News Flash: Blog Updates Come to a Screeching Halt

Well, not all blog updates, just the ones on this blog. (Not that I ever put anything substantive up, anyway.)

I am a gun nut. Love them. Always have. I also like movies. No surprise, I like movies with guns in them - lots of guns. I have always prided myself on being able to spot various firearms in movies and identify them. Keep in mind, I like movies like "Heat" and "Miami Vice". This type of flick typically has a lot of weapons to be able to spot, and in my case, identify. (I've probably ruined a lot of movies for people around me by pointing out, "That's a Steyr AUG. It has a cyclic rate between 680 and 850 RPM.")

I have found my Holy Grail of websites, at least for now. Behold, I give you http://www.imfdb.org/index.php?title=Main_Page I notice what type of gun the bank robber used. These guys tell you the one that was in the holster of the guard the robber knocked unconscious on his way in; the one that all you can see is the butt of its grip.

All I can say is this is definitely going to slow down my updates. Not that it matters, because all I ever post is mindless drivel. Now, instead of coming here, maybe you can learn about a gun you really like. I recommend the TIKI, by SVI. (Last I read on it, which was way before it became a celebrity in the movie, the quote ran about $6K, depending on options.)

Those Who Can....

Apparently those who can't grab some poster board and a black marker. That's right, I'm officially "Coach -B" now.

I received a call last week asking me to coach -XV's U-8 soccer team. I've had at least one child playing soccer for the past 6 years. All of those years, with the exception of one, I always thought I could do as good or better of a coaching job. So, I told the registrar I'd love to give it a shot.

We had our first practice last week. The materials the association gave me to prep were pretty helpful and easy to use. I've got a coach's handbook full of a lot of basic information, and a deck of cards with exercises, games, and drills for the team.

I went from just a bit nervous the night before the first practice to pumped and ready the day of. The moment of truth finally arrived, and people started to trickle in. The Earthquake's Fall 2008 season had begun.

A crazy thing kept happening throughout much of practice. For some reason, I kept picturing the AYM.

Let me explain a little. My team has 9 boys on it - 4 are great, 3 are pretty good, and 2 are nightmares. So, I've got all these activities and drills planned. (We actually did a couple of them.) I've got this sideline of parents watching. I've got a couple of other teams on the fields around me. The whole time, I keep thinking "I hope this doesn't look like crap to anybody (parents, other coaches, etc.) watching" Of course, I'm too involved in the actual production of the practice to worry about it going off without a hitch. I don't have much of a chance to supervise, as I'm more or less a player. This just kept making me think of the AYM's posts about doing his worship services, band performances, and whatnot.

The other reminder was I kept wanting to speak my mind about the most problematic child. He cries if we don't play with his ball. Then he cries when someone else kicks his ball. Next, he's grabbing his ball and running around the field hugging it. (And let me say, he is by no means the goalkeeper. Even if he was, he was outside of the box while doing this.) He wants something to drink. He needs to go to the bathroom. (At this point, I'm praying he has to drop a deuce.) I wanted to lay into this kid. Not physically, but just have a real heart-to-heart with him. His dad even coached last year. I keep thinking about the phrase "edit myself", and I do. Where have I heard that before?

So while I'm editing myself, and running around like a maniac, it sort of comes to me. These kids are 6 and 7 year-olds. I had a 7 year-old. I still have a 7 year-old. I was a 7 year old. With that in mind, I stop worrying about the little things and distractions. I stop worrying about how this looks to anyone watching. We finish practice. It goes pretty well. I've got my forwards figured out. I think I have a keeper in mind. I just have no clue how I'm going to teach this crying kid the difference between a forward and a defender next week. Maybe it'll rain.

Caption This!

A few of the sites I visit have these little contests from time to time. I came across this beauty today (in my home county, no less.) I have a couple of captions myself, but nothing too clever. Thought I'd give my 3 faithful readers a chance to show a.) themselves, and b.) their wit. I'll pick a winner (i.e. the AYM, because he'll be the only one to respond) but sorry, I don't have a Minutiae t-shirt to give away yet.

Cheesy Movies

So, I get a brief nap yesterday after work. Although I enjoyed a good nap back in my MSU days, they became few and far between after fatherhood. Nowadays, if I get a chance to cop a z or two, it happens just after work, before supper and while the kids finish up their homework.

