The Webs is Weird

Over the last 27 years, I figure I've lived at eight different addresses. And thanks to Google Maps Street View, I can visit all but two of them any time I like. If you live in any major city, you can probably do the same.

2000-2001

2001-2004

2004

2004-2005

2005-2007

2007-today

The other two houses, in suburban New Jersey, have not yet been catalogued. But I can still visit the entrances to their neighborhoods, not to mention the McDonald's where I had my 5th birthday party, the 7-11 parking lot where we hung out in high school, and the shitty amusement park in Keansburg.

But my favorite personal use of this takes place in Florida. A few months ago I was visiting my grandparents in Boca Raton, Florida, where they have lived for over 20 years. Realizing that in all our visits over the years, we had only gone north, south, and east from their house, I asked what was west of their neighborhood. My grandfather replied that he had never been that way. Not since they moved to Boca in 1986. Not ever. Now, the Everglades are fairly close, but there are still a few roads over there. And now with the genius of Street View, we can all see what lies west of my grandparents' house: absolutely nothing.



The internet gives us some amazing things. Largely useless, but still amazing. And creepy.

Play-doh tastes great, is less filling

Three of my favorite things: dessert, animation, and opera.



Yes.

all is not lost

After much fretting about an upcoming trip out East, I realized today that the voyage will not force me to miss Paczki Day 2009, as previously thought. A huge sigh of relief was heard across the Midwest, and my stomach prepared itself for a magnificent feast enjoyed but once a year. 

It feels like winning the lottery, except I won't have to endure any curses. Just glorious glorious donuts.

PANTY RAID!

While catching the back half of Revenge of the Nerds on TV today, I realized something. The nerds are a bunch of cheaters. Consider this:

• In the first part of the Homecoming Carnival competition, a team member must ride around a short track on a tricycle twenty times, chugging a beer after each lap. The Tri-Lambs (our nerd "heroes") send Japanese student Takashi on the mission. But before chugging a beer, they give him a pill called trichloromethalene, which they say will counter all effects of alcohol on his system. So Takashi takes a performance-enhancing drug and handily defeats all other competitors as they fall and swerve their ways around the track.

• In the javelin portion of the competition, the limp-wristed Lamar throws a custom-designed spear that flops all over the place and has four fins on the back end. Clearly this is not a regulation javelin. And of course the gayest-javelin-of-all flies further than the rest. Why were they disqualified instantly? Even the Pinewood Derby has rules, folks.

• Finally, in perhaps their most despicable act of all, the nerds cheat in the charity fundraiser event. While the Alpha Betas innocently raise funds by selling sweet kisses, the Tri-Lambs have a "pie-selling" booth. I use quotes because they aren't selling pies. They are selling dishes of whipped cream with a topless photo of the head Alpha Beta's girlfriend at the bottom of the dish. An illicit picture acquired through creepy illegal surveillance equipment and distributed without regard to the age or taste of the consumer. And in a further insult to common morals, the leader of the nerds poses as the head Alpha Beta (Ted McGinley, of course) in order to seduce his lady friend in the Moon Room of the Fun House as a weird green alien looks on. By the end of the movie, the lovely lady, Betty, has fallen for Lewis, the head nerd. And if memory serves me, the two are married in Revenge of the Nerds III or IV. Are we expected to believe she never found out about the horrific exploitation she was subjected to, all in the name of winning the Greek Council presidency? Lewis Skolnick should be ashamed of himself.

The despicable deeds conducted by the Adams College chapter of the Lambda Lambda Lambda fraternity are an abomination. These nerds should have been expelled and/or sent to jail. But they weren't. Because they completely redeemed themselves with an awesome skit, full of sweet music, hardcore rap and magnificent dance. And I thank them for it.

Enjoy it while you can

If you ever wanted to wear New Year's glasses made out of the year number, make sure to seize the opportunity at the end of this month. Because 2010 just isn't the same.

Those of us born in the 1980s (or 90s for that matter) have taken those two round numbers in the middle of the year for granted. We don't remember a time before our eyes could fit snugly in the oval made by an 8 or a 9 or a 0. I was fortunate enough to graduate in the year 2000 (In The Year Two-Thousaaand...) and had several opportunities to wear the glasses. Alas, I did not take advantage nearly as often as I should have.

Now we are looking down a road which will not see consecutive round digits until 2060, fifty-one years from now. I'd like to plan to party that night, but who knows, I could be too tired to go out. Or dead.

