a fry cook at Burger King for every 17,000 graduates, and it's been holding steady since his coronation. The high hopes of so many recent diploma recipients came crashing down upon the realization that they'd be telemarketing for the next few years. Or selling Ginsu knives. Or playing secretary for Dad. Or volunteering for pharmaceutical trials. Or, for many, they simply went back to school.

Suffice to say, a good number of the graduates were (and still are) working on less than desirable incomes. Some still live in or near college housing. Responsibility is close to zero, save for the odd post-undergrad here and there who decided to take in a stray dog, so the party lifestyle never stops. Eventually, the entry-level toil leads to a promotion, a better income, an apartment with running water, a spouse, a family, and boom. Now you're 40. But until then, you're still stuck (sometimes voluntarily) in an emerging new lifestyle period between college and reality, a twilight zone of video games, drunken gropefests, midnight trips to Taco Bell and a plantation's worth of weed. It's entirely like, well, being in high school again. Except now there's no forced curfew (except for punch-in time), no parents (except for gas-money), and no teachers (except the ones you meet at the bar).

So is 30 really the new 20?

I have a few friends who married before 25, but compared to the number that hovers around 30 with no forseeable spousal prospects, they seem like a small carbon bubble in a 12-ounce bottle of Labatts. I can count on one hand the number of twentysomethings who don't cringe at the phrase "settling down." If you ask most of my friends if they have a girlfriend, you'll get more than a few who answer, "I guess."

X-Box is preferred over exchange rates. Pot preferred over politics. It's not that they avoid growing up, it's just that they don't have to. Yet. And if you can gain a few more years of worldly experience before making the profound decisions that affect the rest of your life, there's really no harm in that. I'd say there's a pretty strong argument in favor of it. But time will tell.

When my girlfriend (who just graduated) and I talk about "long-term," we're talking about plans for the weekend after next. We don't have goals. We won't have social security. I'm really not sure how my 403b is doing, and she's not even sure what that is. We, in the broader sense, are living life as it comes, having been presented with a form of adulthood we don't quite understand. And you know what, we're enjoying it.

Grand Theft Social Skills

Rating: Mature - 17+
Blood and Gore
Intense Violence
Strong Sexual Content
Strong Language
Use of Drugs

Sounds like my type of video game.

As if my geeky nature didn't already render me more inclined to avoid human interaction in lieu of computers, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas came out this week for the PC. You may be asking yourself why this is significant, since it's been out for the PS2 since November, but I can tell you I've intentionally been holding out until now. As was the case for the last GTA installment (Vice City), everything just looks better on the PC. The PS2 is limited by its hardware capabilities -- it's been the exact same gaming system since its release four years ago. PCs, however, change every day. If you bought yours three months ago, there's a fairly decent chance you're already well behind the curve. Game makers know this, and often release much more graphically enhanced versions of the same game.

But enough with the nerdy stuff.

The true appeal of a game like this lies in the first six lines of this post. It's an open ended rampage where a needless slaughter of rival gangs or an 'accidental' fender bender involving three squad cars and a hooker bears little to no consequence. You can even escape a city-wide manhunt by getting your car repainted ("APB on a red BMX bicycle-- ONLY look at the red ones"). It borders on the ridiculous, but that's what makes it so appealing. It's fiction.

Set in the fictional state of San Andreas (based not-so-loosely on California), your character is Carl Johnson ("CJ"), a former gang member who's come back to reclaim his place in the 'hood. Sounds corny, right? It is. And I love it. Much as in Vice City, San Andreas feels over-the-top without being excessively so. It takes place in 1992, and the soundtrack is more than fitting (VC took place in a mid-80's clone of Miami), stretching everywhere from gangsta rap to country to reggae (as you drive around, you can channel surf the different radio stations).

Where the GTA series really excels is in its open-endedness. It always has. While you can go on "missions" to progress the storyline of the game, you're never forced to. Time doesn't run out. There aren't any boundries aside from the obvious geographic limits. There are scores of side games and extra-curriculars (you expand your 'territory' by spray-painting over rival gangs' tags, to name one). You can even customize your character with clothes, tattoos and hairstyles (like playing with dolls... but cooler). Whereas most games lead you from point A to point B, GTA lets you explore the vast cityscapes and countrysides to pretty much do whatever you want. Countless hours can be spent simply driving, riding, running, or walking around. Or, as I mentioned earlier, running over cops and whores in an '86 Ford Bronco... if that sort of thing is your cup of tea... or malt liquor... or whatever.