The nap was extremely brief, maybe 10 minutes. I didn't think it would in any way jeopardize me getting somewhat of a good night's sleep. Wrong. It was rapidly approaching 3 a.m., as I was flipping through the channels. There are numerous movies in my repertoire that I can find on and have to finish, regardless of where I came in. Some of them are decent, and some are terrible. This one was a terrible one. What is this disastrous abomination to which I'm referring, you may ask? Here. Take a gander for yourself, if you can handle it.




That's right, Mortal Kombat. Bad movie. The soundtrack's alright, the effects are pretty lackluster, and the acting is atrocious. I didn't even play the video game. (The AYM advanced to this one, but I stayed back with the Street Fighter series. I just always preferred the rolling of a D pad, as opposed to the tap-tapping of one.) I liked to watch the game, as the graphics were top-notch. Still, I don't think just watching a video game in my adolescence could lead me to sitting through this bad of a movie. I also don't think the brief shots of Bridget Wilson in chains, although enjoyable, could keep me this captivated. (Pun intended, of course.)

Enter a tall, lanky friend of mine. He's known for a lot of things, from being a popular twin to having a pretty decent golf swing. One thing he's not overly known for is shedding some insight on something someone might not have noticed otherwise. I said he's not known for this. I didn't say it never happens.

The lanky friend's observation had to do with music. He once said, a long time ago, that if you see the performance of a song live, (whether in person or during a live event that's televised,) you will usually begin to like that song. I hadn't thought about it before this, but it seemed to make sense. Then, the more live songs (that I might not otherwise enjoy) that I caught, the more I began to like them. Watch some yourself, and see if you think his theory holds water.

Well, I take a similar stand with the aforementioned bad movie. Before I ever watched it, I saw a "Making of" behind-the-scenes special on it. Even though the special effects are anything but special, I got to see how they were done. The acting, again, is beyond bad. But I got to see some outtakes and between takes stuff. I think that sort of gave me a bond with this film. One that if I hadn't had, I probably wouldn't have watched the movie the first time (let alone the umpteenth time, at 3 a.m., no less.)

Thin Beast!

I know that sounds like some kind of new special from Pizza Hut, but it's actually the nickname of 1/2 of USA's men's beach volleyball duo. Just try to slip a ball past the wall that is a block from Phil Dalhausser. It's not going to happen. Well, at least not in the third set of an Olympic gold medal match, it's not.

-PB in About 20 Years

Well, the 6th grader has started band. There was a time when I had hoped maybe he'd "do it in 7 positions", like his dad did back in the day. However, he decided he wanted to give percussion a shot. That's fine with me, as I've really grown to appreciate some remarkable drummers over the past several years. (See video above.)

So we show up for the little audition thingy. It was very similar to what I did in 6th grade. You give them your first and second choices, and they let you try them and see what's best suited for you. There was a group of 5 students there during our time slot, and -PB went last in the group.

Of the 4 that went ahead of him, 3 wanted to play percussion. The tryout went something as follows: Sit down in a chair in the middle of the room, in front of the high school director. He instructs you to stomp, you stomp. He instructs you to clap, you clap. Stomp, clap. Stomp, clap, stomp, clap. Stomp, clap, stomp, clap, clap. And so on. The big finale was clapping the ole "Shave and a Haircut." (At this point, for some reason, I'm flashing back to "Who Framed Roger Rabbit.")

Of the 3 wannabe percussionists that went before -PB, 3 were denied. They did, however, sprout into 1 budding trumpeter and 2 future saxophonists. As they were trying to repeat the rhythms they were given, I asked -PB if he saw what they were doing right and wrong. I asked him if he saw what the director was looking for. I noticed he was sort of tapping the rhythms on his chair, and was doing pretty well. Finally, The moment of truth arrives. It's his turn.

He sits in the chair, and the director asks who he's got here. After -PB tells him his first name, the director looks at the chalkboard, which has the students' first and last names on it. He reads the last name, slowly. "So...and...so..." Then he says it again. "So-and-so." He asks, "You wouldn't happen to be one of those So-and-so's, would you? From the So-and-so family that Mr. Tucker says was the most musically talented family to ever pass through the Mayfield School System?" He's looking over at me, now. "You know he says that about you guys, don't you?" I told him I had no idea. He replies, "Well, he does."

I'm somewhat stunned at this point. Not to dwell on the whole "most musically talented" part, because I don't really agree. He could have felt that way for a number of reasons, including some great musicians didn't have siblings or siblings that played, some musicians took choir instead of band, this director had never taught the Cantrell family, or he modestly chose not to include his own children. Nonetheless, he apparently said it, and I was quite proud that the bloodline received a little respect.