Sure, some might say 2 and 3 are round digits. But we all know it's not the same. Ditto for 2010. With the balance skewed, those glasses just won't look right.

So this New Year's Eve, make sure to revel in the roundness of the new digits. It'll be your last chance for a while. The future is bleak, but we can pull through it together.




Thoughts like these are the reason it's OK to turn off the iPod and close the newspaper during your commute once in a while. Sometimes you just need to stare into space and let the mind wander.


P.S. Happened to be looking through old photos tonight. Proof! Say goodbye to the days of plenty, folks. We're about to go tacky-sunglass-less for several decades.

Word to the Wise

If you aren't in the mood to be depressed, don't look at a graph of your 401k's performance. Here's mine:

Isn't it adorable how it looks just like a frown? I also love the way it erases everything I've done for three years. Ahh, to be in my early twenties again...

Then It Fell Apart

Epiphany at brunch today.

For the rest of my life, every time I hear the first notes of Moby's "Extreme Ways" I will be reminded of how awesome the Bourne movies are, and how happy we should all be that they exist.

nothing to see here

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry nobody writes in you anymore. Please don't take it personally. I just don't have that much to say these days. And I don't think anybody reads you anyway.

For all none of you that have been clamoring to know how the Grand Ole Summer turned out, I succeeded. In the 101 days between Memorial Day and Labor Day I rode 1021.79 miles on my bike, all around Chicago. It was really nice to set a tough goal and actually achieve it. I even earned a free t-shirt for riding the whole lakefront trail (18 miles) in one go. So there's some new physical evidence of the accomplishment to go along with the pride. (There had been other physical evidence, in the form of my new svelte figure. But that is long gone now.)

I'm going to leave the non-updated stats and map of the whole affair up for a while. There's something nice about having an internet equivalent of leaving dishes in the sink. Like looking for the varsity football schedule for my old high school, except the latest one they have posted is from 2006. These kinds of things give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

See you in another couple months.

Your friend,
Me

Potpourri

Where to begin, where to begin. I've been pretty busy the last month or so and haven't had much time to write you, blog. Not that there's been much to say. But here are a few tidbits that have rattled around my noggin at random moments.

I started a new freelance gig a few weeks ago. It's pretty great and allows me to do things like leave my house for something other than work. In other words, paychecks are nice. This afternoon I will be purchasing my first new pair of shoes in several years. Also some new guitar strings. A website told me you should change them every couple weeks. I haven't put new ones on since I bought the guitar six months ago. So that'll be nice.

At my last job in DC, I had a phone meeting every day with the Los Angeles office. Since they didn't arrive at work until 10am west coast time, I usually didn't get to eat lunch until 2 o'clock. Whatever stale dregs were left to eat at the Giant supermarket or YourWay Cafe, I was forced to eat them. Things are slightly different now that I'm working a 7am-3pm freelancer shift. The local eateries are just barely open when I am ready for lunch at 11 o'clock. The staff are energetic and friendly, and the food is fresh. And there are very few lines to wait in. It's fantastic.

My only complaint about lunchtime is the bathroom break. I'd guess there are between one and two hundred people working in this office, and yet I've only discovered two stalls in which the men may shit. This is hardly acceptable. When I chow down on some chicken teriyaki and an egg roll from the Metra station food court, I expect to release some of that soon after. And I don't want to be running from floor to floor trying to keep the poop in my butt. It wants to leave. For all the faults that existed at Team, there was ample shit space. Eight seats on which you could take a crap, if memory serves me correctly. And there were usually magazines. In fact, pooping at my old office inspired me to subscribe to Esquire, a decision I am rather glad was made.


Unfortunately, now all I can think about is the bathroom at my old office. All the clever tidbits I was going to share with you have disappeared. Fear not, they will undoubtedly return some day. And there will be rejoicing. If these few paragraphs have not satiated you, maybe check out the blog of John McCain's running mate. She's got a lot to say.
http://sarahpalin.typepad.com/

Update (4:01 p.m.): This is 2008. What kind of shoe store only takes cash? I didn't realize Milwaukee Avenue was Dan's Cafe.

Large Hadron Rap

Suddenly I feel like finding my 11th-grade physics teacher and emailing him this video. Mr. Keller, please watch it and share it with all your nerds/students. And stop dripping caked saliva out of the side of your mouth, if you still do that.

What now?

Tim Russert. Stan Winston. George Carlin.