GTASA differs from its predecessors in its sheer scope (game designers estimated it at 20x larger than the previous titles combined). Spanning three thinly veiled clone cities of Los Angeles (Los Santos), San Francisco (San Fierro) and Las Vegas (Las Venturas), simply finding your way to the barber shop can take the better part of an hour. And that's not even counting the time it takes getting sidetracked robbing a pawn shop.

My point in all this is that if you don't hear from me for a while, if I seem to have vanished from planet Earth, if my tan fades into a bleak shade of eggshell white, if my speech patterns become consistent with seaweed, if I have withdrawn to the point that I have about a 50/50 shot at becoming a serial killer, don't be surprised.

Home (Bitter)Sweet Home

As if the end of a vacation wasn't enough, I came home yesterday to find this. It's the building about 20 feet from my front door (my apt building is its twin). The windows are all boarded up and it's surrounded by caution tape. If the picture in that news story panned to the right, you'd see my door.
Luckily, my building wasn't touched (although it smells a bit).
Makes you count your blessings though.

More Tales from the Junk Drawer

Article 1 - It's toast time! Has anybody seen the best man? Or the bride?

Article 2 - You saw him in Rambo. You may have seen him in Rambo II or III. But now he's back. In Vietnam. Killing. For no apparent reason.

Article 3 - Memo to internet community: the entire sports world needs to see this video. Please leak it. Somebody. Somehow.

Article 4 - Creepy more than funny, but it still doesn't explain why people bought Jose Canseco's book.

Article 5 - "Poor little guy," he said, looking at the spot where the chair once sat. "He didn't do anything wrong. He didn't complain. He just came to play every day."
"And we even won last night," he said. "Imagine if we would have lost. I might not have a glove."

Article 6 - News from north of Albany. I swear, this isn't typical.

Article 7 - Fahrvergnügen. In German, it means "Pleasure to Drive" (you remember those old VW ads). I'm still searching for "Pleasure to drive in trunk."

And finally, since I won't be back in town until Wednesday (read: No posts), head over to Alison's site to find a sort of reverse-mad-lib contest in which I took part. Read the rest of the site while you're over there too. And don't judge her just because she's Canadian.

Smut Taxonomy

Went over to a buddy's house after work yesterday for a long evening of "porch-sitting," whereby we sit on his porch with lawn chairs, pop a few beers and let the good times roll. Generally speaking, this consists of making fun of joggers, making car horn noises at girls that drive by (very immature but somehow very fun), and just kicking back and shooting the shit.

Two of my friends live in this house with another one of their friends from college. Three twentysomething guys with basically entry-level jobs. Suffice to say, you could make in the triple figures by collecting the cans and bottles around their pad.

But before we hit the porch, they were finishing up dinner in the living room, arbitrarily cruising through the channels on the TV. When nothing worthwhile was found, they turned to the recorded shows (our cable company offers a TiVo-style DVR) and noticed that their roommate had been recording about 20 hours worth of "programming" from the Spice channel. So the three of us, having nothing better to do at the moment, flipped on the porn.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar, the Spice channel is roughly equivalent to the Playboy channel, excepting that they occasionally show penetration. It's odd though-- it's not the hard-core stuff you can find on the internet (no money shots, for one), but it's well above the soft-core that rules Cinemax after 10PM. It's a confusing sort of hybrid. Some cameras are intentionally angled to hide the, um, action, but others are positioned to get up close and personal with it.

"I wonder what you call this stuff," I wondered out loud.
"I don't know," my buddy replied. He paused, thought for a minute, and finally said, "I think you call it double-X."

It was one of the most profound statements I've heard from him in the 20+ years we've been acquainted, causing belly-laughs well into the next half-hour.

And thus was born a new phrase into the American lexicon. Please feel free to spread this one.

Flash Gordon

Only minutes after I last posted, an out of breath co-worker (no, not the same one) rushed over to my desk to tell me how a fellow employee had just been flashed in the parking lot. Apparently, there's some guy exposing himself in the woods near our building.

It's not something to laugh about... but now that I know nobody was hurt... I can't help but find it a little funny. OK, maybe very funny.

Descriptions vary, but the most widely circulated is, "He was dancing with a grin from ear to ear." It's a comedic visual. You can't deny that.

I've always wondered what goes through the mind of somebody willing to don a trenchcoat and embark on a day long excursion of displaying one's genitals. Is it the same mind set that mooning frat boys have? Have there been studies on this? Do they practice in a mirror first?

Keep in mind, if the guy had actually approached or made any sort of physical contact with my co-worker, I'd be singing a different tune. Villagers would be out in the woods with torches and pitchforks looking for this guy. It wouldn't make for a very happy ending.