So, -PB starts his stomping and clapping. Being totally unbiased, I must say he does pretty darn well. When he finally gets to the "Shave and a Haircut", I notice he rushes the "a Hair" just a tad. He repeats it, and again he rushes it ever so slightly. At this point, the director shoots me a little glance, and we both smile a little. He turns to the middle school director and says, "Well, that was easy. Percussion." And so, the dynasty continues.

My Ritual

I don't play golf, so I don't flip a golf club before every shot I make. I don't play baseball or softball anymore, so I don't avoid stepping on baselines or anything. I have some socks I really like, but I don't have to wear any certain pair at any certain time. I do, however, have one pretty specific ritual that I seem to practice.

A couple of nights ago, the temperature dropped down into the 50's. That's not exactly normal in my neck of the woods for mid-August. (Good call on that whole global warming thing, Mr. Gore.) So, I decided to make my first batch of chili this year. You won't find me grinding cumin or dicing onions when I make chili. I guess a better term for my preparation is that I assemble chili. Although it's always somewhat consistent, I assemble it a few different ways, depending on my mood. Since there is a little variety in what I put in a batch, that is not really where my ritual comes into play.

My chili ritual occurs in how I prepare my bowl. I hadn't paid too much attention to this before. Fixing a bowl of chili is pretty simple, right? Well, after seeing 4 people build their bowls 4 different ways, I realized something rather curious. How people fix a bowl of chili is probably about as unique as the people themselves. That is, as long as they are provided with something more than a bowl, a spoon, and some chili.

What someone puts in the bowl can be quite diverse. Some variables in ingredients include crackers or corn chips, saltines or oyster crackers, cheese or no cheese, shredded cheese or sliced cheese, onions and/or peppers, sour cream and/or salsa. I could probably go on, but I'll stop there. Then there's whether they go for more meat, more beans, the soupier part, a thicker mix, etc. Finally, how and in what order they actually put the weapons of choice in their bowl can differ greatly. (i.e. Leave crackers or chips whole or crumble them, cheese on bottom or top, so on and so on.) You see, not as simple as it seems, is it?

Right or wrong, my ritual is as follows: 1.) Ladle my chili into the bowl. Amount varies, according to how hungry I am. 2.) Place cheese on top of chili. I prefer shredded, but can do sliced if that's all there is. 3.) Sprinkle whole corn chips along top of cheese. Again, I can substitute oyster crackers for corn chips. If saltines are what's available, they get crumbled along the top. 4.) Finally, if available, I pour a little salsa or picante on top of everything. I also enjoy a few pepperoncinis or jalapenos on the side.

As usual, I put way too much thought into my whole process. Some of my rationale for placement includes: putting the cheese on top will cause it to melt better as the heat rises, it's not on the bottom so it doesn't stick to the bowl, and it provides a barrier to keep the chips from getting too soggy. Some people may want their chips or crackers soggy or may not want the cheese to melt. The possibilities are almost endless.

When I was younger, I would go for as much meat as possible while avoiding beans. Now, being mature and all, I try to get as accurate a sampling as possible of what the overall batch of chili is actually like. I look at things like thickness and meat-to-bean ratio. Then, I layer it up and dig in. So, that's how I do it. How about you?

Seriously, Not That Big a Deal

There's a trend that's been going on for years now, but I've been noticing it more as of late. This was really brought to my attention while watching the Olympics. We, as a society, tend to celebrate way too much.

I'm not talking about a birthday or anniversary. I'm referring to the smallest bits of tripe one can imagine. All of a sudden, it's a big deal. Last night, I was watching some gymnastics. (Yes, gymnastics.) Although all of the ladies did things I couldn't dream of, a few of them seemed to perform flawlessly. If you do really well, or do something that's never been done before, then celebrate, by all means. However, if you bobble, stumble, fall, or just plain suck, there's no need to be all excited and get all huggy and crap.

It wasn't so much the gymnasts that aggravate me with this. The bulk of my anger stems from two words: women's volleyball. Seriously, I think they have a friggin' group hug after every point. The hugs last longer than the point in a lot of cases. I realize there are some times they may discuss strategy. Typically, though, it's a bunch of "Good Job!" and "Great work!" and whatnot. No, you didn't do a good job. The other team served the ball into the net. If you want to walk around the net, hug them, and tell them "You suck", I'm totally cool with that. But you did not do a good job. To add to my frustration, immediately after a big group hug, they'll serve it out of bounds or choke somehow. Where's the hug for that?