I spent seven years living in Washington, D.C., slowly getting jaded about the state of government and media in this country. Too many people you meet (or go to school with or work with) there contribute to the dumbed-down superficiality of what the American public experiences. But Tim always seemed to be there to pose the tough questions that most others failed to ask, given the opportunity. We really need him now more than ever, but he is gone. I take much pride in knowing a handful of people who worked with him and share his ideals and passion. Hopefully they will carry his torch to get truth the large audience it deserves.

Stan was responsible for so many amazing creations we grew up with. I think the first time I saw his work on the big screen was Edward Scissorhands. But it was dinosaurs of Jurassic Park that really opened my eyes to the possibilities of transferring imagination to celluloid. Sure, there have been beautiful movies for many decades. But my life would certainly be a lot less exciting without the Terminator or the Predator to scare the shit out of my asshole.

And George got me through some pretty tough times when I was about twelve years old. My dad and I would listen to countless tapes of his in the car, and we would laugh for hours. He's responsible for most of my views on religion, politics and America in general, not to mention my most valuable possession: a sense of humor. He may have gotten a little cranky-old-man-ish these last few years, but I will be forever grateful for the laughter and insight he gave.

It's only natural for our heroes to leave us. These latest three are just part of a long list that for me includes Ray Charles, Dr. Seuss, Kurt Vonnegut, Roald Dahl, Phil Hartman and others who were gone before I was even born. I guess we just have to appreciate what they gave us and try to stand on their shoulders. We're supposed to become heroes for the next generation. I just don't think I'm ready for that yet.

Where is Walid?

Many moons ago, some friends and I gathered each week to cook delicious dinners and watch a great television show called 24. As a joke, I changed my cellphone ringtone so that whenever one of these three folks called, it would sound like the phones at Counter Terrorist Unit Los Angeles (Jack Bauer's office). What a great idea this turned out to be.

Now that I live in a different city, we don't talk often. But I know that whenever I hear those four distinct beeps, it's an important call. Chloe O'Brian's emergencies have become my emergencies.

For example, if I am pedaling along on a pleasant bike ride and my cell phone rings as usual, I just keep pedaling. But if that familiar CTU sound echoes, the call must be taken.

Without this distinct ringtone, I might not have been able to answer such important and immediate questions such as "Who played Arnold Schwarzenegger's boss in True Lies?" or "Where is there a Chipotle in Crystal City, Virginia?"

I look forward to solving many more problems in the future. Keep 'em coming, kids.

P.S. Charlton Heston and the corner of Crystal Drive and 23rd Street.

An Epic Tale of Good Versus Evil

Twas a mighty beast, but I hath defeateth it.

As I prepared to venture to my place of employment this afternoon, one of Mother Nature's lovely creatures decided to venture into my place of residence. A medium-sized rodent of the family Sciuridae found its way through an open window and stared at me, piercing my eyes with furious wonder. It darted to my living room, apparently in search of the film Napoleon Dynamite. Once this holy grail was found, the rodent made itself comfortable amongst the rest of my DVDs. I played whack-a-squirrel while it bounded between several nooks and crannies of my television stand.

Taking quick action, I ran to open up all available exits and leave trails to them made of Rice Krispies. Upon returning to pursue my prey, it was not to be found. I searched high and low and could not find a trace of the devil animal. With few options, I left a window open in case it was still inside and wanted a way out, and departed for work.

The evening passed slowly. I smiled and entertained my fellow employees with my lighthearted tale of woe. But my imagination wandered to picture the spring soiree my guest was throwing whilst I toiled away creating moving pictures of sport for the masses.

I returned home shortly after midnight.

Quietly stepping down to my basement abode, I took care not to creak the stairs and give any warning to my arrival. If the beast remained in the apartment, I would stalk it quietly and shoo it away.

All thanks to the lord above, it would appear the squirrel had gone. It was not in the nooks, it was not in the crannies. There were no food crumbs strewn about, nor the enormous piles of poo that I had feared. The long night and long fight that I had prepared for was not to be. I opened the refrigerator door to find a hoppy carbonated beverage with which to toast the victory.

And it rustled.

I saw it nestled behind the refrigerator, comfortable. It did not flee immediately, so I devised a plan. Laid out crackers with peanut butter, all leading to the backyard. I grabbed a Swiffer with which to guide the beast. When prepared, I quickly moved the refrigerator out of the way. And naturally, the bushy-tailed demon chose to run behind the kitchen sink, one of the hardest places to reach in the whole of my household.

After swatting at it with the Swiffer with no success (unless I was trying to scare it and probably make it poo. In that case, I was probably successful), I laid more peanut butter and Rice Krispies on a trail, and thought of what could remove the squirrel from its hiding spot.