But that's not the case. The cops were called, a report was filed. I can only imagine the conversation that took place.

Cop: Can you give us a description, ma'am?
Flashed Co-worker: ...Of which part?

And so a bit of humor is injected into my morning. Coupled with caffiene, this marks the beginning of a pretty good day. Hey, can't be much worse than yesterday, right?

By the way, the title of this post is the nickname I'm giving to this guy.

The High Road

To quote a band I truly loathe,
"I wish the real world would just stop hassling me."

God I feel so dirty quoting them. But on with the post.

As you may have noticed from the epic movie marathon that took place last weekend, I didn't get the normal three-day vacation. In fact, I worked through it. Our company had a huge deadline that passed successfully yesterday, so the last few months have been a little hectic around here.

The work I did this weekend was reviewed more thoroughly than in the practice runs we had been doing for the last 8 or 9 months. Why they waited until the deadline to do this, I'll never know. Obviously, the more heavily scrutinized a program is, the more bugs they're going to find. That's just the way it is when you're a programmer. I have no problem with this. The more testing that takes place, the better the product you'll have at the end. It's life. It's simple.

So I wasn't surprised when there were a few bugs in the work I did this weekend. It happens. What did surprise me was the actions of a particular co-worker with whom I had worked on this project. Not only was she making excuses the entire day, she was even kind enough to point every finger squarely at me. And, to be honest, I was more than a little shocked. This is somebody who I've worked with for over a year-- six months on this project alone-- and she's throwing me under the bus at every chance she gets. Thanks a lot. Catch U Next Tuesday.

I don't play that game.

The way I see it, you have two options when something goes wrong. You can either A) Make excuses and point fingers, or B) Do everything in your power to help out and fix it. I chose option B. I don't regret it.

It may be that in the business world, a world filled with weasels and beaurocracies, that the former option is the way to go. I blame my parents for not steering me down that path. They should have told me not to stand up for myself. I should have learned to deflect blame, not accept it. I could have read from the book that explains the advantages gained when somebody has their back to you. Way to go, mom and dad.

Maybe I'm being naive. Maybe this is just how it is, and I have to learn how to accept it. I'll know in time. But until then, I'm keeping a middle finger in a certain general direction.

At least I'm not bitter.

MLB - Back to Form

It's been a while since I wrote about baseball. More than a month, I think. The main reason for this lull is the lack of truly interesting stories this year.
Take a look around the league. We'll start with the American League.
- Frank Thomas and Juan Gonzalez made their returns to the field. First games all year for the two of them. They lasted a combined 7 1/2 innings. Both of them will probably be put back on the DL now. Nice job, guys.
- The Yankees and Red Sox are winning, and will probably knock off Baltimore to take 1 and 2 in the division.
- Speaking of Baltimore, I wrote on this very blog that they'd be a good team if their pitching held together. Well, it's slipping, and so are they.
- Oakland isn't jack without 2 of their Big Three.
- Alex Rodriguez is making another MVP run.
- A Japanese guy is making a run at Rookie of the Year.
The only real story is the White Sox staying at the top of the Central, but they're not even the biggest team in their city.

Moving to the NL:
- Braves are hanging around first place. Again.
- Mets are underachieving. Again.
- St. Louis' offense is good. Again.
- Barry Bonds isn't recovering from injuries as fast as last year (I have to ask one of my doctor friends what kind of medicine they give you to recover from that stuff... hmm... begins with an 'S'...)
San Diego carrying their division has got to be the only surprise in that whole league.
Come on, guys. Give me something to work with here.

A fool and his money are soon parted: The D-Backs and the Mariners both spent rap star dollars this winter to upgrade their teams. The only difference is, the D-Backs got pitching and a shot at first place. The Mariners got hosed. And you mean to tell me nobody saw this coming?

By the way, Glass Joe Brown lost again last night to the Royals. He had won four straight decisions. Weather reports were coming in from hell: 40% chance of flurries.

Wednesday's Category: Unfiled

Today's thoughts that don't fit into any other drawer.

Article 1 - It's Murphy's Law. You're on an airplane and you invariably get stuck next to the guy who has bad breath and won't shut up. Well, good news. Now he'll have b.o.

Reason #783 why you shouldn't go shopping while stoned: Oreo cookies makes a cereal. Good god, what were they thinking? More importantly, what was I thinking? Oh... yeah... that's right. (sigh).

Article 2 - The Canadian Post Office really needs to invest in a Denise Austin video if this is what they're worrying about.

And with all the news today about 'Deep Throat,' is anybody else giggling? Just a little bit? It's OK, you can admit it here. Perv.

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