I could go off on a big rant here about how our kids should get F's, be graded in red ink, and not always get a soccer trophy. However, I'm getting my heart rate up again thinking about these hugging volleyball players, so I might just save that for another post. Maybe I should just think happy thoughts, like that the sweaty-girl hug is not really about celebrating. Hmmmm....

No Substitute?

Evidence shows that it's pretty easy to take something from the past, distant or not so, and do a horrific job of trying to recreate it. There are remakes of songs, movies, and television shows out there that absolutely suck, for lack of a better word. After so many failed attempts at remaking something, whether it was a classic or just less than average, I'm amazed people still attempt to make them. BOC, as Andy would say, TAOE.

I think I could count on one hand, two hands at most, the number of attempts at a remake that I would classify as being as good as the original. A couple of those even seem better than the original. (And no, I don't think Whitney's version is anywhere near as good as Dolly's. So, if that one's on your list, go ahead and cross it off.) What really got me thinking about this was hearing the song "Sunrise" by Simply Red today, while driving to BFE, KY. Great tune. I know, I know. It's not really a remake of Hall and Oates' "I Can't Go for That", it just samples it. But still, that's what got my twisted little pea brain thinking about this.

I decided to make a short list of remakes that compete with or beat the originals from whence they came. You may have others, or you may think I'm wrong. However, for the purpose of this blog, I am right. And I don't care about your others.

1. Miami Vice (the 2006 movie) - Whether you stack it up against the original made for television movie or the entire series, the 2006 Michael Mann update mops the floor with either of them. It's funny, because I don't particularly care for Colin Farrell. I also like the television Tubbs and Castillo better. But there's just something about the newer movie that really makes me believe it. It could be because it's so much darker, or it could be the simple fact that neither of the protagonists live with an alligator named Elvis.

2. Radar Love, by White Lion - Not much to say about this one. Their version is just cleaner than Golden Earring's. Also, the guitar sounds a lot better; and it has a better drum solo. I can listen to both versions, but the update is just more pleasing on the ears.

3. Halloween, directed by Rob Zombie - This one is the one where I differ from probably everybody in the world. I don't think Zombie's version is better than Carpenter's absolute classic, but I think it's as good. I know, there are way too many female body parts on display in the new one. I also know there is too much violence actually shown, instead of just being implied. I just really like the way Rob takes more time to show you the background as to why Michael Myers is the way he is. The asylum scenes as he's making his masks throughout the years seem to make up for all the things this movie does wrong.

So, those are my top 3. I probably have a few more in me if I sit and think about it, but I'm tired of typing right now. I was just kidding about not caring about your others. Feel free to throw in your 2 cents, or to tell me how wrong I am on #3. However, don't try to tell me that Whitney's version is better than Dolly's. It's just not.

Two (2) Bug Posts in One (1) Week?

So I have a dog in the back yard. He has a food dish. The food dish tends to draw critters. Typically, flies are the pests of note, although I have seen an occasional slug. This year, while cruising the aisle of our beloved Wal Mart (without any drinks hanging on the side of the cart,) I came across and impulse-bought one of these little beauties:

If you have any issues with flies, or just like to see crazy stuff, I recommend dropping the $3.97. Insert asterisk here. I believe they also make versions for other creepy-crawlies, such as Japanese Beetles. I brought mine home and installed it on the dog's zip line, at the side of the yard. The internet recommended not setting the trap anywhere you don't want flies eating and/or hanging out. You just snip a hole in the top of the plastic bag, fill it about halfway with water to activate the bait, then hang it up. The bag does the rest.

Within a day, I had numerous ugly little black flies trapped in the bag. After a few days, it was still working, and the idiots were still going in. (They weren't coming out, however.) I did notice that over time, a bag full of dead and decaying flies tends to develop a certain aroma. It was pretty bad, oh, around Friday. My trash comes on Monday mornings, so I just figured I'd tough it out.

I go out last night to retrieve the bag of rotting flies, armed with 2 plastic grocery bags (to double-bag for protection) and a set of wire cutters to snip the small wire holding the bag. I line up my bags, and cut the wire. Second asterisk should be somewhere around here. The next thing I know, the bag (the bag - the important bag - the nasty one) falls to the ground. I'm standing there, holding a pair of wire cutters and 2 empty grocery bags. I guess technically one was empty; and the other had the empty one in it, but you get the point. I then use the snips to pick up the trap, and realize it's a heck of a lot lighter than it had been. Of course it was a lot lighter, since the (up to 20,000, mind you) dead, wet, rotting flies were scattered around my yard.