I remembered an aerosol air freshener, named Clean Linen. It had never before proven useful, as I did not enjoy its scent. But perhaps if I did not like it, my visitor would agree. I was right. I pressed on the dispersal button and aimed behind the sink. Lo and behold, the creature emerged. And ran straight into the living room again, to lurk beneath and behind the couch.

I chased it back, flipped up the couch and watched the spawn of squirrel satan scamper to the Holiest of Holies, my bedroom. It took refuge in the 4 inches beneath Where The Magic Happens, also known as my Salvation Army box spring and Ikea mattress.

With the rodent again in hiding, I took the opportunity to seal the area off. Picture frames were used to block off all of the apartment except for the rear exit, and a full-length mirror became a ramp to the window from whence the furry fiend came.

I sent a continuous spray of Clean Linen beneath the bed. The forest creature emerged, darted around, realized it was trapped, and returned to its hiding place.

Now emboldened, I flipped up the bed, revealing the beast. I sprayed furiously. It fled, crashing into a carefully-placed picture frame. Revising its route, the monster spotted an open door leading to the laundry room and the freedom of the backyard beyond.

Bringing up the rear with my Swiffer of a shepherd's staff, I shouted at the creature as it ventured outside my walls.

Sneaking behind the washing machine, the squirrel did not make it to the outside. But spotting the large rat poison traps awaiting my enemy, I decided that tonight's battle was at an end. I returned to the new-found solitude of my humble dwelling.

Tomorrow, the rebuilding will begin.

T-Minus Ten Minutes

What's with the self-destruct button? We've seen it in Alien and Spaceballs, and the wide variety of films in between. It's fairly common knowledge by now that every spaceship has a mechanism that will make the craft explode in some magical CGI fireball, saving the day at the last possible moment. There is always an unusually friendly computer-woman counting down the seconds to imminent doom. Thanks, lady.

But would any reasonable design/construction company purposely build this function into a spaceship of such gargantuan size? They're presumably spending at least several billion spacebucks on it. Why allow it to so easily be destroyed? Especially a large battle-spaceship that's begging to be infiltrated by terrorist/rebel forces? Why take that chance? Why not just train your fucking staff not to get over-run by aliens with blood made of acid? That's got to be easier.

Don't get me started on the Death Star.

Also, do real spaceships have self-destruct buttons? I have to hope that despite their many incompetencies, the bureaocracy of the U.S. government would never build such a mechanism into the space shuttle. (Besides, anyone who's seen Contact knows astronauts get cyanide capsules anyway.) Even the Russians and Chinese can't be dumb enough to invest so much time, effort and money in something that can be exploded with the push of a big red button.

But think for a moment of the infamous Polish navy. Surely you wouldn't be surprised if the same people who brought us the screen-door-submarine also put a self-destruct button on a spaceship. Is this what we should learn from science fiction? Is Poland destined to become Earth's technological superpower?

If you're looking for me, I'll be in my basement hoarding solar-powered flashlights.

I always wondered where my mandibula was!

The Encyclopedia Britannica Kid has an entry on Wikipedia. And the world just swallowed itself.


You'll notice he starts out sitting at a computer! Why didn't you just look the shit up on the internet, dummy?!

Get 'em

Here's a translation of everything you will find at beerandpork.tumblr.com:

"I am so sweet. Look at my pictures and tell me I'm not sweet. That's what I thought. Why aren't you coming to Europe with me for a month?"

Killing you softly

I've got some traveling ahead, as well as guests on the way, so I went to purchase an air mattress yesterday. Being a good American, I went to Target. And while picking up the required extras for the mattress, a dilemma arose: should I get the microfleece blanket, or the microplush blanket? After feeling them both, the choice was obvious. The microplush was 100 times more comfortable than the microfleece.

Why do they even offer the fleece? It's nice, but there's no reason to choose it over something so exceedingly soft as the microplush. Just add it to the list of a gajillion things I'll never understand.

So I reached back on the shelf and picked out a blanket that hadn't been pawed over by a thousand people already. And future guests will be happy.

It should also be noted that I picked up some grilling equipment and a foldable captain's chair with a cupholder. Because it's finally almost feeling like spring. Baseball's started up, the ladies are taking off their enormous coats, and you can even walk around and describe the weather as almost pleasant. PLEASANT!