I call for -PB to run and grab a shovel out of the garage, which he promptly does. Upon my instructions, he starts scooping; and I'm, um, holding the bag. (By "holding the bag", I mean I'm a good 15' away from it.) Short story long, the bulk of them made it out with the trash, -PB used all the antibacterial soap in the house, and the back yard smells friggin' nasty now. I don't know if I want it to rain, or if that would just make it worse.

Things I Don't Like: #837

I hate when people put their little 6-, 8-, or however many-packs of water, Gatorade, or whatever around the top of the basket of their shopping cart. Frankly, I think people do it because they think it looks cool. Let me tell you, there is nothing cool or smart about doing that. If your cart is too full for the beverages to fit inside it, you need to shop more frequently. If you think it saves you from bending over, you need to exercise more. Buy a friggin' Wii Fit. But please, put it inside your cart - next to your bottles of water, Gatorade, or whatever.

The View from My Office

It's a pretty well known fact among my coworkers that my office (which I acquired a few months ago) has the best view in the building. I pretty much lucked into it, as a new person was being brought in. I (as opposed to others in the building with seniority) got to choose between my old office and this one.

We're situated on the second floor of our building, next to the hands-down most jumpin' hair salon in our tiny town. Due to the proximity of my fenestration, (appraiserspeak for windows and their placement,) I get to see the majority of patrons of the aforementioned salon who park in their parking lot, as well all of them who disregard our "....Violators...Towed....Owner's Expense" signs, and park in our lot anyway. Regardless of my marital status, creatures of the opposite sex can and do occasionally catch my eye.

Well, this afternoon I just happen to glance out the window, and see this:

When I said creatures catch my eye, this is not at all what I meant. I hate all bugs, but this one is pretty close to the top of the list. This sucker's gotta be a good 6 inches long. Ugh! So, I'm off to see if we have any Off! or Raid.

Dented: An AYM-Style Story

Some of you may be aware of your humble author's dimple. That is correct, it is singular. (Am I the only one who has trouble spelling that word because of a stupid cell phone company?) In case you aren't aware of the story, I'll share it. It has become somewhat of a legend within my family.

When I was about 5, I was running through the house, acting like the heathen child I was. When I was younger, I was prone to the occasional accident. (I say was prone. Who am I kidding? At least this one didn't involve flames, though. Right?) Well, I pulled a -B, and wiped out. I landed smack dab on the corner of the coffee table, cheek first. I'll be the first to tell you that back in those days, the good ole days, they didn't round off the corners of furniture. So, several screams and tears later, there it was. My dimple was born. You can see why I refer to it as my dent.

Just in case there's someone out there who doubts the story, all I have to offer is the proof that I've shown other doubters for years. It's made believers out of them. In my kindergarten picture, I'm showing off this huge cheese of a smile. No dimple. Not even an iota of one. The following year, for my first grade photo, my smile is toned down quite a bit. There it is, bigger than life. Now, no matter the size of the smile, when the lips curl, the dent graces us with its presence.

The reason I'm telling you about the dent is because it came up tonight. (This is the part of the story that really sounds like the AYM talking.) I was floating around the pool with -PB and -XV this evening. I don't even know what happened, but apparently something caused me to smile a bit. -PB then asks me, almost in a stunned voice, to smile again. I ask "Why?" He replies, "You only have one dimple." I proceeded to tell him the story of the dent. That really got me thinking.

You see, I think the moral of this story doesn't lie in the fact that I have a very observant son. Nor does it lie in the fact that I had never told him this story. The crux of it all, the really relevant part, is that I hadn't had a reason to share this legendary story with my very observant son. As observant as he may be, the dent had not been around enough for him to ask about it.

Pretty much anybody who knows me knows that I'm a pretty carefree guy, who is almost always in a good mood. I guess in a world of mortgages, car payments, yards that need mowing, and people who tend to disagree with me as to the value of their real property, I forget to relax from time to time. I should just smile more often, and recognize that more than a real estate appraiser, a homeowner, a taxpayer, and a neighbor, I'm a father. That fact alone should be enough to bring out the dent.

Never Trust a Big Butt and a Smile

Catchy title, huh? As much as I hate to disappoint, this post doesn't really have anything to do with butts. Well, it doesn't right now, anyway. With any luck, it'll stay that way. As some of my faithful readers may know, that's a little line from a song by Bell Biv Devoe. The song is entitled Poison. It appears that as I type, I'm battling a little poison of my own. One that I don't care for at all. Her name is Ivy.

I was weed eating the back yard last week; and, being the genius I am, I decided to do it in Crocs. I knew we had some of the old Toxicodendron radicans around the fence last year. However, I was under the impression we had removed all of it. Even if we hadn't, I've developed a pretty good eye for it. I figured I could spot it and avoid it. I figured wrong.

Luckily, it hasn't spread too far. I've got the usual ankles, backs of knees, elbows. Nothing (yet) in places I don't want to mention. (Not that I've ever had it there before. Okay, once.) The itching isn't too awful bad, but I tend to wear pants and shoes for work that do the scratching/spreading for me.

So, I'm going to Wally World tonight to buy some of the $40 a tube crap to end my misery. I've experimented with every calamine, caladryl, benadryl, ivy dry, ivarest , ivyblock, tecnu product on the market. I've even had a little success with some of them. But let me tell you, don't waste your money on any of that. If you have a run-in with my nemesis, break down and buy the Zanfel (or even a generic equivalent.) I broke down last year and bought some for the first time, and it is truly a miracle drug.

What a Gas

I was reminded this week of an interesting little factoid. It's something I've known for years, but it had somehow slipped my steel trap of a mind. I'm gassing up my grandmother-in-law's car for her, as she panics when the guage gets below about 7/8ths of a tank. There I am, whipping into the only open pump, making sure nobody beats me to it.

I get out and realize the tank is on the other side. Idiot! I then spend more than a couple of minutes having to turn her barge around on this tiny little parking lot, to get the appropriate side of the car towards the pump.

I'm sure everybody knows, unless you're driving my dad's '78 Plymouth Volare, there's a little arrow on your gas guage. I'm sure everybody also knows it points to which side of the car the gas tank is on. Of course, everybody knows that. Right? I know that, I had just forgotten.

I Have a Fetish

No, it's not for latex tank tops or chain mail chaps. Well, not that I'd tell you about, anyway. Come to think of it, perhaps the term "fetish" is a bit strong. It's more of an obsession. Of course, for the title of a post, I think the f-word is a little more catchy. So, I'll leave it at that.

I am currently obsessed with lawn games. I believe I can trace it back to my childhood. I remember a game that involved these metal rods that were heavy on one end with colorful, hard plastic fins that you had to throw into plastic hoops. You might recall them as well.





Jarts were banned from being sold in the United States back in the 80's. I was pretty good with them, although I do recall sticking a couple or 3 in the picnic table in our back yard. (I still can't figure out why they banned them.) From what I've read, it seems you can even get in trouble for selling them at a yard sale. Had something to do with some getting rammed into people's skulls.

Although I haven't thrown a lawn dart in ages, I currently have a few other games that I love to play. I have washer boxes, a bocce set, petanque (the heavy metal balls are way cooler than the bocce ones,) ladderball, horseshoes, and a croquet set. I've actually constructed a miniature-sized croquet court in my back yard. I play pretty regularly with a friend of mine who is an avid golfer. I can hold my own against him, but I think it's the quality of the grass (or lack thereof) that keeps me in it.

Sorry to disappoint, but I really haven't jumped onto the whole cornhole bandwagon. I have played before, and I did fairly well. I just didn't enjoy tossing the little cloth bag as much as rolling a manly metal ball. It's fun to watch, and I'm not disrespecting the legions of cornholers out there. It's just not my particular brand of vodka. (Movie quote, anyone?)

Which brings us back to the beginning, at least for me. I think my quest to be the ultimate backyard gamer will be complete once I obtain my Holy Grail. You see, I want to own a set of Jarts, again. And no, these don't count.



I've found several websites for obtaining good, old-fashioned, dangerous as hell, Jarts. Of course, they can't sell them; that's illegal. They sell Jarts parts. Perfectly legal, with some assembly required. Awesome. So, wish me luck on finding and assembling some. Oh, and if I do, and you're ever in the neighborhood, make sure you've got a helmet on.

Say....

I'm generally a pretty laid back guy, who doesn't let a lot of stuff get to me. I mean, a lot of stuff gets to me, but I usually don't sweat any of it. I do, however, have a plethora of pet peeves. There are so many little quirks that just get under my skin. I rarely say anything about them, unless there's a close friend nearby.