Deep Thoughts

As a blogger, I have a major problem. (As a person, I have many major problems. But we'll stick with the blogging thing for now.) I do my best thinking when my mind is completely on a break, detached from everything. This generally happens in one of two places: on a bicycle miles away from anything, or in the shower.

The great ideas hatched in this brain o'mine have a tremendous obstacle, right from the outset. They are often forgotten before I get the chance to document them. As soon as the genius thought is born and mulled over, it is easily replaced with some other random inkling that has no use whatsoever. The great ideas are fleeting. And it's really affecting my chances of saving the world through this blog.

So as a public service, I will share here some ideas which were fortunate enough to be remembered long enough to document. Let's go on a magical journey through my brain. Please fasten your seatbelts and keep all arms and legs inside.

--- How will we know the future has arrived? Remote-controlled hair. In the future, scientists will develop a pill that allows you to decide the length of hair on your body. The pill you swallow will send tiny, tiny robots to all your hair follicles, and then you can decide how long your hair will be, straight from your iPhone. You don't need to worry about trudging to the barber shop every few months. Unsightly neck beards will be a thing of the past, and ladies will no longer have to wax their legs and/or mustaches. I am also very excited about the beard-of-the-day possibilities.

--- I often wonder if I will ever set foot in certain familiar places again. Two decades ago, I spent many hours in the gymnasium of Holmdel Village Elementary School. There was Phys Ed class, Heritage Day pageants, youth basketball league, etc. The Chicken Fat dance and wallball memories alone are enough to make me tear up. But I will probably never set foot in that room ever again. How strange.
The same goes for lots of place I've been on my bike. The nooks and crannies of Rock Creek Park, the old train trestle on the Capital Crescent Trail, the serene Potomac River views along the Mount Vernon, even the hills and valleys of the Custis. In all likelihood, I will never ride there again. But some of my fondest memories of living in Washington took place riding on those trails. How strange.

--- The procedures of taking our shoes off and throwing away liquids before getting on an airplane are probably here for good. Silly "security measures" that serve little purpose except to remind us how afraid we should be, they're not going away any time soon. Imagine what would have to happen for the government to take those requirements away. There will always be someone who is a threat to our country. The "war on terror" is not winnable. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but I can't picture a world where suddenly we're told, "It's OK! We're all safe! You don't have to take off your shoes! And bring all the mysterious liquids you want on board! Huzzah!" It would certainly be nice. But that world is so foreign right now. We're gonna be smelling each others' feet for a long time coming.

--- My grandfather was shot in WWII. The story I've been told was he stuck his head out to see something, and a bullet went through his neck, missing his jugular by millimeters. A more accurate shot would have prevented the existence of my entire family. But this fact isn't the one boggling my mind at the moment. Neither is the question of "Would you go back in time and kill Hitler if you could?", even though that has also confounded me at some point. Would I be willing to sacrifice my family's existence to avoid Hitler's rise to power? No, that is not what I'm thinking about, although it has puzzled me in the past.

The vexing issue at the moment involves the soldier who shot my grandpa. This is a person, presumably German, who had probably already spent at least twenty years on earth. He had family and friends, a favorite song, a kindergarten teacher, annoying habits, the whole shebang. And one day in the 1940s, somewhere in Europe, he had an encounter with my grandfather. They probably never saw each others' faces. Hell, he might not have even known where that bullet ended up. But this man affected my grandfather in an extreme way. And there is no way to know his name. There is no way to know if he survived even one night after sending a bullet through my dad's dad's neck. There is no way to know if he made it through the war and has great-great-grandchildren someplace. He could still be around himself. I wonder what sort of life this man had, who had such a direct effect on my family's existence. There is just no way to know. And how many German families never even formed because of my grandfathers' direct actions in this war half-a-century ago? It's a little discomforting to consider. If I were to meet the German shooter, though, I don't think I'd have any hard feelings. How could I, after so much time?

Brightness

It's a nice day out, and I had to share with you this image. On the first 50-degree day in what feels like a thousand years, I was walking from the subway station to my office this afternoon. As I cross the Chicago River via the Orleans Street bridge, an absolutely incredible Jukebox the Ghost song is playing on my iPod, preventing me from doing anything but smile. Then I see the man playing on the bridge with a 4-or-5-year-old kid. Dad is flying a batman/spiderman kite, and son is spinning in circles trying to untangle himself from kite string and streamers. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, and for just an instant, all is right with the world.

That's all.

Bad News

It might be morbid, but this is one of my favorite songs.


This too:

But I somehow can't sit through an entire episode of Star Trek. Curious.