Today I was reminded of one of my pet peeves. This one happens all the time, so I know you've seen it. Hopefully, you've never done it, though. Picture someone approaching you with a small child in tow, and you ask them what they've been doing. Their reply (the adult's reply) is something to the tune of, "Say we've been playing at the park." They begin the sentence with the word "say."

I don't even know how to punctuate that sentence. Are they speaking for the child? Is the child a puppet? Are they wanting the child to repeat what follows the "say"? Regardless, I don't like it. I don't think it makes the kid appear any smarter, and it just makes the adult look silly. Let the child say it, or just tell me yourself that you've been at the park. Maybe just teach the kid when you poke them in the back to open their mouth, you can do the talking, and together you can give me a puppet show. That would show me you're both pretty darn smart. It would also be pretty funny.

Flip Flop Hooray

In honor of our annual company outing on the lake tomorrow, I thought I'd throw a nice summer, summer, summertime post up here, in case anyone still checks in. (For those of you who aren't aware, no, I don't swim. Yes, I will be wearing a lifejacket. Thanks for asking.)

Many moons ago, I posted a comment on Shane's blog about flip flops. It caused quite the little commotion, as I recall. Honestly, I had even given it partial credit for his doing away with the Aeropagus, or whatever he called it. I'm sure he'd just say something about him having to edit himself, or some kind of crap like that. Whatever. The post on his site was focused mostly on how the aforementioned footwear appears to have taken the place of dress shoes throughout much of our society.

Well, now I wanted to touch on a few of the problems (for lack of a better word) I actually notice in the lovely sandals themselves, as well as the wearers thereof. In order to make this concise, honest, and somewhat meaningful to a reader, I'll lay down some pointers or guidelines if one is so inclined to don a pair of flip flops (or thongs, or beachcombers, if you will). For the record, these are more for the ladies, as I don't look at dudes' feet nor do I care what they look like in flip flops. So, let's begin.

1. The first rule of flip flops is you will peel the little clear size sticker off the side.

2. The second rule of flip flops is you will peel the little clear size sticker off the side.

3. The third rule of flip flops is, if necessary, break out the foot file, cracked heel relief cream, or both, prior to wearing.

4. The fourth rule of flip flops is they do not have to match your shirt or pants or shorts or underwear.

5. The fifth rule of flip flops is if they are fuzzy, they belong under or beside your bed - not in the checkout at Wal Mart. (The same can be said for your Sugar Daddy pajama bottoms.)

6. The sixth rule of flip flops is you decide - toenail polish or not. No more of this chipping off, looks like you're 8 years old crap. (Unless, of course, you're 8 years old. Then, carry on.)

7. The seventh rule of flip flops is that they can and do occasionally need to be thrown away.

8. And the eighth and final rule of flip flops is if you could stub your toe while wearing them, (i.e. your toe or toes hang off the front,) get a different size or wear something else. If you're wearing a pair and walk into a chair leg, box, wall, etc., the worst thing you should feel is the between-the-toes-wedgie. Not a stubbed toe.

A Smurf Fan Apologizes

I owe people an apology.

It's not a son I owe, for not wanting to play Go Fish, although I probably owe for that too.

I couldn't even begin to tell you how many people I owe.

It's not to my wife for throwing my dirty boxers in the bathroom floor instead of the hamper.

I've owed the apology for years.

It's not to an ex-girlfriend for correcting and grading her Dear John letter and mailing it back to her. (I'm pretty sure I should be sorry for that as well.)

But how could I apologize when I didn't know I was wrong?

The answer I always sought seemed obvious. It was the answer I had.

I'm sorry.

I guess I should explain. For years I approached people (and still do) with a barrage of questions, and made them feel like fools when they were wrong. Smurfette's tail was made from a pea. The Smurf made out of wood was Clockwork. Where I went wrong was with the Smurf that did all the cooking. Like clockwork, (not the Smurf,) the answers that always came out were "Cookie" or "Baker". No, you imbecile, it was Greedy. Greedy Smurf. Show some sense. Well, last night I'm at my parents' house eating dinner. One of the kids is sitting there with this retro Pizza Hut Smurf glass. I look at it, and recognize the Smurf hat shaped like a chef's. However, I don't recognize the name on it. It says "Baker Smurf" at the bottom. After getting a sudden sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach, I excuse myself, round up the family, and rush home to fire up the computer. Within moments, I know the truth. Not the truth I had been spreading for years in the form of a lie, but the real truth.

You see, I was a religious Smurf viewer for years. They came on KBSI at 3:00, right after I got home from school. Let me rephrase that. I was a religious Smurfs series viewer. Greedy Smurf, who did all the cooking on the series, was also in the original Smurfs movie. However, he didn't do all the cooking. In fact, he didn't cook at all. He just stole all the goodies made by Baker Smurf. Hence, he was greedy. Later, for the purpose of the television series, these two Smurfs were combined into one Smurf, named Greedy Smurf.

So for all of you who answered "Baker Smurf", for all those years, you were right. I was wrong.

For that, I'm deeply sorry. That wasn't very Smurfy of me.

Alright, I Give Up

No, not on blogging, silly. Give me at least a week before that happens.

Let me just say that I'm a music fanatic. I could get into all the different genres, bands, generations, and whatnot that I enjoy, but that would take a while. It can also change from year to year, day to day, or minute to minute. Some people consider it a distraction while working, but I have something in the background almost 24/7.

I usually try to tone down what I listen to while I'm at the office. Not so much to try to conform or anything, but more out of consideration for the other 3 to 5 people around me. For all I know, they may enjoy the occasional Wait and Bleed by Slipknot or Rape Me by Nirvana, but I've never asked.

Today, I turned on ye ole xm online player (so, what if the username I use is nothing remotely close to my name) and found that 51 is doing "30 Days of Coldplay". I decide to give it a shot. After all, I like Speed of Sound, Clocks, and even The Scientist. Well, after about 3 hours of this crap, I am turning it off. They should rename this "30 Days of Coma". I mean, this stuff is slow. I absosmurfly love me some Pink Floyd, which I'll admit drags from time to time. But it will run laps around this stuff. Comfortably Numb could even swim laps around this crap. Breaststroke.

So, I'm changing the station. Just thought you might like to know.

Gentlemen, Start Your Tivos

I know it's a bit late to give notice, but tonight the band Rush is performing on the Colbert Report. It will be their first time on American television in over 30 years. Perhaps you're like I was 5 years ago, and don't really care for the band. I think it was pretty much Geddy Lee's voice that kept me away from them, literally for decades. A few years ago, out of nowhere, I watched the video for Tom Sawyer (which they're supposed to play tonight.) I saw the insane amount of talent they had. I think for me it started with watching Neil Peart, the drummer. Pretty soon, and several youtube viewings later, I was a fan. The amount/quality of sound they produce is ridiculously good. The fact that it's made by only three of them is almost miraculous.

Anywho, they'll be on Colbert's show tonight. Although I typically want to hit Stephen in the head with a croquet mallet, I will be recordifacating the show tonight, as history is being made.

Me and Salt

I've done it. The proverbial hymen has officially been broken. I decided to take the leap. I started a blog. Nobody's ever going to read it or anything, I know. But the thing is... even if it is just for bangers, everybody's doing it. There's a lot of guys doing it.

I was going to start off with a word or two about me. After all, this is my blog. I'm the reason you're here. Then I thought it might be important to throw in a word or two about salt. Since both of these things are of utmost importance, (especially to me,) I decided to combine them both in my very first blog post.

I'm not going to go the usual "I'm a husband, father, brother, son, real estate appraiser, former disco queen, or, whatever" route that some people tend to take. I may be some of those things, but that's not typically what I want to talk (or should that be "type"?) about. I'll also bet that's probably not what anyone would want to hear ("read"?). Although in the future I may mention a wife, son, Land Rover with a leaky sunroof, or Siberian Husky that likes to attack the guy who mows my yard, that's not really what this blog is about. It's about the things that I notice and pay attention to, day in and day out. Some of those things may be of major significance, while some will be utterly small. You see, what I am is an observer. I notice things. I'm sure most people observe the stuff around them, but I tend to notice the smallest of details. The minutiae.

As for the salt, I love it on some fries. I'll put it on a cheeseburger. I've got a good friend who never adds it to anything. Ever. My employer, on the other hand, regularly puts it on pizza. (I've never tried it, but it sounds pretty gross.) Whatever your take may be on salt and the applications thereof, I do recommend a grain or three with anything I say. I take myself seriously, but not seriously enough to think it's my way or the highway, as Dalton would say. (Does Dalton have a last name? They never mention it.) Along this journey, I'll try to infuse a little humor, insight, and knowledge, but I don't guarantee any of it. That is a guarantee. I'll attempt to update as regularly as possible, but I'm sure you've read stuff like that before. I'm also sure this li'l blog will be as random and scattered as my thoughts at any given time. As you'll notice over time, that's pretty friggin' scattered.